An Inhabitant of the Planet Mars

by Henri de Parville

  A hole about one and a half meters in diameter is being hollowed out with picks. The rock is still porphyroid, very similar in appearance to ejections of the same sort that come to light in the midst of our metamorphic shales, in which crystals are found in abundance. Every workman who brings back anything curious or exposes the remains of an object receives a reward of two dollars. They are under orders to proceed very gently and cautiously.

  At the level of the metal plate that covered the calcareous tomb, several more little rods about 50 centimeters long have been found, apparently made of the same alloy as the amphora. Mr. Sawton, professor of chemistry at Indianapolis, arrived recently, so the precise analyses carried out by Mr. Davis can be checked.

  The interplanetary man, or animal, has been deposited in Mr. Paxton’s mineralogical collection. He has been placed horizontally, in the position in which he was found in the bosom of the rocky mass. Mr. Davis did not want anyone to touch him or to strip off his covering before the scientists were able to examine him at their leisure; he still remains in his sepulcher.

  No cast has yet been made, as I promised you, but photographs have been taken and drawings made. With these lines I am sending you a large drawing of the aerolith that I made on site and sketch of the inhabitant of Mars—if that really is where the individual in question has come from. It is no more than a rough drawing taken from my notebook; it is however, exact enough for your engraver to make copies of it. You will almost recognize the portrait that I have made for you.

  It seems as if one is confronted by one of those old sepulchers that ornament the chapels of basilicas. The calcareous concretions stand in for the sculpture, and the mummy itself for the statue. The mass of siliceous calcium carbonate in which the singular individual is enclosed is quadrangular in shape. It measures very nearly two meters in length by 75 centimeters in breadth and 50 centimeters in height. About a third of the limestone has been cut transversally to enable the mummy to be better observed, in such a way that one can detach the block or replace it in its original position at will. A large portion of the covering has been removed in places, which permits the mummy’s true form to be discerned.

  It seems at first glance that one is confronted by a large monkey 1,35 meters tall, lying down at full extent, and half-covered in chalk. It is only on making a more detailed examination that this impression is overcome. There is, in fact, nothing as strange as the face, which is at one and the same time that of a monkey, a human being and an elephant.

  Take a human head; strike the back of the skull with a laundry-beater until it is flattened out, so as to present a surface some 30 centimeters across; then continue flattening the two cheeks obliquely. You will have a plane behind, two triangular faces at the sides; that is the exact conformation of the head. From the top of this sort of triangular blade hangs a trunk, broad in the upper part and narrow in the lower; it has been badly damaged, but its diameter varies between 15 centimeters and four or five. It half-covers up a tiny mouth with very thick lips, somewhat reminiscent of the muzzle of a rodent in its smallness, with three teeth in the lower jaw and two in the upper. Below that, a receding chin and a very long neck; narrow shoulders; arms 80 centimeters long; hands 30 centimeters; fingers narrow and pointed, the fourth shorter than the others.

  It was in error that I said the feet were short; they are longer than the hands and rather narrow.

  The skull is devoid of hair, but that signifies nothing, because it is slightly charred. The breast is hairy—or, at least, a few grey or reddish hairs are perceptible within the covering. In the places where the skin has not been decomposed by heat, it is brown with a red tint.

  The large plate that was covering the tomb is very curious. The metal of which it is composed has not yet been analyzed; it has the appearance of silver blackened by acid. Its entire surface is granular and contains pockets of gas. The side that was facing the tomb is smoother and a large quantity of lines can be made out upon it, which remain to be studied: designs of fantastic animals and bizarre objects.

  In one corner, close to a sort of rhinoceros, the stars I mentioned previously can be seen quite clearly. Whether by chance or not, they can certainly be taken for the Sun, Venus, Earth and Mars, at their respective distances—then further away, Jupiter and Saturn, with discrepancies in the distances as they are presently measured.

