Notes, 4

Dapper confirms that the kingdom of Congo is full of the animals called orangutans in the Indies, meaning inhabitants of the woods, and Quojas-Morros by Africans. This beast, he says, so resembles a human being that some travelers conceived it might have been born of a woman and an ape—a fancy rejected even by the Africans. One of these animals was brought from Congo to Holland and presented to Frederick Henry, Prince of Orange. It was as tall as a three-year-old child, moderately stout, but squarely built and well proportioned, very agile and lively; its legs were fleshy and strong, the whole front of its body bare, but its back covered with black hair. At first glance its face resembled a human face, but its nose was flat and curved; its ears, too, were human in form; its breast, for it was a female, was plump, its navel sunken, its shoulders well joined, its hands divided into fingers and thumbs, its calves and heels fat and fleshy. It often walked upright on its legs and could lift and carry fairly heavy loads. When it wished to drink, it took the lid of the pot in one hand and held its base in the other. Then it wiped its lips gracefully. It lay down to sleep with its head on a cushion, covering itself so deftly that one might have taken it for a person in bed. The Africans tell strange stories of this animal. They claim not only that it violates women and girls but that it dares attack armed men. In short, it seems very likely to be the satyr of the ancients. Perhaps Merolla speaks only of these animals when he relates that Africans sometimes capture wild men and women in their hunts.

These species of human-shaped animals are also mentioned in the third volume of the same History of Voyages under the names Beggos and Mandrills; but, confining ourselves to the preceding accounts, we find in the descriptions of these supposed monsters striking resemblances to the human species, and differences smaller than those one might identify between one human being and another. These passages do not disclose the grounds on which their authors refuse the animals in question the name of wild men; but it is easy to conjecture that they do so because of their stupidity, and also because they did not speak. These are weak grounds for anyone who knows that although the organ of speech is natural to man, speech itself is not, and who knows how far perfectibility may have raised civilized man above his original condition. The few lines devoted to these descriptions allow us to judge how poorly the animals were observed and with what prejudices they were viewed. They are called monsters, for instance, yet it is admitted that they reproduce. In one place Battel says that the pongos kill Africans crossing the forests; elsewhere Purchass adds that they do them no harm, even when they catch them unawares, at least if the Africans do not persist in staring at them. The pongos gather around fires lit by Africans after the latter leave, and depart in turn when the fire goes out: that is the fact; here is the observer's commentary: For all their dexterity, they have not enough sense to keep it going by adding wood. I should like to know how Battel, or Purchass his compiler, could tell that the pongos withdrew through stupidity rather than choice. In a climate like Loango's, fire is not very necessary for animals; if Africans light fires, it is less against the cold than to frighten away fierce beasts. It is therefore perfectly natural that after enjoying the flames for a while or warming themselves well, the pongos should tire of remaining in one place and go in search of food, which takes longer to obtain than it would if they ate meat. Besides, we know that most animals, man included, are lazy by nature and avoid every kind of effort not absolutely necessary. Lastly, it seems very strange that pongos renowned for their dexterity and strength, pongos able to bury their dead and build roofs of branches, should be unable to push embers into a fire. I remember seeing an ape perform precisely the maneuver that pongos are alleged to be incapable of performing. It is true that, my thoughts not then being turned in that direction, I made the very mistake I reproach our travelers for making, and failed to examine whether the ape's purpose really was to keep the fire going or merely, as I believe, to imitate a man's action. Be that as it may, it is fully demonstrated that the ape is not a variety of man, not only because it lacks the faculty of speech, but above all because we know for certain that its species lacks the capacity to perfect itself, which is the distinctive characteristic of the human species. Experiments do not seem to have been conducted with sufficient care on the pongo and the orangutan to draw the same conclusion about them. There would, however, be a means by which, if orangutans or others belonged to the human species, even the crudest observers could establish it conclusively; but apart from the fact that a single generation would not suffice for such an experiment, it must be regarded as impracticable, since what is merely a supposition would have to be demonstrated true before the test meant to establish the fact could innocently be undertaken.

Hasty judgments, not the fruit of enlightened reason, tend toward extremes. Our travelers blithely make beasts, under the names Pongos, Mandrills, and Orangutans, of the very beings whom the ancients made divinities under the names Satyrs, Fauns, and Sylvans. Perhaps more exact inquiries will reveal that they are men. Meanwhile, it seems to me that there is at least as much reason to trust Merolla on the matter—a learned cleric, an eyewitness, and for all his simplicity a man of intelligence—as the merchant Battel, Dapper, Purchass, and the other compilers. What judgment would such observers, do you suppose, have passed on the child found in 1694 whom I mentioned above, who gave no sign of reason, walked on hands and feet, had no language, and uttered sounds resembling nothing human? It was a long time, continues the same philosopher from whom I take this account, before he could pronounce a few words, and even then he spoke in a barbarous fashion. As soon as he could speak, he was questioned about his first condition, but he remembered no more of it than we remember what befell us in the cradle. If this child had had the misfortune to fall into our travelers' hands, we can hardly doubt that, having noted his silence and stupidity, they would have decided to send him back into the woods or shut him up in a menagerie; afterward they would have written learnedly about him in their splendid accounts as a most curious beast rather like a human being.

