7. On high rank as a disadvantage
[The kind of outspoken judgement on monarchs which seems to have brought Montaigne the respect of the future Henry IV.]
[B] Since we cannot attain it, let us get our own back by disparaging it! Not that you are disparaging anything in its entirety when you find defects in it: there are defects in all things, no matter how beautiful or desirable they may be.
In general high rank has one obvious advantage: it can lay itself aside whenever it wants to; it is virtually free to choose either condition. All forms of greatness are not brought low uniquely by a fall: some there are which allow you to stoop low without falling.
It does seem to me that we set too high a value on it, as we also do on the determination of those whom we have seen or heard refusing it or resigning it at their own volition. In its essence the advantage of it is not so self-evident that it takes a miracle to reject it.
What I find hard is striving to bear misfortune. There does not seem to be much involved in being content with a modest measure of wealth and avoiding greatness; that is a virtue which I think even I could reach without a great deal of exertion, and I am only a fledgling. So what must become possible for men who would put to their account as well the glory which accompanies such a rejection (in which there may be more ambition than in the actual possession of the desired greatness, since ambition is never acting more in accord with its nature than when it adopts some unusual road, somewhat off the beaten track).
I whet my mind to face endurance:1 I enfeeble it towards desire. I can wish as well as the next man and I allow great freedom and indiscretion to my wishes; yet I have never found myself wishing for imperial or royal rank nor for the prominence of those high destinies where men command. My aims do not tend that way: I love myself too much for that. When I think of growing in constancy or wisdom or health or beauty, or even wealth, it is in a modest way, with a timid constricted growth appropriate to myself; but my imagination is oppressed by great renown or mighty authority. Contrary to what was said by that other chap,2 I would rather be one whose lot was to be second or third in Périgueux than first in Paris – or at least, to tell no lie, third in Paris, rather than the one in charge. I want neither to be a wretched nobody arguing with doorkeepers nor one who causes crowds to part with awe as I pass through. By [C] lot [B] and also by taste3 I am accustomed to a middling rank. [C] In the conduct of my life and of anything I have undertaken, I have shown that I have fled rather than sought means of stepping above the degree of fortune in which God has placed me at birth. Anything established by Nature is as just as it is pleasant.
[B] I have a soul so lazy that I do not measure my fortune by its height: I measure it by its pleasantness. [C] But though I do not have all that great a mind, I do have one which is correspondingly open, one which orders me to dare to publish its weaknesses. You might ask me to compare two lives. The first is that of Lucius Thorius Balbus, a gentleman who was handsome, learned, healthy, intelligent and abounding in all sorts of talents and pleasures, leading a quiet existence which was entirely his own, with a soul fully armed against death, superstition, pain and the other burdens of our human distress, who finally died in battle, weapon in hand, in the defence of his country. The second is the life of Marcus Regulus, so great and sublime that we all know of it, with his death so worthy of admiration. One of those men was without rank or reputation; the other, amazingly glorious and exemplary. I would say of them the same as Cicero (if I could talk as well as he could).4 If I had to lay those lives against my own, I would say that the former is as much in harmony with my abilities (and with my desires, which I make to conform to my abilities) as the latter far outstrips them; I can only approach the latter with veneration; I could readily approach the other in actual practice.
Now let us get back to my starting point, temporal greatness.
[B] I dislike all domination, by me or over me. [C] Otanes, one of the Seven who had rightful claims to the throne of Persia, took a decision which I could well have taken myself. To his rivals he abandoned his rights to be elected or chosen by lot, on condition that he and his family could live in that empire free from all domination, and from all subordination except to those of the ancient laws, and should enjoy every freedom not prejudicial to those laws, since he found it intolerable both to give or to accept commands.5
[B] The harshest and most difficult job in the world, in my judgement, is worthily to act the king. I can excuse more shortcomings in kings than men commonly do, out of consideration for the horrifying weight of their office, which stuns me. It is difficult for such disproportionate power to act with a sense of proportion. Yet even for men of less outstanding character it is a singular incitement to virtue for them to be placed where you can do no good deed which is not noted and chronicled; where the slightest good action affects so many people and where your talents (like those of preachers) are mainly addressed to the populace – not an exacting judge, one easily duped and easily contented.
There are few matters on which we can give an unbiased judgement because there are few in which we do not have a private interest some way or other. Superior or inferior rank, the role of ruler or subject, are bound to each other by natural rivalry and competition: they need to be always pillaging each other. I never believe either’s case against its yoke-mate: let reason judge of it (when we can prevail upon her): she cannot be swayed and is exempt from passion. Less than a month ago I was turning over the pages of a couple of Scottish books on this subject; the people’s man makes the king’s position worse than a carter’s: the monarchist places him in sovereignty and power a few yards higher than God.6
Now the disadvantage of great rank (which I have taken as the subject of my remarks here since some event called it to my attention) is the following: nothing perhaps in the whole of our dealings with others is more pleasant than those assays which we make of each other as rivals for honour in physical sports and for esteem in those of the mind – and in which a sovereign can take no real part. It has often seemed true to me that the force of respect leads to our actually treating princes disdainfully and insultingly.
