The Complete Essays

by Michel de Montaigne

  In this he acted like a man torn by conflicting emotions. For both the towns and the armies were under his control; the enemy forces led by Antonio de Leyva were only a few yards away; we suspected nothing: so he could have done us far more harm. Despite his treachery we lost not one single man nor any town except Fossano (and even that only after a long struggle).

  Prudens futuri temporis exitum

  Caliginosa nocte premit Deus,

  Ridetque si mortalis ultra

  Fas trepidat…

  Ille potens sui

  Lætusque deget, cui licet in diem

  Dixisse, vixi, cras vel atra

  Nube polum pater occupato

  Vel sole puro…

  Lætus in præsens animus, quod ultra est,

  Oderit curare.

  [Wisely does God hide what is to come under the darkness of night, laughing if a mortal projects his anxiety further than is proper…

  That man will be happy and master of himself who every day declares, ‘I have lived. Tomorrow let Father Jove fill the heavens with dark clouds or with purest light’… Let your mind rejoice in the present: let it loathe to trouble about what lies in the future.]6

  [C] The following quotation contradicts that, but those who believe it are wrong: ‘Ista sic reciprocantur, ut et, si divinatio sit, dii sint: et si dii sint, sit divinatio.’ [If there is divination there are gods, and conversely, if there are gods there is divination.]7

  Pacuvius was much more wise:

  Nam istis qui linguam avium intelligunt,

  Plusque ex alieno jecore sapiunt, quam ex suo,

  Magis audiendum quam auscultandum censeo.

  [As for those who understand the language of the birds and who know the livers of animals better than their own, I believe it is better just to listen to them rather than pay attention to them.]

  The birth of that famous Tuscan art of divination was on this wise: a ploughman ploughed his furrow deeply, from which arose Tages the demi-god; he had the face of a child but the wisdom of an old man. Everybody came running up; his words and wisdom were collected and kept for centuries; they contained the principles and practices of that art… A birth in conformity with its development…8

  [B] I would rather order my affairs by casting dice, by lots, than by such fanciful nonsense.9 [C] And truly all States have always attributed considerable authority to them. Plato, freely drawing up his constitution as he pleased, left many important decisions to lots, including the marriages of the good citizens; he attached such importance to these fortuitous matches that he decreed that the offspring of them be kept and brought up in the Republic, whilst those born to the wicked should be driven out; nevertheless if one of these banished children should happen to promise well as he grew up, he could be recalled; and if one of those who were kept turned out hopelessly in his youth, he was exiled.10

  [B] I know people who study their almanacs, annotate them and cite their authority as events take place. But almanacs say so much that they are bound to tell both truth and falsehood. [C] ‘Quis est enim qui totum diem jaculans non aliquando conlineet?’ [For who can shoot all day without striking the target occasionally?]11 [B] I do not think any the better of them for seeing them happen to prove true on occasions; there would be more certainty in them if they had some right rule which made them always wrong. [C] Besides, nobody keeps a record of their erroneous prophecies since they are infinite and everyday; right predictions are prized precisely because they are rare, unbelievable and marvellous.

  That explains the reply made by Diagoras, surnamed the Atheist, when he was in Samothrace: he was shown many vows and votive portraits from those who have survived shipwreck and was then asked, ‘You, there, who think that the gods are indifferent to human affairs, what have you to say about so many men saved by their grace?’ – ‘It is like this,’ he replied; ‘there are no portraits here of those who stayed and drowned – and they are more numerous!’ Cicero says that among the many philosophers who believed there were gods only Xenophanes of Colophon made an assay at uprooting all forms of divination.12 It is less surprising, therefore, that we have occasionally [B] seen13 some of our leading minds dwelling (often to their prejudice) on such empty nonsense.

  [C] I would certainly like to have seen with my own eyes these two marvels: the book of the abbot Joachim of Calabria who predicted all the future popes with their names and styles; and that of the Emperor Leo who predicted all the Emperors and patriarchs of Greece14… But with my own eyes I have verified the following: that when men are stunned by their fate in our civil disturbances, they have resorted to almost any superstition, including seeking in the heavens for ancient portents and causes for their ills. In this they have been so strangely successful in my days that they have convinced me that (since this way of passing time is for acute yet idle minds) those who have been inducted into the subtle art of unwrapping portents and unknotting them would be able to find anything they wish in any piece of writing whatsoever: but their game is particularly favoured by the obscure, ambiguous, fantastical jargon of these prophecies, the authors of which never supply any clear meaning themselves so that posterity can give them any meaning it chooses.

