Three centuries and some change before the astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin rode a rocket to the Moon, the libertine poet Cyrano de Bergerac smeared himself with bone marrow and floated up to the Moon; the Moon, as everybody knows, attracts bone marrow. The Prophet Enoch, also there, tells us that got to the Moon by tying jars of smoke from animal sacrifices under his armpits, because sacrifices must rise to the heavens. Why is an Old Testament Prophet on the Moon? Because the Garden of Eden is there, of course. But after a few minutes in the Garden, Cyrano repeats a very old mistake and must leave, and so has to content himself with visiting the other countries of the Moon. His guide is the Daemon of Socrates, although he hasn't worked with just Socrates. The people of the Moon walk on all fours.
Before Apollo 13, before Star Trek, before H.G. Wells, there was Cyrano and his book, ostensibly a report from the author. His Voyage to the Moon, published in 1656, isn’t the first story on that theme (edged out by a mere 15 centuries by Lucian of Samosata’s A True History). And it’s far from the first fiction to treat fantastical, philosophical themes: Thomas More’s Utopia was almost century old when Cyrano was born, after all. But there was never quite a book like this, at least until Cyrano wrote one. His contribution to literature was to take a few ideas from current science and philosophy and write a fictional treatment about them. If a clockwork machine could produce sounds, why couldn’t we in theory build books that speak? This was quite literally science fiction, and wildly creative.
Although if Voyage to the Moon is science fiction, is science in the way that Cyrano would have understood it; that is, natural philosophy, that catch-all term for everything from astronomy to psychology and most of what we now just call philosophy, and a lot of magic besides. And quite a lot of early modern philosophy makes its way into Cyrano’s book: when our author is presented as an exotic animal in a Moon zoo, a delegation of Moon academics convenes to determine whether or not the hairless ape possesses self-awareness or is merely an automaton of senseless instinct. So we know that Cyrano read Descartes.
But this makes it sound like Cyrano is giving us a dry tour of What We Should Invent. Fortunately, this is a silly book, interesting not for its inventions but for its inventiveness. The Moon people are delightfully ridiculous, walking about on all fours and fretting over the souls of cabbages. They keep their houses on wheels so they can change the scenery, and attend their own funerals, which are joyous affairs. Here it helps to mention that Cyrano was a libertine; today, the word means little more than mindless hedonism, but in Cyrano’s time, it was anything but. Libertinism was about liberty: expanding all freedoms, not just for your genitals, but for your mind, too. They read Galileo (the first person to map the Moon, by the way). Much like the Epicureans a few millennia ago, the libertines were tarred with hedonism by their prudish rivals who, because it made better propaganda, focused more on the free love than the free thought. Although yes, on Cyrano’s Moon, virginity is illegal.
Not that this is pointless clowning. It is easy to forget, now that the battle is largely won and the Catholic Church has an astronomical observatory and a theological contingency plan for baptizing aliens, that there was a time when “free thought” wasn’t something Richard Dawkins used to harass Muslims; free thought, for the Powers That Be, was dangerous and suspicious, as history had shown; you let your guard down for a few minutes, and suddenly the northern half of Europe has left the Church, and they’re reading the Bible…in German! In light of this catastrophe, the response wasn’t restricted to atheists, vernacularists, or radical direct democracy advocates: the Catholic Church burned an Italian miller at the stake for propagating his theory that the universe is like a great wheel of cheese. Dear God! What books would he have written?!
Cyrano is for Menocchio’s party, not for the saliency of his views, but for the sheer fantasy of it. Clearly this was not a man bound by any orthodoxies. And Cyrano invents a fellow traveler to Menocchio in a Spaniard who lives on the Moon because, as he says: “The true reason which had obliged him to travel all over the Earth, and at length to abandon it for the Moon was that he could not find so much as one Country where even Imagination was at Liberty.” Certainly the Moon was one country where Cyrano might have published his book as he intended. Two endings exist for Voyage to the Moon: one that condemns the citizens of the Moon for arrogantly abandoning God; and one that praises “the People of that World, amongst whom even the meanest have Naturally so much Wit; whereas those of ours have so little, and yet so dearly bought.” Guess which version Cyrano had to circulate in his lifetime?
So you’ll see this book bandied about as a precursor to science fiction. And it is! But it wasn’t about any particular means of getting to the Moon—it was about inventing four routes to the Moon, just for the hell of it. Because even in this early age of science and uncovering the unbendable laws of nature, it was apparent that the imagination was one thing no science could contain. In fact, Cyrano’s book, it’s science that comes from the imagination: of the four ways he proposes to reach the Moon, one of them is a multi-stage rocket, not unlike the one that brought Apollo 11 to the Moon.
(I read the Lovell translation, nearly contemporary with Cyrano himself. This fact isn’t as well-known as it should be, but some of the best English writing in the Elizabethan era and the decades right after it comes from translators: Golding’s Metamorphoses, Urquhart’s Gargantua and Pantagruel, and John Florio’s translation of Montaigne, while not always sticking to the text like a modern translator would, are masterpieces of early modern English in their own right. But Lovell doesn’t quite rise to the level of his peers: his Voyage is alright, but I come to 17th century English for those lung-busting sentences that make you reach for a dictionary, and Lovell’s page-long sentences don’t have much rhythm or unctuous verbiage.
The other reason I read Lovell is that it was the only version I could get. Only a few English translations of Voyage to the Moon exist, several them quite bad according to the introduction of my edition, and nobody else has tried it for quite a long time. In fact, any copy of the book is hard to get a hold of, and the only digital versions are badly scanned and terribly formatted. Worst of all, an entire second book, Voyage to the Sun, exists—it was bundled with the Moon voyage back in the 17th century—but I can’t find it at all. Only glosses of it are available online, which is a shame, because it sounds fascinating: Cyrano goes to the Sun, where his guide is Tomas Campanella and they talk, among other things, about Descartes and his radical philosophy. So unless you can read Baroque French or have a particularly well-stocked library, bad copies of Lovell’s translation are the only Voyage at hand.
This is a shame. Voyage to the Moon isn’t a lost masterpiece or anything, but it holds a important position in the history of speculative fiction, and a delightful ode to the imagination. Hopefully, this long period of obscurity will pass, and translators and publishers can bring this book to the adoring audience it deserves.)