  In the depiction, Mars has a diameter of three centimeters, the Sun and Mercury each have a diameter of one centimeter, Venus and Earth half a centimeter, Jupiter and Saturn two centimeters. Above them, slightly effaced, tightly-packed signs are visible, which might well represent numbers—but I should not anticipate at present. The commission is due to begin its discussions tomorrow; I shall leave all responsibility to its members.

  At the top of the plate, to the left, beneath a sort of palm tree, Mr. Davis pointed out several designs to me, which seem to represent human beings exactly analogous to the one that has fallen to Earth; it is undoubtedly this plate that will permit us to clarify the mystery, if it can be clarified.

  I am sending you these lines in haste. I shall send you an account of the discussions taking place here by the next post.

  LETTER III

  At Paxton House. A commission of scientists. Poor photographs of Messrs. Newbold and Greenwight. Speak up, Mr. President! A great geologist. A great astronomer. Mr. Greenwight on Le Verrier’s planet. The editor’s influence on the author. William Seringuier and advertising. Biétry shawls and Oléine. Mr. Stek (of the Institute).

  The commission was conclusively constituted on Thursday and the discussion began the following day. The rumor has reached us that Lyell, the English geologist, has crossed the Atlantic, sent by the London Geological Society.6 No official notification has been given to us of this voyage, and as it is impossible to keep those scientists who have been here for more than a fortnight waiting indefinitely in expectation of further arrivals, it has been unanimously decided that we should set to work without further delay.

  The meeting-hall is in the main wing of Mr. Paxton’s house; it is capable of accommodating about 100 people. The mummy, in its calcareous shroud, has been placed at the center, along with the metal rods and the amphorae; the metal plate has been set up facing the widow, in the daylight. Chairs and stools are ranged around, then benches made for the occasion—for seats are scarce in Paxton House. Mr. Paxton has had a sort of platform built for the conference table, facing the entrance door. Below that a long table has been set, clad in sacramental green serge, for the secretaries. Finally, at the back, facing the conference-table and behind the commission’s seats, Mr. Paxton has been accommodating enough to reserve an enclosure for the journalists; there are representatives here from both the Northern and Southern press, including Washington, Philadelphia and Boston. We are all living, almost in perfect harmony, under the flag of science.

  Here are the names of the commissioners. You will recognize several famous names among them. I shall list them as I see them, grouped before me.

  At the conference-table, occupying the presidential armchair, Monsieur Newbold, perhaps the southern geologist who has given most service to science: a man of about 60 years of age, educated in the school of Buch, Humboldt, etc.,7 who has only one fault so far as we are concerned, which it is that he speaks too softly. Profound physiognomy, bright eyes, almost always leans both his elbows on the table with his hands joined together in front of his nose. All in all, an excellent president, accustomed to the use of the hand-bell.

  To his right, the vice-president, Mr. Greenwight, Philadelphia’s most noted astronomer. Tall, blond, energetic, well-built. Yankee in appearance and in fact. His reputation is long-established. Graduated from the Military School in New York, he initially devoted himself to chemistry, studying oxygenated water, but was suddenly seized by a lively infatuation for astronomy. Called by circumstance to Philadelphia, he discovered two minor planets and, after an interval of several days, rediscovered Monsieur Le Verrier’s famous planet Neptune.8
He is honest and loyal by nature, in spite of being a Yankee; on the day when the French newspapers told him that his planet had already been discovered by a Parisian astronomer he ran straight to the Academy and made the following speech, which brought forth many wry smiles:

  “Gentlemen, let no one be mistaken; Le Verrier, without a telescope and solely by mans of calculation, was the first to discover the star that I observed on September 27. It is unique; it is marvelous; Le Verrier is henceforth the Columbus of the Heavens. As for me, gentleman, I shall forever be their Amerigo Vespucci. It is necessary to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s.”

  No one in Philadelphia has forgotten, however, that if Monsieur Le Verrier had been ill for a few days, or if he had made an arithmetical error, the honor of the great discovery would have reverted to America. On such threads do honors depend!