For three or four hundred years the inhabitants of Europe have flooded the other parts of the world and ceaselessly published new collections of travels and reports; yet I am persuaded that the only human beings we know are Europeans. Indeed, to judge by the ridiculous prejudices still alive even among men of letters, almost everyone, under the grand name of the study of man, studies little beyond the people of his own country. Individuals may come and go, but philosophy, it seems, does not travel; and the philosophy of each people is consequently ill suited to another. The reason is plain, at least in distant lands: there are scarcely more than four kinds of men who make long voyages—sailors, merchants, soldiers, and missionaries. One can hardly expect the first three groups to provide good observers; as for the fourth, occupied with the sublime calling that summons them, even if they were not subject, like everyone else, to the prejudices of their profession, we must suppose they would be reluctant to pursue inquiries that seem merely curious and would divert them from the more important labors to which they have devoted themselves. Besides, to preach the Gospel fruitfully requires only zeal, and God provides the rest; but to study human beings requires talents God has promised no one, and which saints do not always possess. Open any book of travels and you will find descriptions of characters and customs; but you are astonished to discover that people who have described so many things have told us only what everyone already knew, that on the far side of the world they perceived only what they could have observed without leaving their own street, and that the true traits distinguishing nations, obvious to eyes trained to see, almost always escaped theirs. Hence that fine moral maxim, repeated to exhaustion by the philosophical rabble: that men are the same everywhere, that since they everywhere have the same passions and vices there is little point in trying to characterize different peoples. This is about as sound as reasoning that one cannot tell Peter from James because both have a nose, a mouth, and eyes.

Will we never see the return of those happy times when people did not presume to philosophize, but when Platos, Thaleses, and Pythagorases, fired by an ardent desire to know, undertook the longest journeys solely to learn, went far away to shake off the yoke of national prejudice, learned to know human beings by their likenesses and differences, and acquired that universal knowledge belonging exclusively to no century or country, but to every time and place, and forming, as it were, the common science of the wise?

People admire the magnificence of certain enthusiasts who at great expense have made, or commissioned, journeys to the East with scholars and painters, to draw ruins there and decipher or copy inscriptions. Yet I struggle to understand how, in a century that prides itself on refined knowledge, two men cannot be found closely allied, one rich in money and the other in genius, both loving glory and aspiring to immortality, one willing to devote twenty thousand écus of his wealth and the other ten years of his life to a celebrated voyage around the world: to study there, not always stones and plants, but for once men and their customs; and, after so many centuries spent measuring and inspecting the house, to think at last of getting to know its inhabitants. The academicians who traveled through northern Europe and southern America went there more as geometers than as philosophers. Yet because they were both, the regions seen and described by La Condamine and Maupertuis cannot be considered altogether unknown. Chardin, the jeweler who traveled as Plato did, left nothing more to say about Persia; China appears to have been well observed by the Jesuits. Kempfer gives a passable account of the little he saw of Japan. Except for these accounts, we know nothing of the peoples of the East Indies, visited solely by Europeans keener to fill their purses than their heads. All Africa and its many inhabitants, as distinctive in character as in color, remain to be studied; the whole earth is covered with nations of which we know only the names, and we presume to judge the human race! Imagine a Montesquieu, a Buffon, a Diderot, a Duclos, a d’Alembert, a Condillac, or men of their caliber traveling to instruct their compatriots, observing and describing, with their particular skill, Turkey, Egypt, Barbary, the empire of Morocco, Guinea, the land of the Kaffirs, the African interior and its eastern coasts, the Malabar regions, the Mogul empire, the banks of the Ganges, the kingdoms of Siam, Pegu, and Ava, China, Tartary, and above all Japan; then, in the other hemisphere, Mexico, Peru, Chile, the Magellanic lands, not forgetting the real or supposed Patagonians, Tucuman, Paraguay if possible, Brazil, and finally the Caribbean islands, Florida, and all the wild regions—the most important journey of all, and the one demanding the greatest care. Imagine these new Hercules returning from their memorable travels and then, at their leisure, composing the natural, moral, and political history of what they had seen: we ourselves would see a new world emerge from their pens, and so learn to know our own. I say that when such observers affirm that one such animal is a man and another a beast, we must believe them; but it would be sheer naivety to trust crude travelers in such matters, travelers of whom we might sometimes be tempted to ask the very question they presume to settle about other animals.

