B — Bêtes
Original French
Quelle pitié, quelle pauvreté, d’avoir dit que les Bêtes sont des machines, privées de connaissance & de sentiment, qui font toujours leurs opérations de la même maniére, qui n’apprennent rien, ne perfectionnent rien &c.!
Quoi, cet oiseau qui fait son nid en demi-cercle quand il l’attache à un mur, qui le bâtit en quart de cercle quand il est dans un angle, & en cercle sur un arbre; cet oiseau fait tout de la même façon? Ce chien de chasse que tu as discipliné pendant trois mois, n’en sçait-il pas plus au bout de ce temps, qu’il n’en sçavait avant tes leçons? Le serin à qui tu apprends un air, le répète-t-il dans l’instant? n’employes-tu pas un temps considérable à l’enseigner? n’as-tu pas vû qu’il se méprend & qu’il se corrige?
Est-ce parce que je te parle, que tu juges que j’ai du sentiment, de la mémoire, des idées? Eh bien, je ne te parle pas; tu me vois entrer chez moi l’air affligé, chercher un papier avec inquiétude, ouvrir le bureau où je me souviens de l’avoir enfermé, le trouver, le lire avec joye. Tu juges que j’ai éprouvé le sentiment de l’affliction & celui du plaisir, que j’ai de la mémoire & de la connaissance.
Porte donc le même jugement sur ce chien qui a perdu son maître, qui l’a cherché dans tous les chemins avec des cris douloureux, qui entre dans la maison agité, inquiet, qui descend, qui monte, qui va de chambre en chambre, qui trouve enfin dans son cabinet le maître qu’il aime, & qui lui témoigne sa joye par la douceur de ses cris, par ses sauts, par ses caresses.
Des barbares saisissent ce chien, qui l’emporte si prodigieusement sur l’homme en amitié; ils le clouent sur une table, & ils le disséquent vivant pour te montrer les veines mezaraïques. Tu découvres dans lui tous les mêmes organes de sentiment qui sont dans toi. Réponds moi, machiniste; la nature a-t-elle arrangé tous les ressorts du sentiment dans cet animal, afin qu’il ne sente pas? a-t-il des nerfs pour être impassible? Ne suppose point cette impertinente contradiction dans la nature.
Mais les maîtres de l’école demandent ce que c’est que l’ame des bêtes? Je n’entends pas cette question. Un arbre a la faculté de recevoir dans ses fibres la séve qui circule, de déployer les boutons de ses feuilles & de ses fruits; me demanderez-vous ce que c’est que l’ame de cet arbre? il a reçu ces dons; l’animal a reçu ceux du sentiment, de la mémoire, d’un certain nombre d’idées. Qui a fait tous ces dons? qui a donné toutes ces facultés? celui qui fait croître l’herbe des champs, & qui fait graviter la terre vers le soleil.
Les ames des Bêtes sont des formes substantielles, a dit Aristote, & après Aristote l’école Arabe, & après l’école Arabe l’école angelique, & après l’école angélique la Sorbonne, & après la Sorbonne personne au monde.
Les ames des bêtes sont matérielles, crient d’autres philosophes. Ceux-là n’ont pas fait plus de fortune que les autres. On leur a en vain demandé ce que c’est qu’une ame matérielle; il faut qu’ils conviennent que c’est de la matière qui a sensation; mais qui lui a donné cette sensation? c’est une ame matérielle, c’est-à-dire que c’est de la matière qui donne de la sensation à de la matière; ils ne sortent pas de ce cercle.
Ecoutez d’autres Bêtes raisonnant sur les Bêtes: leur ame est un être spirituel qui meurt avec le corps; mais quelle preuve en avez-vous? quelle idée avez-vous de cet être spirituel, qui, à la vérité, a du sentiment, de la mémoire, & sa mesure d’idées & de combinaisons, mais qui ne pourra jamais sçavoir ce que sçait un enfant de six ans. Sur quel fondement imaginez-vous que cet être qui n’est pas corps périt avec le corps? les plus grandes Bêtes sont ceux qui ont avancé que cette ame n’est ni corps ni esprit. Voilà un beau systême. Nous ne pouvons entendre par esprit que quelque chose d’inconnu qui n’est pas corps. Ainsi le systême de ces messieurs, revient à ceci, que l’ame des bêtes est une substance qui n’est ni corps ni quelque chose qui n’est point corps.