  Mr. Greenwight speaks well. His voice is powerful and vigorous, but sometimes too rich in heu-heu—the sort of noise that is formed by the fusion of two mangled words. Nevertheless he is an orator, and an orator who occupies a high rank in our political assemblies to boot. Very highly regarded in Philadelphia, he is evidently one of those who, in Paris, would be awarded the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor.

  To the president’s left are seated Messrs. Wintow and Rink, a zoologist and an ethnologist.

  Mr. Wintow is the most peculiar little man that one could ever see: a professor at Washington, decorated in Russia, Italy and Spain, he does not seem any less discontented and grumpy. He is a naturalized American, for he was English by birth. He has occupied the chair of zoology at Washington for more than 20 years; I believe that he is the doyen of zoologists. Well in with all the authorities and the Church, he has covered America with little two-shilling pamphlets and large volumes at four or even five dollars, issued by Nossamm and Sons, the official publisher of the city’s Medical School. He is well-known to the students as their examiner. He is a member of the Academy of Philadelphia and an honorary member of the French Institut. He is a successful man, and it only remains for him to make a success of his son Alphonse.

  Mr. Rink is taller by some decimeters than his illustrious colleague Mr. Wintow; he is, however, of lesser stature in the opinion of provincial academies. His speech is fluent, but prickly and grating. He has professed himself to be an anthropologist for a number of years, and no one complains of it, least of all those who occupy themselves with political economics. He writes for the New Review and holds court with journalists. He can be conveniently bracketed with William Seringuier, who sits a few places away from me; that name will doubtless have aggravated your nerves more than once; one sees his advertisements all over the place, like those in France for Biétry shawls9 and Olein,10 for catching fish more rapidly.

  William Seringuier has ended up, thanks to advertising, on the staff of Hacken & Co. in New York, certainly the most powerful publisher in America. Thanks primarily to the stupidity of some of his colleagues, he ended up making a reputation for himself among the broader public of merchants, easily enticed by engravings and overblown words. He is welcomed in Mr. Rink’s home, and Mr. Rink returns his visits.

  Mr. Rink is universally reckoned to be a man of the world and an excellent naturalist. The president, Mr. Newbold, sometimes looks at him from the corner of his eye between his joined fingers. Mr. Newbold, in fact, has never wanted to hear talk of fossil humans; that is why he has hastened to see the inhabitant of the planet Mars—and Mr. Rink is the most energetic and most high-profile defender, after Mr. Shafford,11 of human fossils. Here, as with you, our scientists are not always in accord.

  Further to the left, at the end of the platform, sits a little grey man—grey from head to toe—admirably shaven, not much taller than the man from Mars, but better turned-out. He is the permanent secretary of the Boston Agricultural Society, here serving as assistant secretary, an agronomist-cum-chemist and businessman. There is something slightly Mephistophelean in his expression and his smile. He is, it is said, the author—in collaboration with a famous poet—of a treatise on Coprolites 12 that created a certain stir in its time.

  Below the platform, more or less comfortably seated before the green serge, are two of our old acquaintances, Mr. Paxton and Mr. Davis, and a third scientist, whom it is a pleasure for me to introduce to you, Mr. Stek. You will know him by reputation. He is an astronomer, journalist, naturalist, officer, bibliophile, poet, scholar, Hellenist, meteorologist, geologist, chemist, physician, professor, examiner, engineer, columnist, milliner…and I shall stop there. A great friend of disorder, it is to him that we owe the paradox: “Disorder is order.” He is about 70 years old. He is slightly reminiscent of Quasimodo—your Quasimodo—and yet he is handsome. He has something of Dante in his expression, something of Byron in his gait; his spine is exceedingly bent, but he seems tall and proud. He has a mottled face, but I know that he conjures up dreams of Romantic characters. His hair is grey-brown, turning into the Milky Way; it floats in the wind and shelters his deep-set eyes; he never dyes it, for disorder is order—and yet again, public opinion deems him right. He does not always keep his eyes open. When he is composing a couplet, he half-closes them. If it is a matter of an interplanetary calculation, he closes them entirely. Have a chat with him—for he excels in the art of conversation—and he opens and closes them alternately to mark the rhythm of his discourse. If he had enemies—he never has had any—he would most certainly keep them wide open.