Something which infinitely annoyed me as a boy was when those who played sports against me dispensed themselves from making any serious attempt at beating me, finding me an opponent not worth the effort; princes see that happen every day, each partner finding himself unworthy of striving to beat him. Whenever anyone perceives that princes have the slightest desire to win, there is no partner who does not labour to see that they do so, preferring to betray his own glory rather than to attack theirs: we merely make just enough effort to enhance their reputation. What part can they play in a friendly skirmish if everyone in it is on their side? It recalls those paladins in days of yore who entered jousts and combats with enchanted bodies and weapons. When Brisson was racing against Alexander he merely pretended to run swiftly. Alexander did rebuke him for it, but he ought to have had him flogged.7
That is why Carneades said that the only thing which the sons of princes really learned properly was horsemanship, since in all other sports men yield to them and allow them to win whereas a horse is neither a flatterer nor a courtier: it will throw a king’s son as soon as a porter’s.8 Homer was compelled to allow Venus, so gentle and inviolable a deity, to be ever so lightly wounded at the siege of Troy so as to attribute boldness and courage to her, qualities which do not fall to the lot of those who are exempt from risk of harm.9 Gods are made to get angry, feel fear and flee, [C] to be jealous, [B] to lament and to feel passion, in order to honour them with virtues which among us humans are constructed from our imperfections.
Anyone who has no part in the danger and difficulty can make no claim to a share in the honour and delight which ensue upon the dangerous deed. It is pitiful to have such power that it results in everything giving way to you. Then your destiny removes you too far from the fellowship and companionship of men; you are stuck there, too remote. The unchallenging and facile ease with which you
can make everything bow down before you is the enemy of every sort of pleasure. That is not walking but gliding; not living, but sleeping. (Just imagine Man to be endowed with omnipotence: you throw him into an abyss; his being and his well-being are in dire necessity: he has to beg you of your charity for obstacles and opposition.)
Even such men’s good qualities are dead and gone, for qualities are known only by comparison, and such men are beyond compare; they have little knowledge of true praise, being battered by continual and uniform acclaim. Even if they are up against the most stupid of their subjects they have no way of showing they are better than he is; he only has to say, ‘I did that because he is my King, you see,’ and he then believes he has said enough to imply that he contributed to his own defeat.
This kingly quality stifles and annihilates their other qualities, their real ones which are of their essence: they lie buried under their royal state. That leaves them with no means of showing their worth except actions which directly touch upon their royal state or which contribute to it, namely the duties of their rank. Which means that such a one is so entirely a king that he has no other existence. That radiance which surrounds him is not him, but it hides and conceals him from us: the rays from our eyes strike against it and are scattered, being overwhelmed and arrested by the strong light.10 The Senate voted to award the prize for eloquence to Tiberius: he declined it, believing that, even if it were justified, he could take no pleasure in a verdict so unfreely reached.11
As we concede every advantage of honour to princes we confirm them in their defects and, not merely by our approval but by our imitation, we give warrant to their defects and their vices. All of Alexander’s courtiers used to twist their heads to one side as he did; those who flattered Dionysius used to bump into each other when he was present, stumbling against whatever was under their feet and knocking it over, to suggest that they were as short-sighted as he was. Even having a rupture has at times helped a man to advancement and favour! I have known men pretend to be deaf; and Plutarch knew courtiers who repudiated wives – wives whom they loved – because their lord hated his. Further still, lechery has been in fashion and every kind of licentiousness, as also have disloyalty, blasphemy, cruelty, as well as heresy and superstition, irreligion and decadence, and even worse things if worse there be, so providing thereby an example even more dangerous than that of Mithridates’ flatterers: their lord yearned to be honoured as a good doctor so they offered him their limbs to be cut open and cauterized; but that other lot allowed a nobler and more tender part to be cauterized: their soul.12
But to end where I began: when the Emperor Hadrian was discussing the meaning of a word with Favorinus the philosopher, Favorinus quickly let him win the argument. When his friends criticized him for it he replied, ‘You are joking! Would you want him to be less learned than I am? He is in command of thirty legions!’ After Augustus had written some verses against Asinius Pollio, Pollio said: ‘I am keeping my mouth shut. It is not wise to skirmish with him who can banish.’13 And he was right. For, as Dionysius could not equal Philoxenus in poetry or Plato in prose, he condemned one to the quarries and sent the other to the island of Aegina to be sold as a slave.14
8. On the art of conversation
[French children know that Pascal referred to Montaigne as ‘the incomparable author of “The art of conversation” ’. That has given this chapter a special place in French culture. It is further valued for the light it throws on to Montaigne’s character. The conversation in this chapter turns to Tacitus and shows us how Montaigne had conversations with himself about the books he was reading.]
