Essays of Michel de Montaigne - 098

importance: my fortune has not trained them up to so potent and elevated
conclusions. Truly, I have not only a great many humours, but also a
great many opinions, that I would endeavour to make my son dislike, if I
had one. What, if the truest are not always the most commodious to man,
being of so wild a composition?
Whether it be to the purpose or not, tis no great matter: ‘tis a common
proverb in Italy, that he knows not Venus in her perfect sweetness who
has never lain with a lame mistress. Fortune, or some particular
incident, long ago put this saying into the mouths of the people; and the
same is said of men as well as of women; for the queen of the Amazons
answered the Scythian who courted her to love, “Lame men perform best.”
In this feminine republic, to evade the dominion of the males, they
lamed them in their infancy--arms, legs, and other members that gave them
advantage over them, and only made use of them in that wherein we, in
these parts of the world, make use of them. I should have been apt to
think; that the shuffling pace of the lame mistress added some new
pleasure to the work, and some extraordinary titillation to those who
were at the sport; but I have lately learnt that ancient philosophy has
itself determined it, which says that the legs and thighs of lame women,
not receiving, by reason of their imperfection, their due aliment, it
falls out that the genital parts above are fuller and better supplied and
much more vigorous; or else that this defect, hindering exercise, they
who are troubled with it less dissipate their strength, and come more
entire to the sports of Venus; which also is the reason why the Greeks
decried the women-weavers as being more hot than other women by reason of
their sedentary trade, which they carry on without any great exercise of
the body. What is it we may not reason of at this rate? I might also
say of these, that the jaggling about whilst so sitting at work, rouses
and provokes their desire, as the swinging and jolting of coaches does
that of our ladies.
Do not these examples serve to make good what I said at first: that our
reasons often anticipate the effect, and have so infinite an extent of
jurisdiction that they judge and exercise themselves even on inanity
itself and non-existency? Besides the flexibility of our invention to
forge reasons of all sorts of dreams, our imagination is equally facile
to receive impressions of falsity by very frivolous appearances; for, by
the sole authority of the ancient and common use of this proverb, I have
formerly made myself believe that I have had more pleasure in a woman by
reason she was not straight, and accordingly reckoned that deformity
amongst her graces.
Torquato Tasso, in the comparison he makes betwixt France and Italy,
says that he has observed that our legs are generally smaller than those
of the Italian gentlemen, and attributes the cause of it to our being
continually on horseback; which is the very same cause from which
Suetonius draws a quite opposite conclusion; for he says, on the
contrary, that Germanicus had made his legs bigger by the continuation of
the same exercise.
Nothing is so supple and erratic as our understanding; it is the shoe of
Theramenes, fit for all feet. It is double and diverse, and the matters
are double and diverse too. “Give me a drachm of silver,” said a Cynic
philosopher to Antigonus. “That is not a present befitting a king,”
replied he. “Give me then a talent,” said the other. “That is not a
present befitting a Cynic.”
“Seu plures calor ille vias et caeca relaxat
Spiramenta, novas veniat qua succus in herbas
Seu durat magis, et venas astringit hiantes;
Ne tenues pluviae, rapidive potentia colic
Acrior, aut Boreae penetrabile frigus adurat.”
[“Whether the heat opens more passages and secret pores through
which the sap may be derived into the new-born herbs; or whether it
rather hardens and binds the gaping veins that the small showers and
keen influence of the violent sun or penetrating cold of Boreas may
not hurt them.”--Virg., Georg., i. 89.]
“Ogni medaglia ha il suo rovescio.”
[“Every medal has its reverse.”--Italian Proverb.]
This is the reason why Clitomachus said of old that Carneades had outdone
the labours of Hercules, in having eradicated consent from men, that is
to say, opinion and the courage of judging. This so vigorous fancy of
Carneades sprang, in my opinion, anciently from the impudence of those
who made profession of knowledge and their immeasurable self-conceit.
AEsop was set to sale with two other slaves; the buyer asked the first of
these what he could do; he, to enhance his own value, promised mountains
and marvels, saying he could do this and that, and I know not what; the
second said as much of himself or more: when it came to AEsop’s turn, and
that he was also asked what he could do; “Nothing,” said he, “for these
two have taken up all before me; they know everything.” So has it
happened in the school of philosophy: the pride of those who attributed
the capacity of all things to the human mind created in others, out of
despite and emulation, this opinion, that it is capable of nothing: the
one maintain the same extreme in ignorance that the others do in
knowledge; to make it undeniably manifest that man is immoderate
throughout, and can never stop but of necessity and the want of ability
to proceed further.


CHAPTER XII
OF PHYSIOGNOMY
Almost all the opinions we have are taken on authority and trust; and
‘tis not amiss; we could not choose worse than by ourselves in so weak an
age. That image of Socrates’ discourses, which his friends have
transmitted to us, we approve upon no other account than a reverence to
public sanction: ‘tis not according to our own knowledge; they are not
after our way; if anything of the kind should spring up now, few men
would value them. We discern no graces that are not pointed and puffed
out and inflated by art; such as glide on in their own purity and
simplicity easily escape so gross a sight as ours; they have a delicate
and concealed beauty, such as requires a clear and purified sight to
discover its secret light. Is not simplicity, as we take it,
cousin-german to folly and a quality of reproach? Socrates makes his
soul move a natural and common motion: a peasant said this; a woman said
that; he has never anybody in his mouth but carters, joiners, cobblers,
and masons; his are inductions and similitudes drawn from the most common
and known actions of men; every one understands him. We should never
have recognised the nobility and splendour of his admirable conceptions
under so mean a form; we, who think all things low and flat that are not
elevated, by learned doctrine, and who discern no riches but in pomp and
show. This world of ours is only formed for ostentation: men are only
puffed up with wind, and are bandied to and fro like tennis-balls. He
proposed to himself no vain and idle fancies; his design was to furnish
us with precepts and things that more really and fitly serve to the use
of life;
“Servare modum, finemque tenere,
Naturamque sequi.”
