Thirty-six volumes of Natural History appeared under Buffon’s explicit authorship during his lifetime—one of the most comprehensive and monumental efforts ever made by one man (with a little help from his friends, of course) in science or literature. He intended to cover the entire range of natural objects in all three conventional kingdoms of animal, vegetable, and mineral. In truth, for he started at the traditional top and worked down, he never got to invertebrates or plants (or rather, he bypassed these “lower” manifestations of organic matter to write several volumes, late in life, on what he called “my dear minerals”). Moreover, despite plans and sketches, his own work on vertebrates didn’t proceed “below” mammals and birds—and his colleague Lacépède published the last eight volumes (for a total of forty-four in the complete first edition) on reptiles and fishes (including whales) after Buffon’s death.
Buffon treated all the great subjects of natural history in their full generality—from geology, to the origin of life, to embryology, physiology, biogeography, functional anatomy, and systematics. He regarded humans as a species of animal with unique properties, and therefore also covered most of anthropology, sociology, and cultural history as well. The general and theoretical articles of Natural History inspired endless and passionate debate—and made him a rarity in the history of literature: a man who became wealthy by his wits. (Inheritance and patronage didn’t hurt either, but Buffon’s volumes were bestsellers.) All sectors of French intellectual life, from the Encyclopedists to the Theological Faculty of the Sorbonne, took up his themes with gusto (agreeing with some and lambasting others, for Buffon’s work was too multifarious, and too nuanced, for anyone’s outright approbation or dismissal). He fought and made up with Voltaire, Rousseau, and nearly anyone who mattered in the closing years of the ancien régime.
But these general articles do not form the heart of Natural History. Rather, more than twenty volumes present long, beautifully crafted, descriptively detailed, and passionately opinionated treatises on mammals, birds, and minerals—with each species or kind granted its own chapter. These pieces, illustrated with engravings that became “standard,” largely through endless pirating in later works by other authors, remain as charming (and often infuriating) as ever. As an example, consider Buffon’s summary comments on his least favorite mammal, the sloth. (I imagine that Buffon, living at his own frenetic level, had even less patience with these slow creatures than those of us who operate at an ordinary human pace can muster):
Whereas nature appears to us live, vibrant, and enthusiastic in producing monkeys; so is she slow, constrained and restricted in sloths. And we must speak more of wretchedness than laziness— more of default, deprivation, and defect in their constitution: no incisor or canine teeth, small and covered eyes, a thick and heavy jaw, flattened hair that looks like dried grass … legs too short, badly turned, and badly terminated … no separately movable digits, but two or three excessively long nails…. Slowness, stupidity, neglect of its own body, and even habitual sadness, result from this bizarre and neglected conformation. No weapons for attack or defense; no means of security; no resource of safety in escape; confined, not to a country, but to a tiny mote of earth— the tree under which it was born; a prisoner in the middle of great space … everything about them announces their misery; they are imperfect productions made by nature, which, scarcely having the ability to exist at all, can only persist for a while, and shall then be effaced from the list of beings…. These sloths are the lowest term of existence in the order of animals with flesh and blood; one more defect would have made their existence impossible. (My translation.)
I cannot begin to make a useful summary of the theoretical content of Histoire naturelle, if only because Buffon follows Bacon’s lead in taking all (at least natural) knowledge for his province, and because Buffon’s views do not always maintain full consistency either within or between sections. But short comments on three central subjects may provide some flavor of Buffon’s approach to life, and his most important contributions to later research:
1. Classification. Carolus Linnaeus, Buffon’s Swedish rival and close con-temporary (both born in 1707, with Linnaeus dying ten years earlier than Buffon in 1778), developed the system of nomenclature that we continue to use today. Linnaeus prevailed because the formal rules of his system work well in practical terms, and also because his nested and hierarchical scheme of smaller-within-larger categories (species like dogs, within families like canids, within orders like carnivores, within classes like mammals, within phyla like vertebrates) could be slotted into a genealogical interpretation—the arborescent tree of life, with twigs on branches, on boughs, on trunks—that the discovery of evolution would soon impose upon any formal system of naming.