Note 11

Dapper confirms that the kingdom of Congo is full of the animals called orangutans in the Indies, meaning inhabitants of the woods, and called Quojas-Morros by Africans. This animal, he says, looks so much like a human that some travelers thought it might have been born of a woman and a monkey. Even the Black people reject that fantasy. One of these animals was taken from Congo to Holland and presented to Prince of Orange Frederick Henry. It was as tall as a three-year-old child and moderately stout, but squarely built and well proportioned, very agile and lively. Its legs were fleshy and strong; the entire front of its body was bare, but its back was covered with black hair. At first sight its face looked human, but its nose was flat and curved. Its ears, too, were like human ears. Its breasts, since it was female, were plump, its navel deep, its shoulders well joined, its hands divided into fingers and thumbs, and its calves and heels fat and fleshy. It often walked upright on its legs and could lift and carry fairly heavy loads. When it wanted a drink, it took the lid of the pot in one hand and held its bottom with the other. Then it wiped its lips gracefully. It lay down to sleep with its head on a pillow and covered itself so skillfully that one might have taken it for a person in bed. The Black people tell strange stories about this animal. They say not only that it forces itself on women and girls, but that it even dares attack armed men. In short, it seems very likely to be the satyr of the ancients. Merolla may be speaking only of these animals when he reports that the Black people sometimes catch wild men and women while hunting.

These human-shaped species are also mentioned in the third volume of the same History of Travels, under the names Beggos and Mandrills. But if we stick to the earlier accounts, the descriptions of these supposed monsters show striking similarities to the human species and smaller differences than those one could point out between one human and another. These passages give no reasons why their authors refuse to call the animals in question wild humans. We can easily guess that it is because the animals seemed stupid and did not speak. Those are weak reasons for anyone who knows that, although humans naturally have the organs of speech, speech itself is not natural to them, and who knows how far perfectibility may have raised civilized man above his original condition. The few lines in these descriptions show us how poorly these animals were observed and how many prejudices shaped what the observers saw. For example, they call them monsters, yet admit that they reproduce. In one place Battel says the pongos kill Black people crossing the forests; elsewhere Purchass adds that they do them no harm, even when they catch them by surprise, at least when the people do not persist in staring at them. Pongos gather around fires lit by the Black people after the people leave, and go away in turn when the fire goes out. Those are the facts. Now for the observer's comment: For all their cleverness, they do not have enough sense to keep the fire going by bringing it wood. I would like to know how Battel, or his compiler Purchass, could tell that the pongos left because they were stupid rather than because they wanted to. In a climate like Loango's, animals have little need of fire. If the Black people light fires, it is less to ward off cold than to frighten dangerous beasts. So it is perfectly simple to suppose that, after enjoying the flames for a while or warming themselves well, the pongos tire of staying in one place and go off to feed. Feeding takes them longer than it would if they ate meat. Besides, we know that most animals, including humans, are naturally lazy and avoid any effort that is not absolutely necessary. Finally, it seems very odd that the pongos, whose skill and strength are praised, who know how to bury their dead and make roofs out of branches, would not know how to push burning sticks into a fire. I remember seeing a monkey do exactly what we are told pongos cannot do. It is true that my thoughts were not directed toward this question at the time. I made the very mistake I blame our travelers for: I neglected to find out whether the monkey really intended to keep the fire going or merely, as I believe, to imitate a human action. In any case, it has been clearly shown that a monkey is not a variety of human. It is not only that a monkey cannot speak; above all, we know for certain that its species lacks the ability to improve itself, the distinguishing feature of the human species. But these tests do not seem to have been carried out carefully enough on the pongo and the orangutan to support the same conclusion. There is, however, a way by which even the crudest observers could conclusively establish whether the orangutan or other such creatures belong to the human species. But one generation would not be enough for this experiment. It must also be considered impossible in practice, since the hypothesis would have to be proven true before the experiment meant to establish the fact could be attempted without wrongdoing.

Hasty judgments that are not the product of informed reasoning tend toward extremes. Our travelers casually turn into beasts, under the names Pongos, Mandrills, and Orangutans, the very beings the ancients made into divinities under the names Satyrs, Fauns, and Sylvans. Perhaps more careful inquiry will show that they are human. Meanwhile, I think there is at least as much reason to trust Merolla on this matter as there is to trust the merchant Battel, Dapper, Purchass, and the other compilers. Merolla was an educated religious man and an eyewitness, and for all his simplicity he was not lacking in intelligence. What would such observers have made of the child found in 1694 whom I mentioned earlier? He showed no sign of reason, walked on his feet and hands, had no language, and made sounds quite unlike any human sounds. As the philosopher from whom I get this account goes on to say, it took a long time before he could utter a few words, and even then he spoke in a rough way. As soon as he could speak, people questioned him about his earlier condition. But he remembered no more of it than we remember what happened to us in the cradle. If this child had unfortunately fallen into the hands of our travelers, there is no doubt that, after noticing his silence and apparent stupidity, they would have sent him back into the woods or shut him up in a menagerie. Then they would have written learned and splendid accounts of him as a very curious beast that looked rather human.

