Micromégas VII

 by François-Marie Arouet

CHAPTER VII

Conversation With the Men

   


   "O intelligent atoms, in whom the Eternal Being has been pleased to manifest His skill and power, you must doubtless taste joys of perfect purity on your globe; for, being encumbered with so little matter, and seeming to be all spirit, you must pass your lives in love and meditation—the true life of spiritual beings. I have nowhere beheld genuine happiness, but here it is to be found, without a doubt."

   On hearing these words, all the philosophers shook their heads, and one, more frank than the others, candidly confessed that, with the exception of a small number held in mean estimation among them, all the rest of mankind were a multitude of fools, knaves, and miserable wretches.

   "We have more matter than we need," said he, "the cause of much evil, if evil proceeds from matter; and we have too much mind, if evil proceeds from mind. For instance, at this very moment there are 100,000 fools of our species who wear hats, slaying 100,000 fellow creatures who wear turbans, or being massacred by them, and over almost all of Earth such practices have been going on from time immemorial."

   The Sirian shuddered, and asked what could cause such horrible quarrels between those miserable little creatures.

   "The dispute concerns a lump of clay," said the philosopher, "no bigger than your heel. Not that a single one of those millions of men who get their throats cut has the slightest interest in this clod of earth. The only point in question is whether it shall belong to a certain man who is called Sultan, or another who, I know not why, is called Caesar. Neither has seen, or is ever likely to see, the little corner of ground which is the bone of contention, and hardly one of those animals, who are cutting each other's throats has ever seen the animal for whom they fight so desperately."

   "Ah! wretched creatures!" exclaimed the Sirian with indignation. "Can anyone imagine such frantic ferocity! I should like to take two or three steps, and stamp upon the whole swarm of these ridiculous assassins."

   "No need," answered the philosopher, "they are working hard enough to destroy themselves. I assure you, at the end of 10 years, not a hundredth part of those wretches will be left, even if they had never drawn the sword, famine, fatigue, or intemperance will sweep them almost all away. Besides, it is not they who deserve punishment, but rather those armchair barbarians, who from the privacy of their cabinets, and during the process of digestion, command the massacre of a million men, and afterward ordain a solemn thanksgiving to God."

   The traveler, moved with compassion for the tiny human race, among whom he found such astonishing contrasts, said to the gentlemen:

   "Since you belong to the small number of wise men, and apparently do not kill anyone for money, tell me, pray, how you occupy yourselves."

   "We dissect flies," said the same philosopher, "measure distances, calculate numbers, agree upon two or three points we understand, and dispute two or three thousand points of which we know nothing."

   The visitors from Sirius and Saturn immediately desired to question these intelligent atoms about the subjects on which they agreed.

   "How far do you reckon it," said the latter, "from the Dog Star to the great star in Gemini?"

   They all answered together: "32 degrees and a half."

   "How far do you make it from here to the Moon?"

   "60 half-diameters of the Earth, in round numbers."

   "What is the weight of your air?"

   He thought to trick them, but they all answered that air weighs about 900 times less than an equal volume of distilled water, and 19,000 times less than pure gold.

   The little dwarf from Saturn, astonished at their replies, was now inclined to take for sorcerers the same people he had disbelieved, just a quarter hour ago, could possess souls.

   Then Micromégas said: "Since you know so well what is outside yourselves, doubtless you know still better what is within you. Tell me what is the nature of your soul, and how you form ideas."

   The philosophers spoke all at once as before, but this time all their opinions differed. The oldest quoted Aristotle, another pronounced the name of Descartes, this spoke of Malebranche, that of Leibnitz, and another again of Locke. The old Peripatetic said loudly and confidently: "The soul is an actuality and a rationality, in virtue of which it has the power to be what it is, as Aristotle expressly declares on page 633 of the Louvre edition of his works," and he quoted the passage.

   "I don't understand Greek very well," said the giant.

   "Neither do I," said the mite of a philosopher.

   "Why, then," inquired the Sirian, "do you quote the man you call Aristotle in that language?"

   "Because," replied the sage, "it is right and proper to quote what we do not comprehend in a language we least understand."

   The Cartesian interposed and said: "The soul is pure spirit, which receives in its mother's womb all metaphysical ideas, and which, on issuing thence, is obliged to go to school as it were, and learn afresh all it knew so well, and will never know again."

   "It was hardly worthwhile, then," answered the eight-leagued giant, "for your soul to have been so learned in your mother's womb, if you were to become so ignorant by the time you have a beard on your chin. But what do you mean by spirit?"

   "Why do you ask?" said the philosopher, "I have no idea of its meaning, except that it is said to be independent of matter."

   "You know, at least, what matter is, I presume?"

   "Perfectly well," replied the man. "For instance, this stone is gray, is of such and such a form, has three dimensions, has weight and divisibility."

   "Very well," said the Sirian, "Now tell me, please, what this thing actually is which appears to you to be divisible, heavy, and of a gray color. You observe certain qualities, but are you acquainted with the intrinsic nature of the thing itself?"

   "No," said the other.

   "Then you do not know what matter is."

   Thereupon Mr. Micromégas, addressing his question to another sage, whom the Saturnian held on his thumb, asked him what the soul was, and what it did.

   "Nothing at all," said the disciple of Malebranche, "it is God who does everything for me; I see and do everything through Him. He it is who does all without my interference."

   "Then you might just as well not exist," replied the sage of Sirius.

   "And you, my friend," he said to a follower of Leibnitz, who was there, "what is your soul?"

   "It is," answered he, "a hand which points to the hour while my body chimes, or, if you like, it is the soul which chimes, while my body points to the hour, or to put it another way, my soul is the mirror of the universe, and my body is its frame: that is all clear enough."

   A little student of Locke was standing near, and when his opinion was at last asked: "I know nothing," said he, "of how I think, but I know I have never thought except on the suggestion of my senses. That there are immaterial and intelligent substances is not what I doubt, but that it is impossible for God to communicate the faculty of thought to matter is what I doubt very strongly. I adore the eternal Power, nor is it my part to limit its exercise. I assert nothing; I content myself with believing that more is possible than people think."

   The creature of Sirius smiled, he did not deem the last speaker the least sagacious of the company; and, were it possible, the dwarf of Saturn would have clasped Locke's disciple in his arms.

   But unluckily a little animalcule was there in a square cap, who silenced all the other philosophical mites, saying that he knew the whole secret, that it was all to be found in the "Summa" of St. Thomas Aquinas. He scanned the pair of celestial visitors from top to toe, and maintained that they and all their kind, their suns and stars, were made solely for man's benefit.

   At this speech our two travelers tumbled over each other, choking with that inextinguishable laughter which, according to Homer, is the special privilege of the gods. Their shoulders shook, and their bodies heaved up and down, till in those merry convulsions, the ship the Saturnian held on his palm fell into his breeches pocket. These two good people, after a long search, recovered it at last, and duly set to rights all that had been displaced. The Saturnian once more took up the little mites, and Micromégas addressed them again with great kindness, though he was a little disgusted in the bottom of his heart at seeing such infinitely insignificant atoms so puffed up with pride. He promised to give them a rare book of philosophy, written in minute characters, for their special use, telling all that can be known of the ultimate essence of things, and he actually gave them the volume ere his departure. It was carried to Paris and laid before the Academy of Sciences, but when the old secretary came to open it, the pages were blank.

   "Ah!" said he. "Just as I expected."

~    fin    ~

 

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