Buffon, on the other hand, sought to encompass all the overt complexity of organisms into a nonhierarchical system that recognized differing relationships for various properties (bats more like mammals in anatomy, more like birds in function). But this alternative model of a network with multiple linkages, rather than a strict hierarchy of inclusion, fails (in the admittedly retrospective light of evolution) to separate the superficial similarity of independent adaptation (wings of bats and birds) from the deep genealogical linkages of physical continuity through the ages (hair and live birth of bats and bears). Buffon’s noble vision of equal treatment for all aspects of a species’s life—placing ecology, function, and behavior at par with traditional anatomy—foundered on a false theory about the nature of relationships.
2. Biogeography. Previous naturalists, if they considered the question at all, generally envisaged a single center of creation for all animals, followed by spreading throughout the globe (a theory obviously consistent with the scenario of the biblical deluge, although not necessarily so inspired or defended). Buffon, on the other hand, recognizing that each species seemed to possess unique adaptations for its own region, argued for origination in appropriate places all over the globe, with only limited subsequent opportunities for migration—a more fruitful idea that founded the modern science of biogeography.
Buffon’s notion of adaptation to local conditions directly inspired an important line of research in early American natural history. He argued that American mammals must be smaller than their Old World counterparts (rhino, giraffe, and tiger larger than tapir, llama, and jaguar, for example) because “the heat was in general much less in this part of the world, and the humidity much greater.” American naturalists, Thomas Jefferson in particular, became annoyed at this charge of lesser stature for their New World, and sought vigorously to refute Buffon. This strong feeling led Jefferson to his most embarrassing error, when he misidentified the claw of a large fossil ground sloth (ironically, given Buffon’s judgment of these creatures) as belonging to a giant lion that would have surpassed all European relatives in bulk. In correcting Jefferson’s error, Georges Cuvier diplomatically named this new genus of sloths Megalonyx jeffersoni.
3. The evolution and nature of species. Most previous systems sought to define these basic units (for groups of organisms) in terms of unique structural features shared by all members and absent from all organisms in other species—an essentialist criterion doomed to failure in our actual world of shadings and exceptions. Buffon, on the other hand, sought a definition rooted in the status and behavior of groups in nature. He therefore held that the ability to interbreed with other members of the species, and to produce healthy and fertile offspring, must become the primary criterion for delimiting the boundaries of natural groups. In so doing, he laid the groundwork for modern notions of the interacting population as nature’s basic entity, thus refuting the old Platonic alternative of searching for essential defining features to link any accidental configuration of actual matter (that is, a real organism) to the idealized eidos or archetype of its permanent species.
The venerable (and pernicious) tradition of defining past worthies by their supposed anticipation of modern views has misled many commentators into elevating this ecological d
efinition of species, with its rejection of fixed Platonic archetypes, into a prototypical theory of evolution—thus making Buffon the worthy precursor of Darwin on a rectilinear path to truth. But such selective raiding parties from present knowledge into coherent, but fundamentally different, systems of past thought can only derail any effort to grasp the history of ideas as a fascinating panoply of changing worldviews, each fully developed in itself and worthy of our respect and understanding, despite the inevitability (if science has any value at all) of subsequent reformulations that will bring us closer to nature’s modes and causes.
Buffon was not, and could not have been, an evolutionist in any modern sense (although Histoire naturelle, like the Bible, is so long and various that almost any position can be defended by partial quotation out of context). His system did allow for limited change within original species defined by their capacity for interbreeding. Buffon described these minor alterations as “degenerations” induced by changing climates. (In using the term degeneration, he did not invoke our modern meaning of “deterioration”—for such changes usually improved a species’s adaptation to local environments—but rather a departure from the “interior mold” or internal guardian of a species’s identity in development.)