D’où peuvent procéder tant d’erreurs contradictoires? de l’habitude où les hommes ont toujours été d’examiner ce qu’est une chose, avant de sçavoir si elle existe. On appelle la languette, la soupape d’un souflet, l’ame du souflet. Qu’est-ce que cette ame? c’est un nom que j’ai donné à cette soupape qui baisse, laisse entrer l’air, se relève, & le pousse par un tuyau, quand je fais mouvoir le souflet.
Il n’y a point là une ame distincte de la machine. Mais qui fait mouvoir le souflet des animaux? Je vous l’ai déja dit, celui qui fait mouvoir les astres. Le philosophe qui a dit, Deus est anima brutorum, avait raison: mais il devait aller plus loin.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation of the 73 articles in the 1764 first edition, made directly from the French and reviewed against the scan-collated French text. The author’s notes, quotations and verse are retained. Historical ethnic labels, including offensive terms, are retained from the 1764 text.
How pitiful, how impoverished, to have said that beasts are machines, deprived of knowledge and feeling, which always perform their operations in the same manner, which learn nothing, perfect nothing, etc.!
What? This bird that makes its nest in a semicircle when it attaches it to a wall, that builds it in a quarter circle when it is in an angle, and in a circle on a tree: this bird does everything in the same way? This hunting dog that you have trained for three months, does he not know more at the end of that time than he knew before your lessons? The canary to whom you teach an air, does he repeat it that instant? Do you not spend a considerable time teaching him? Have you not seen him make mistakes and correct himself?
Is it because I speak to you that you judge me to have feeling, memory, ideas? Well then, I do not speak to you: you see me come into my house with a sorrowful air, search anxiously for a paper, open the desk where I remember having locked it, find it, read it with joy. You judge that I have felt sorrow and pleasure, that I have memory and knowledge.
Then form the same judgment about this dog who has lost his master, who has sought him in every road with pitiful cries, who enters the house agitated, anxious, who goes down, who goes up, who goes from room to room, who finds at last in his study the master he loves, and who shows him his joy by the sweetness of his cries, by his leaps, by his caresses.
Some barbarians seize this dog, who surpasses man so prodigiously in friendship; they nail him to a table, and they dissect him alive to show you the mesaraic veins. You discover in him all the same organs of feeling that are in you. Answer me, mechanist: has nature arranged all the springs of feeling in this animal so that it may not feel? Does it have nerves so that it cannot suffer? Do not suppose this absurd contradiction in nature.
But the masters of the school ask what the soul of beasts is. I do not understand that question. A tree has the faculty of receiving into its fibers the sap that circulates, of unfolding the buds of its leaves and its fruits; will you ask me what the soul of that tree is? It has received these gifts; the animal has received those of feeling, of memory, of a certain number of ideas. Who has made all these gifts? Who has given all these faculties? He who makes the grass of the fields grow, and who makes the earth gravitate toward the sun.
The souls of beasts are substantial forms, said Aristotle, and after Aristotle the Arab school, and after the Arab school the angelic school, and after the angelic school the Sorbonne, and after the Sorbonne nobody in the world.
The souls of beasts are material, cry other philosophers. These have fared no better than the others. They have been asked in vain what a material soul is; they must agree that it is matter that has sensation; but who gave it that sensation? It is a material soul, that is to say, it is matter that gives sensation to matter; they do not leave that circle.
Listen to other beasts reasoning about beasts: their soul is a spiritual being that dies with the body; but what proof have you of it? What idea have you of this spiritual being, which, in truth, has feeling, memory, and its measure of ideas and combinations, but which will never be able to know what a child of six knows? On what foundation do you imagine that this being, which is not body, perishes with the body? The greatest beasts are those who have advanced that this soul is neither body nor spirit. There is a fine system. We can understand by spirit only something unknown that is not body. Thus the system of these gentlemen comes to this, that the soul of beasts is a substance that is neither body nor something that is not body.