  [B] The daemon of Socrates was [C] perhaps [B] a certain thrust of the will which presented itself to him without waiting for rational argument.15 It is likely that in a soul like his (well purified and prepared by the continual exercise of wisdom and virtue) such inclinations, albeit [C] bold and undigested, were nevertheless important and worthy to be followed. Everyone can sense in himself some ghost of such agitations, of a prompt, vehement, fortuitous opinion. It is open to me to allow them some authority, to me who allow little enough to human wisdom. And I have had some – equally weak in reason yet violent in persuasion or dissuasion but which were more common in the case of Socrates16 – [B] by which I have allowed myself to be carried away so usefully and so successfully, that they could have been judged to contain something of divine inspiration.17

  12. On constancy

  [Constancy is a Stoic virtue, but even Stoics have to confess that a Sage can be startled. Like Rabelais before him, Montaigne considers the limits of Stoic doctrine – basing himself partly on his own experience in the Wars of Religion.]

  [A] Resolution and constancy do not lay down as a law that we may not protect ourselves, as far as it lies in our power to do so, from the ills and misfortunes which threaten us, nor consequently that we should not fear that they may surprise us. On the contrary, all honourable means of protecting oneself from evils are not only licit: they are laudable. The role played by constancy consists chiefly in patiently bearing1 misfortunes for which there is no remedy. Likewise there are no evasive movements of the body and no defensive actions with any weapons in our hands which we judge wrong if they serve to protect us from the blows raining down on us.

  [C] Many highly warlike nations included flight as one of their main tactical resources: when they turned their backs that was more risky to the enemy than when they showed their faces. The Turks still retain this to some extent.

  In Plato Socrates mocked Laches for defining fortitude as ‘standing firm in line in the face of the enemy’. ‘What,’ he said, ‘would it be cowardice to defeat them by giving ground?’ And he cited Homer who praised Aeneas for knowing when to flee. And once Laches had corrected himself and allowed that the Scythians did use that method as do cavalrymen in general, he then went on to cite the example of those foot-soldiers of Sparta, a nation trained above all to stand their ground: during the battle of Plataea they found that they could not penetrate the Persian phalanx and so decided to disengage and fall back in order that it should be thought that they were in full flight; that would lead to the breaking up of the Persians’ dense formation which would fall apart as it pursued them. By which means they obtained the victory.2

  While on the subject of the Scythians, it is said that after Darius had set out to subjugate them, he sent many reproaches to their king when he saw him always withdrawing a
nd avoiding battle. To this Indathyrsez (for that was the king’s name) replied that he was not afraid of him nor of any man alive, but that this was the practice of his people, since they possessed no arable lands, no towns and no houses to defend for fear that an enemy might make use of them: but if Darius really was yearning to sink his teeth into a battle, then let him try to get near to their ancient burial grounds: he would find somebody to talk to there!3

  [A] Nevertheless once a man’s post is the target of cannon-fire (as the chances of war often require it to be) it is unbecoming for him to waver before the threatening cannon-balls, all the more so since we hold that they have such speed and such impetus that you cannot take evasive action. There are many cases of soldiers at least providing their comrades with a good laugh by shielding behind their arms or ducking their heads.

  Yet in the expedition which the Emperor Charles V led against us in Provence, when the Marquis de Guast went to reconnoitre the city of Arles and suddenly appeared from behind a windmill under cover of which he had made his advance, he was spotted by the Seigneur de Bonneval and the Lord Seneschal d’Agenois who were strolling along the top of the amphitheatre. They pointed him out to the Seigneur de Villier, Master of the Ordnance, who aimed a culverin so accurately that if the Marquis had not seen the match applied to the fuse and jumped aside it was thought he would have been struck in the body.4 Similarly a few years before, when Lorenzo de’ Medici, the Duke of Urbino and the father of our Queen Mother, was laying siege to Mondolfo (a fortress in Italy in the territory they call the Vicariate) he saw the fire applied to a cannon which was pointing right at him and ducked; luckily for him, for otherwise the shot, which only grazed the top of his head, would have certainly struck him in the chest.5

  To tell the truth I do not believe that such movements arise from reflexion: for in so sudden a matter how can you judge whether the aim is high or low? It is far easier to believe that fortune looked favourably on their fear but that another time they might have jumped into the path of the shot not out of it.