Buffon’s complex and confusing notion of the moule intérieur (or “interior mold”) underlay his basic theories both of embryology and of life’s history through time. He accepted Aristotle’s distinction between the controlling form of a species and the actual matter that builds any particular organism. He rejected Plato’s notion of an external and eternal form, accepting Aristotle’s alternative view of form as an attribute that shapes labile matter from within. For Buffon, the moule intérieur acts as the guardian of form and cannot be as labile as matter itself (or very plastic at all), lest general order disappear in nature (an unthinkable notion for an Enlightenment rationalist like Buffon), with each creature becoming no more than a glop of putty shaped only by the accidents of immediately surrounding conditions. For Buffon, a full theory of evolution would have destroyed the rational, albeit complex, order that he had pledged to define in his inimitable style.
BUFFON’S REPUTATION
If Buffon so shaped the science of his day, why did his name not survive as well as the imprint of his ideas? We can identify and distinguish several reasons, each relevant to the coordinating issue that I raised at the outset of this essay: the scaling of reputation with time, and the frequent failure of enduring fame to match continuing influence.
The sound bite does not just represent an invention of modern media in a restless age that has forgotten history. People have always needed simple labels to remember the reasons and meanings of events that shape our past. Unless such a distinctive label can be attached to a person’s accomplishments, he will probably fade from sight. The major worthies and icons of the history of science all wear such labels (at least for popular recognition)— Copernicus for a new arrangement of the solar system, Newton for gravity, Darwin for evolution, Einstein for relativity (even if most of us can’t define the concept very well). The principle extends beyond intellectual history; for everyone needs such a hook—Pandora her box, Lady Godiva her hair, Mark McGwire his bat. The generality also features a dark side, as good people with strong and consistent accomplishments become inevitably identified by an unforgettable and highly public moment of ultimate chagrin—Bill Buckner for a ball that bounced between his legs; another Bill for something else between his legs.*
Buffon had a passion for order, but he developed no central theory that could be defined by a memorable phrase or concept. He wrote volumes of incomparable prose and propagated ideas, sometimes quite radical, about all major subjects in natural history. But no central thread unites his system. Moreover, Buffon may have been just a bit too worldly, just a tad too practical, ever to develop a transforming worldview clear and coherent enough (like Darwin’s natural selection) both to attach distinctively to his person, and to apply consistently to a natural world strongly altered thereby.
In his uncomfortable duality of being both larger than life, and also so much in the life of his own society, Buffon often had to juggle and feint, to smooth over or to hide under, so that his readers or anyone in power, from priest to patron to Parisian pol, would not dismiss him as too far outside the sensibilities of his surrounding world. Buffon possessed a radical streak, the stubborn independence of all great thinkers. Mademoiselle Blesseau, his house manager and confidante, summed up Buffon’s character in a letter written to his collaborator Faujas de Saint-Fond just after the master’s death: “No one has ever been able to take credit for having controlled him.” Jacques Roger comments:
In the hierarchical society in which he lived, he knew how to carve out a place for himself, without excessive qualms or dishonoring servility. He used institutions as he found them and did not seek to change them because it was none of his business and because he did not have a great deal of confidence in human wisdom.
Buffon was just too engaged and too enmeshed to transform the world of thought with a consistent vision—too occupied with his seigneurial rights and funds (where he was fair but demanding, litigious if thwarted, and not particularly kind), and with wheeling and dealing to add land to his estates or to his (and the people’s) Parisian gardens and museum. Too busy tending to his household after the early death of his wife, and worrying about his only and wastrel son, who suffered under his father’s glory, bearing the diminutive nickname of Buffonet. (After his father’s death, Buffonet ended up under the guillotine during the Reign of Terror.) Too involved also in pursuing his own tender, longstanding, and properly discreet relationship with Madame Necker, wife of the finance minister, who comforted and stood by him during his final illness and death. All this hubbub doesn’t leave much time, or enough calm and extended space, for developing and propagating a consistent and radical reconstruction of nature.