  Stek holds back or lets fly according to circumstances. He never speaks ill of his colleagues in science or journalism, but he thinks it nevertheless. How many times have we caught him laughing, in a wicked fashion, at the errors or satires of others, then writing the following day that the book he was reading was interesting and will sell two thousand copies? If I did not know that he was born in Petersburg I would take him for a Norman, a true Norman! He has very slender fingers and a philosophical grip. Confusion is impossible.

  Stek has done good work, but he would have been able to do better. He is too much of a butterfly; he is more an artistic scientist than a scientific artist. The two sides of his character collide with one another and hinder one another. He dresses badly, and that pains the Academy of Philadelphia, which is very strong on etiquette. His trousers are too short, allowing a glimpse of underclothes that are too long; his shirt is loosely agape, within a waistcoat innocent of buttons, and his tie describes an elongated trajectory around his neck, displaying its slack knot from sunrise to sunset. All too frequently, a handkerchief hangs out of his pocket, floating like a national flag from a mizzen mast. His olive frock-coat is as old as its owner, but its flaps bulge out before and behind as if to protect Stek from contact with the multitude. How many people would pay dear for that frock-coat, which is the despair of the Academicians of Philadelphia?

  Stek is a true eccentric. Knock at his door: if he is in a good mood, he will let you in; if he got out of bed on the wrong side, he will say: “I’m not here, sir; come back in an hour”—and he will slam the door in your face.

  Come back at the end of an hour. “Is Mr. Stek there?”

  Stek opens and closes his eyes twice. He takes out his watch and looks at it as if he were looking at something nebulous. “That’s right,” he says, “it’s time; come in, sir.”

  “Come in” is an easy thing to say, but is not as easy to do as one might think. Stek takes a stride, hops, slides, turns and advances, but the visitor remains where he is. A corridor is before him. To the right and the left, piles of books mount up to the ceiling, disposed like the two sides of a railway embankment. It is necessary to go into this cutting: blockades and rocks, composed of brochures and old books agglutinated by dust, impede the passage; an old forgotten measuring instrument bars the way like a headland. Light is scarcely admitted into this sanctuary.

  “Come on, get a move on, sir!” cries Stek, sniggering. “We’ll never get there.”

  The visitor, thus encouraged, launches himself forwards—and, after a few false steps
and a few stumbles, succeeds in reaching the first room. The same aspect: tunnels of books, walls of pamphlets and memoirs. Stek does not pause for breath. He disappears behind another embankment of print. It is necessary to follow, at all costs. The corner is turned.

  “We’re here,” says Stek, fidgeting in that dust like a tardigrade in a gutter.13

  Where the devil is he? you think, searching for him in an enormous room garnished throughout with bizarre stalactites and stalagmites of books. A little noise, reminiscent of that of a hedgehog passing through the undergrowth, puts you on the track. Stek is already sitting under a triumphal arch of volumes belonging to all the libraries in the world, with a fireplace behind him—empty in summer, with a log fire in winter—at a little table with an inkwell, a pencil and paper. To one side is a snuff-box and a cigar-butt, with its ash still in place.

  “Sit down, sir, and we’ll have a chat.”

  The visitor searches for a chair. His gaze does not encounter any.

  “Moments are precious, sir. How can I be of service to you? Sit down.”

  Four dusty antiquarian books display their nudity in front of the hearth;14 the visitor perches on them gratefully. “I have invented,” he says, “a means of steering balloons, and I’ve come to ask for your advice. I took a mouse and hitched it to a little toy roundabout. At the hub of the wheel I arranged four little wings into a propeller, as in a windmill, and I saw these winglets screw themselves up into the air, transporting my roundabout and my mouse. As the mouse became frantic with fright and turned faster and faster, the roundabout and its wings flew higher and higher; I soon lost sight of them.”