  [B] Personally I cannot stop myself from trembling if the shattering sound of a harquebus suddenly strikes my ear in a place where I could not have expected it; I have seen that happen to more valorous men than I am. [C] Not even the Stoics claim that their sage can resist visual stimuli or ideas when they first come upon him; they concede that it is, rather, part of man’s natural condition that he should react to a loud noise in the heavens or to the collapse of a building by growing tense and even pale. So too for all other emotions, provided that his thoughts remain sound and secure, that the seat of his reason suffer no impediment or change of any sort, and that he in no wise give his assent to his fright or pain. As for anyone who is not a sage, the first part applies to him but not the second. For in his case the impress of the emotions does not remain on the surface but penetrates through to the seat of his reason, infecting and corrupting it: he judges by his emotions and acts in conformity with them.

  The state of the Stoic sage is fully and elegantly seen in the following:

  Mens immota manet, lachrimae volvuntur inanes.

  [His mind remains unmoved: empty tears do flow.]

  The Aristotelian sage is not exempt from the emotions: he moderates them.6

  13. Ceremonial at the meeting of kings

  [Here Montaigne still considers his Essays as a ‘rhapsodie’ (that is, a ‘confused medley’ of disparate pieces strung together). His term also suggests that there is an element of extravagant irrationality involved in his work.]

  [A] No topic is so vain that it does not deserve a place in this confused medley of mine.

  Our normal rules lay down that it would be a marked discourtesy towards an equal and even more so towards the great if we were to fail to be at home after he has warned that he must pay us a visit. Indeed Queen Margaret of Navarre asserts in this connection that it would be impolite for a nobleman to leave his house even (as is frequently done) to go and meet the person who is paying the visit, no matter how great he may be – since it is more civil and more respectful to wait to receive him when he does arrive – if for no other reason, for fear of mistaking the road he will come by: it suffices that we accompany him when he takes his leave.

  [B] Personally I often neglect both these vain obligations: in my home I have cut out all formalities. Does anyone take offence? What of it? It is better that I offend him once than myself all the time – that would amount to servitude for life! What is the use in fleeing from the slavery of the Court if we then go and drag it back to our lairs?

  [A] The normal rule governing all our interviews is that it behoves the lesser to arrive at the appointment first, since it is the privilege of the more prominent to keep others waiting. Yet at the meeting arranged between Pope Clement and King Francis at Marseilles, the King first made all necessary arrangements and then withdrew from the town, allowing the Pope two or three days to effect his entry and to rest before he then returned to find him.1

  It was the same at the entry of Pope and Emperor into Bologna: the Emperor made arrangements for the Pope to be there first, himself arriving afterwards.2

  It is said to be the normal courtesy when princes such as these arrange a conference that the greatest should arrive at the appointed place before all the others, and especially before the one on whose territory the meeting takes place. We incline to explain this as a way of showing that it is the greater whom the lesser are coming to visit: they call on him, not he on them.

  [C] Not only does every country have its own peculiar forms of politeness but so does every city and every profession. From childhood I was quite carefully trained in etiquette and I have always lived in sufficiently good company not to be ignorant of the rules of our French variety: I could even teach it. I like to keep to those rules, but not so abjectly as to constrict my daily life. Some forms of politeness are bothersome; provided they are omitted with discretion and not out of ignorance, there is no loss of elegance. I have often seen men rude from an excess of politeness, men boring you with courtesies.

  Nevertheless to know how to be elegantly at ease with people is a useful accomplishment: like grace and beauty, it encourages the hesitant beginnings of fellowship and intimacy; as a result it opens the way to our learning from the examples of others and to ourselves providing and showing an example, if it is worth noting and passing on.