[B] It is a custom of our justice to punish some as a warning to others. [C] For to punish them for having done wrong would, as Plato says, be stupid: what is done cannot be undone. The intention is to stop them from repeating the same mistake or to make others avoid their error.1 [B] We do not improve the man we hang: we improve others by him. I do the same. My defects are becoming natural and incorrigible, but as fine gentlemen serve the public as models to follow I may serve a turn as a model to avoid:
Nonne vides Albi ut male vivat filius, utque
Barrus inops? magnum documentum, ne patriam rem
Perdere quis velit
[You can see, can’t you, how wretchedly Albus’ son is living and how poor Barrus is? An excellent lesson in not squandering your inheritance.]2
The act of publishing and indicting my imperfections may teach someone how to fear them. (The talents which I most esteem in myself derive more [C] honour [B] from3 indicting me than praising me.) That is why I so often return to it and linger over it. Yet, when all has been said, you never talk about yourself without loss: condemn yourself and you are always believed: praise yourself and you never are.
There may be others of my complexion who learn better by counter-example than by example, by eschewing not pursuing. That was the sort of instruction which the Elder Cato was thinking of when he said that the wise have more to learn from the fools than the fools from the wise;4 as also that lyre-player in antiquity who, Pausanias says, used to require his students to go and listen to some performer who lived across the street so that they would learn to loathe discords and faulty rhythms.5 My horror of cruelty thrusts me deeper into clemency than any example of clemency ever could draw me. A good equerry does not make me sit up straight in the saddle as much as the sight of a lawyer or a Venetian out riding, and a bad use of language corrects my own better than a good one. Every day I am warned and counselled by the stupid deportment of someone. What hits you affects you and wakes you up more than what pleases you. We can only improve ourselves in times such as these by walking backwards, by discord not by harmony, by being different not by being like. Having myself learned little from good examples I use the bad ones, the text of which is routine. [C] I strove to be as agreeable as others were seen to be boring; as firm as others were flabby; as gentle as others were sharp. But I was setting myself unattainable standards.6
[B] To my taste the most fruitful and most natural exercise of our minds is conversation. I find the practice of it the most delightful activity in our lives. That is why, if I were now obliged to make the choice, I think I would rather lose my sight than my powers of speech or hearing. In their academies the Athenians, and even more the Romans, maintained this exercise in great honour. In our own times the Italians retain some vestiges of it – greatly to their benefit, as can be seen from a comparison of their intelligence and ours. Studying books has a languid feeble motion, whereas conversation provides teaching and exercise all at once. If I am sparring with a strong and solid opponent he will attack me on the flanks, stick his lance in me right and left; his ideas send mine soaring. Rivalry, competitiveness and glory will drive me and raise me above my own level. In conversation the most painful quality is perfect harmony.
Just as our mind is strengthened by contact with vigorous and well-ordered minds, so too it is impossible to overstate how much it loses and deteriorates by the continuous commerce and contact we have with mean and ailing ones. No infection is as contagious as that is. I know by experience what that costs by the ell. I love arguing and discussing, but with only a few men and for my own sake: for to serve as a spectacle to the great and indulge in a parade of your wits and your verbiage is, I consider, an unbecoming trade for an honourable gentleman.
Stupidity is a bad quality: but to be unable to put up with it, to be vexed and ground down by it (as happens to me) is another, hardly worse in its unmannerliness than stupidity. And that is what at present I wish to condemn in myself.
I embark upon discussion and argument with great ease and liberty. Since opinions do not find in me a ready soil to thrust and spread their roots into, no premise shocks me, no belief hurts me, no matter how opposite to my own they may be. There is no idea so frivolous or odd which does not appear to me to be fittingly produced by the mind of man. Those of us who deprive our judgement of the right to pass sentence look gently on strange opinions; we may not lend t
hem our approbation but we do readily lend them our ears. When one scale in the balance is quite empty I will let the other be swayed by an old woman’s dreams: so it seems pardonable if I choose the odd number rather than the even, or Thursday rather than Friday; if I prefer to be twelfth or fourteenth at table rather than thirteenth; if I prefer on my travels to see a hare skirting my path rather than crossing it, and offer my left foot to be booted before the right. All such lunacies (which are believed among us) at least deserve to be heard. For me they only outweigh an empty scale, but outweigh it they do. Similarly the weight of popular and unfounded opinions has a natural existence which is more than nothing. A man who will not go that far perhaps avoids the vice of superstition by falling into the vice of stubbornness.
So contradictory judgements neither offend me nor irritate me: they merely wake me up and provide me with exercise. We avoid being corrected: we ought to come forward and accept it, especially when it comes from conversation not a lecture. Whenever we meet opposition, we do not look to see if it is just but how we can get out of it, rightly or wrongly. Instead of welcoming arms we stretch out our claws. I can put up with being roughly handled by my friends: ‘You are an idiot! You are raving!’ Among gentlemen I like people to express themselves heartily, their words following wherever their thoughts lead. We ought to toughen and fortify our ears against being seduced by the sound of polite words. I like a strong, intimate, manly fellowship, the kind of friendship which rejoices in sharp vigorous exchanges just as love rejoices in bites and scratches which draw blood. [C] It is not strong enough nor magnanimous enough if it is not argumentative, if all is politeness and art; if it is afraid of clashes and walks hobbled. ‘Neque enim disputari sine reprehensione potest.’ [It is impossible to debate without refuting.]7
The Complete Essays Page 124