Where can so many contradictory errors come from? From the habit men have always had of examining what a thing is before knowing whether it exists. People call the little tongue, the valve of a bellows, the soul of the bellows. What is this soul? It is a name I have given to that valve which lowers, lets the air enter, rises again, and pushes it through a pipe when I set the bellows moving.
There is no soul there distinct from the machine. But who sets the bellows of animals moving? I have told you already: he who sets the stars moving. The philosopher who said, God is the soul of animals, was right; but he should have gone further.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Plain English translation of the same 73 articles, made directly from the French and reviewed against the scan-collated French text. The author’s notes, quotations and verse are retained. Historical ethnic labels, including offensive terms, are retained from the 1764 text.
What a pathetic, feeble idea: animals are machines! They have no awareness or feelings, do everything the same way, never learn, never improve, etc. That’s what people have said!
Really? Look at a bird building its nest. Against a wall, it makes a half circle. In a corner, it makes a quarter circle. Up in a tree, it makes a circle. Is that bird always doing the same thing? You’ve spent three months training a hunting dog. Doesn’t it know more now than before you taught it? You teach a canary a tune. Can it sing it at once? Don’t you spend a lot of time teaching it? Haven’t you watched it get things wrong, then put them right?
Do you think I have feelings, memories, and ideas just because I talk to you? Suppose I say nothing. You watch me enter my home, looking distressed. I hunt anxiously for a paper. I remember putting it in my desk, open the desk, and find it. Then I read it happily. You conclude that I’ve felt distress and pleasure, and have memory and awareness.
Apply that same reasoning to a dog who’s lost his master. He’s searched every road for him, crying in distress. He enters the house, upset and worried. Downstairs, upstairs, from room to room he goes. Finally, in the study, he finds the master he loves. Hear his soft cries; see his jumps and affectionate gestures. That’s his joy.
Brutes grab this dog, whose friendship is so enormously better than human friendship. They nail him onto a table. They cut him open alive to show you his mesenteric veins. Inside, you discover the very same organs for feeling as your own. You who call him a machine, answer me this. Did nature give him all the working parts for feeling so he wouldn’t feel? Does he have nerves to leave him without sensation? Don’t imagine nature contradicts itself in such an absurd way.
But the teachers in the schools ask, “What is an animal’s soul?” I don’t understand that question. A tree takes circulating sap into its fibers. It opens its leaf buds and fruit buds. Would you ask me what that tree’s soul is? It was given those abilities. Animals were given feeling, memory, and a certain stock of ideas. Who handed out all these gifts? Who gave all these abilities? The one who makes grass grow in the fields and makes the earth gravitate toward the sun.
Aristotle said, “Animal souls are substantial forms.” After him, the Arab school said it. After that school, the angelic school said it. Then the Sorbonne said it. After the Sorbonne, nobody in the world did.
Other philosophers shout, “Animal souls are made of matter!” They’ve done no better than the first group. People keep asking them what a soul made of matter is, without getting anywhere. They have to admit it’s matter capable of feeling. Who made it capable of feeling, though? A soul made of matter. In other words, matter gives matter the ability to feel. They can’t break out of that circle.
Now hear some other beasts reason about beasts: “Their soul is a spirit that dies when the body dies.” Where’s your proof? What do you mean by that spirit? It admittedly has feeling and memory, some ideas and ways of combining them. Yet it’ll never know as much as a six-year-old child. Why suppose this being, which isn’t a body, perishes along with the body? The biggest beasts are those claiming the soul is neither body nor spirit. A lovely system! By spirit, we can only mean something unknown that isn’t a body. So here’s what these gentlemen are saying. Animals’ souls are a substance that’s neither a body nor something that isn’t a body.
How do people make so many mistakes that contradict each other? They’ve always had a habit of asking what something is before finding out whether it exists. We call the little flap, the valve in bellows, their soul. What’s that soul? It’s my name for the valve. When I work the bellows, it drops, lets air in, rises, and pushes the air out through a pipe.
There’s no separate soul inside that machine. But who operates animals’ bellows? I’ve told you already: whoever sets the stars moving. A philosopher said, “God is the soul of animals.” He was right, but he should have taken it further.
About this section
B — Bêtes is part of Pocket Philosophical Dictionary by Voltaire. This page sets the French original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is article 14 of 73 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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