  14. That the taste of good and evil things depends in large part on the opinion we have of them

  [The [A] text of this chapter (in which Montaigne reflects on standard philosophical arguments, especially Stoic paradoxes on pain and death) seems to date from about 1572. Later additions make it more personal and, after his own experience of pain and distress, weaken the force of the Classical commonplaces. Already in germ here are arguments developed in ‘An apology for Raymond Sebond’ and the final chapter, ‘On experience’. The moral concerns are restricted to the domain of philosophy, a domain in which revealed religion properly has no part to play.]

  [A] There is an old Greek saying that men are tormented not by things themselves but by what they think about them.1 If that assertion could be proved to be always true everywhere it would be an important point gained for the comforting of our wretched human condition. For if ills can only enter us through our judgement it would seem to be in our power either to despise them or to deflect them towards the good: if the things actually do throw themselves on our mercy why do we not act as their masters and accommodate them to our advantage? If what we call evil or torment are only evil or torment insofar as our mental apprehension endows them with those qualities then it lies within our power to change those qualities. And if we did have such a choice and were free from constraint we would be curiously mad to pull in the direction which hurts us most, endowing sickness, poverty or insolence with a bad and bitter taste when we could give them a pleasant one, Fortune simply furnishing us with the matter and leaving it to us to supply the form. Let us see whether a case can be made for what we call evil not
being an evil in itself or (since it amounts to the same) whether at least it is up to us to endow it with a different savour and aspect.

  If the original essence of the thing which we fear could confidently lodge itself within us by its own authority it would be the same in all men. For all men are of the same species and, in varying degrees, are all furnished with the same conceptual tools and instruments of judgement. But the diversity of the opinion which we have of such things clearly shows that they enter us only by means of compromises: one man in a thousand may perhaps lodge them within himself in their true essence, but when the others do so they endow them with a new and contrary essence.

  Our main enemies are held to be death, poverty and pain. Yet everyone knows that death, called the dreadest of all dreadful things, is by others called the only haven from life’s torments, our natural sovereign good, the only guarantor of our freedom, the common and ready cure of all our ills;2 some await it trembling and afraid: others [C] bear it more easily than life.3 [B] One man complains that death is too available:4

  Mors, utinam pavidos vita subducere nolles,

  Sed virtus te sola daret.

  [O Death! Would that thou didst scorn to steal the coward’s life; would that only bravery could win thee.]

  But leaving aside such boasting valour, Theodorus replied to Lysimachus who was threatening to kill him, ‘Quite an achievement, that, matching the force of a poisonous fly!’5 We find that most of the philosophers either deliberately went to meet death or else hastened and helped it along. [A] And how many of the common people6 can we see, led forth not merely to die but to die a death mixed with disgrace and grievous torments, yet showing such assurance (some out of stubbornness, others from a natural simplicity) that we may perceive no change in their normal behaviour: they settle their family affairs and commend themselves to those they love, singing their hymns, preaching and addressing the crowd – indeed even including a few jests and drinking the health of their acquaintances every bit as well as Socrates did. When one man was being led to the gallows he asked not to be taken through such-and-such a street: there was a tradesman there who might arrest him for an old debt! Another asked the executioner not to touch his throat: he was ticklish and did not want to burst out laughing! When the confessor promised another man that he would sup that day at table with Our Lord, he said, ‘You go instead: I’m on a fast.’ Yet another asked for a drink; when the executioner drank of it first, he declined to drink after him – ‘for fear of the pox’! And everybody knows that tale of the man of Picardy who was on the scaffold when they showed him a young woman who was prepared to marry him to save his life (as our laws sometimes allow): he gazed at her, noticed that she had a limp, and said, ‘Run up the noose: she’s lame!’ A similar story is told of a man in Denmark, who was condemned to be beheaded: they offered him similar terms, but he refused the young woman they brought because she had sagging jowls and a pointed nose.7 In Toulouse when a man-servant was accused of heresy, the only justification he would give for his belief was to refer to that of his master, a young undergraduate who was in gaol with him: he preferred to die rather than accept that his master could be mistaken. When King Louis XI took Arras, many of the citizens let themselves be hanged rather than cry ‘Long live the King.’8