For three or four hundred years, the inhabitants of Europe have been flooding the rest of the world and constantly publishing new collections of travels and accounts. Yet I am convinced that the only people we know are Europeans. Indeed, judging by the ridiculous prejudices that still survive even among educated people, each person, under the grand name of the study of humanity, seems to study little more than the people of his own country. Individuals may travel back and forth, but philosophy seems not to travel. Each people's philosophy is therefore of little use to another. The reason is clear, at least in distant regions. Only about four kinds of people make long voyages: sailors, merchants, soldiers, and missionaries. We should hardly expect good observers from the first three groups. As for the fourth, they are busy with the noble calling that draws them there. Even if they were not subject to professional prejudices like everyone else, we should expect them to be unwilling to pursue inquiries that seem like mere curiosity and distract them from the more important work to which they have dedicated themselves. Besides, to preach the Gospel effectively requires only zeal; God provides the rest. But studying human beings takes abilities that God has not promised to anyone and that even saints do not always have. Open any travel book and you find descriptions of people's characters and customs. Yet it is astonishing to see that people who have described so many things say only what everyone already knew. On the other side of the world, they noticed only what they could have seen without leaving their own street. The real traits that distinguish nations, obvious to eyes capable of seeing them, have almost always escaped theirs. That is how we got the fine moral saying, so often repeated by the crowd of would-be philosophers, that people are the same everywhere. Because they have the same passions and vices everywhere, it is supposedly almost useless to try to describe the distinctive character of different peoples. That is about as sound as saying that we cannot tell Peter from James because both have a nose, a mouth, and eyes.

Will we never again see those happy times when people did not presume to philosophize, but Plato, Thales, and Pythagoras, driven by an intense desire to learn, undertook the longest journeys solely to educate themselves? They went far away to shake off the hold of national prejudices, to learn about people through their similarities and differences, and to gain universal knowledge. Such knowledge belongs to no single age or country; it belongs to all times and places and is, so to speak, the common science of the wise.

People admire the splendor of a few enthusiasts who, at great expense, have traveled or sent others to the East with scholars and painters to draw ruins and decipher or copy inscriptions. But I find it hard to understand why, in an age that prides itself on great knowledge, we cannot find two men closely united, one rich in money and the other in genius, both eager for glory and hoping for immortality. One could devote twenty thousand écus of his wealth and the other ten years of his life to a celebrated journey around the world. For once they would study not always stones and plants but people and customs. After spending so many centuries measuring and examining the house, they might finally think of getting to know its inhabitants. The academicians who traveled through northern Europe and southern America went there more as surveyors than as philosophers. Still, since they were both, we cannot call the regions seen and described by La Condamine and Maupertuis entirely unknown. Chardin the jeweler, who traveled as Plato did, has left nothing unsaid about Persia. China seems to have been carefully observed by the Jesuits. Kempfer gives a fair idea of the little he saw in Japan. Apart from these accounts, we do not know the peoples of the East Indies. The Europeans who visit them care more about filling their purses than their heads. All of Africa and its many inhabitants, as distinctive in character as in color, still await examination. The whole earth is covered with nations of which we know only the names, and yet we presume to judge the human race! Imagine a Montesquieu, a Buffon, a Diderot, a Duclos, a d'Alembert, a Condillac, or men of their caliber, traveling to instruct their compatriots. Imagine them observing and describing, with their usual skill, Turkey, Egypt, Barbary, the empire of Morocco, Guinea, the land of the Cafres, Africa's interior and eastern coasts, Malabar, the Mogul, the banks of the Ganges, the kingdoms of Siam, Pegu, and Ava, China, Tartary, and above all Japan. Then, in the other hemisphere, imagine them visiting Mexico, Peru, Chile, the Magellanic lands, not forgetting the real or supposed Patagonians, Tucuman, Paraguay if possible, Brazil, and finally the Caribbean, Florida, and all the wild regions. This last would be the most important journey of all, the one needing the greatest care. Imagine these new Hercules returning from those memorable travels and then taking their time to write a natural, moral, and political history of what they had seen. We ourselves would see a new world emerge from their pens and would thereby learn to know our own. I say that when observers like these declare that one such animal is human and another is a beast, we should believe them. But it would be extremely naive to trust crude travelers on this point, travelers of whom we might sometimes be tempted to ask the very question they presume to settle about other animals.

Note 11