Buffon’s attitude toward religion and his relationships with France’s Catholic hierarchy, best illustrate this defining (and ultimately constraining) feature of his personality. He was, without much doubt, a materialist at heart, and at least an agnostic in personal belief. A candid and private remark to Hérault de Séchelles epitomizes both his public stance and his personal attitude: “I have always named the Creator; but we need only remove this word and, of course, put in its place the power of Nature.”
Buffon’s publications play an extended cat and mouse game with religion. Histoire naturelle abounds with flowery and conventional hymns of praise to the omnipotent deity, creator of all things in heaven and earth. But Buffon’s content often challenged traditional views and biblical texts. In fact, he began Natural History by forthrightly arguing, in volume 1 on the “Theory of the Earth” (published in 1749), that our planet had experienced an unlimited and cyclical history of gradual erosion and exposure of continents, uninterrupted by any catastrophe. (Buffon did not explicitly deny the Noachian deluge, but no one could have missed the implication.)
On January 15, 1751, the Theological Faculty of the Sorbonne attacked Buffon in a strong letter, demanding retraction or censorship. Buffon, in his usual worldly way, backed down in a note of apparent apology, stating that he believed “very firmly all that is told [in the book of Genesis] about Creation, both as to the order of time and the circumstances of the facts,” and that he had presented his theory “only as a pure philosophical supposition.” Buffon then published the Sorbonne’s letter and his response at the beginning of the fourth volume of Histoire naturelle in 1753, and in all subsequent editions.
When I was younger, and beguiled by the false myth of warfare between science and religion as the path of progress in Western history, I viewed Buffon’s retraction as a sad episode of martyrdom at an intermediary stage along an inevitable road. I now hold an entirely different view. Buffon surely prevailed in this incident. He reached a formal agreement with his enemies, staved off any future attacks, published a meaningless “apology” that no one would regard as
sincere, and then never changed a single word of his original text. “It is better to be humble than hung,” he wrote to a colleague in describing this contretemps; Paris vaut bien une messe.
Nonetheless, as Buffon lay dying, he clamored for last rites with a final ounce of passion that seemed ultimately and poignandy sincere. He had previously said to Hérault de Séchelles, in his usual and somewhat cynical manner, “When I become dangerously ill and feel my end approaching, I will not hesitate to send for the sacraments. One owes it to the public cult.” Yet now, faced with the actuality, he seemed to plead only for himself. Madame Necker described his last moments (as a witness, not from secondhand reports): “He spoke to Father Ignace and said to him in a very anxious manner, ‘Someone give me the good God quickly! Quickly! Quickly!’ … Father Ignace gave him communion and M. de Buffon repeated during the ceremony, ‘give it then! But give it then!’”
I do not know how to resolve this tangle of complexity, this mixture of practical posturing and sincere conviction. Perhaps we cannot go beyond Jacques Roger’s insightful conclusions:
That Buffon had a passion for order in everything—in his schedule, his accounts, his papers, and his life no less than in his study of nature—was such an obvious aspect of his temperament that his contemporaries noted it. He wanted an order, but not just any order; he wanted a true and legitimate order. Buffon wished there to be an order in society, and … he did define a few rules that should preside over such an order. Respect for the established religion is one of them, and he observed it all his life.
If we regard all these foregoing reasons for the eclipse of Buffon’s name as primarily “negative” (his failure to construct and defend a transforming and distinctive view of life), another set of factors must be identified as the “positive” fate of all great reformers with such a broad palette and such an immediate impact. First of all, worldliness includes another side that promotes later invisibility. People who build institutions (“brick and mortar” folks, not mere dreamers and schemers), who lobby for educational reform, who write the textbooks that instruct generations of students, become widely known in their generation, if only because they demand explicit obeisance from anyone who wants to engage in the same business. But when they die and no longer hold the strings of power, their names fade quickly from view, even while their institutions and writings continue to mold the history of thought in profound and extensive ways.
The Lying Stones of Marrakech Page 10