[“To keep a just mean, to observe a just limit,
and to follow Nature.”--Lucan, ii. 381.]
He was also always one and the same, and raised himself, not by starts
but by complexion, to the highest pitch of vigour; or, to say better,
mounted not at all, but rather brought down, reduced, and subjected all
asperities and difficulties to his original and natural condition; for in
Cato ‘tis most manifest that ‘tis a procedure extended far beyond the
common ways of men: in the brave exploits of his life, and in his death,
we find him always mounted upon the great horse; whereas the other ever
creeps upon the ground, and with a gentle and ordinary pace, treats of
the most useful matters, and bears himself, both at his death and in the
rudest difficulties that could present themselves, in the ordinary way of
human life.
It has fallen out well that the man most worthy to be known and to be
presented to the world for example should be he of whom we have the most
certain knowledge; he has been pried into by the most clear-sighted men
that ever were; the testimonies we have of him are admirable both in
fidelity and fulness. ‘Tis a great thing that he was able so to order
the pure imaginations of a child, that, without altering or wresting
them, he thereby produced the most beautiful effects of our soul: he
presents it neither elevated nor rich; he only represents it sound, but
assuredly with a brisk and full health. By these common and natural
springs, by these ordinary and popular fancies, without being moved or
put out, he set up not only the most regular, but the most high and
vigorous beliefs, actions, and manners that ever were. ‘Tis he who
brought again from heaven, where she lost her time, human wisdom, to
restore her to man with whom her most just and greatest business lies.
See him plead before his judges; observe by what reasons he rouses his
courage to the hazards of war; with what arguments he fortifies his
patience against calumny, tyranny, death, and the perverseness of his
wife: you will find nothing in all this borrowed from arts and sciences:
the simplest may there discover their own means and strength; ‘tis not
possible more to retire or to creep more low. He has done human nature a
great kindness in showing it how much it can do of itself.
We are all of us richer than we think we are; but we are taught to borrow
and to beg, and brought up more to make use of what is another’s than of
our own. Man can in nothing fix himself to his actual necessity: of
pleasure, wealth, and power, he grasps at more than he can hold; his
greediness is incapable of moderation. And I find that in curiosity of
knowing he is the same; he cuts himself out more work than he can do, and
more than he needs to do: extending the utility of knowledge to the full
of its matter:
“Ut omnium rerum, sic litterarum quoque, intemperantia laboramus.”
[“We carry intemperance into the study of literature, as well as
into everything else.”--Seneca, Ep., 106.]
And Tacitus had reason to commend the mother of Agricola for having
restrained her son in his too violent appetite for learning.
Tis a good, if duly considered, which has in it, as the other goods of
men have, a great deal of vanity and weakness, proper and natural to
itself, and that costs very dear. Its acquisition is far more hazardous
than that of all other meat or drink; for, as to other things, what we
have bought we carry home in some vessel, and there have full leisure to
examine our purchase, how much we shall eat or drink of it, and when: but
sciences we can, at the very first, stow into no other vessel than the
soul; we swallow them in buying, and return from the market, either
already infected or amended: there are some that only burden and
overcharge the stomach, instead of nourishing; and, moreover, some that,
under colour of curing, poison us. I have been pleased, in places where
I have been, to see men in devotion vow ignorance as well as chastity,
poverty, and penitence: ‘tis also a gelding of our unruly appetites, to
blunt this cupidity that spurs us on to the study of books, and to
deprive the soul of this voluptuous complacency that tickles us with the
opinion of knowledge: and ‘tis plenarily to accomplish the vow of
poverty, to add unto it that of the mind. We need little doctrine to
live at our ease; and Socrates teaches us that this is in us, and the way
how to find it, and the manner how to use it: All our sufficiency which
exceeds the natural is well-nigh superfluous and vain: ‘tis much if it
does not rather burden and cumber us than do us good:
“Paucis opus est literis ad mentem bonam:”
[“Little learning is needed to form a sound mind.”
--Seneca, Ep., 106.]
‘tis a feverish excess of the mind; a tempestuous and unquiet instrument.
Do but recollect yourself, and you will find in yourself natural
arguments against death, true, and the fittest to serve you in time of
necessity: ‘tis they that make a peasant, and whole nations, die with as
much firmness as a philosopher. Should I have died less cheerfully
before I had read Cicero’s Tusculan Quastiones? I believe not; and when
I find myself at the best, I perceive that my tongue is enriched indeed,
but my courage little or nothing elevated by them; that is just as nature
framed it at first, and defends itself against the conflict only after a
natural and ordinary way. Books have not so much served me for
instruction as exercise. What if knowledge, trying to arm us with new
defences against natural inconveniences, has more imprinted in our
fancies their weight and greatness, than her reasons and subtleties to
secure us from them? They are subtleties, indeed, with which she often
alarms us to little purpose. Do but observe how many slight and
frivolous, and, if nearly examined, incorporeal arguments, the closest
and wisest authors scatter about one good one: they are but verbal quirks
and fallacies to amuse and gull us: but forasmuch as it may be with some
profit, I will sift them no further; many of that sort are here and there
dispersed up and down this book, either borrowed or by imitation.
Therefore one ought to take a little heed not to call that force which is
only a pretty knack of writing, and that solid which is only sharp, or
that good which is only fine:
“Quae magis gustata quam potata, delectant,”
[“Which more delight in the tasting than in being drunk.”
--Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., v. 5.]
everything that pleases does not nourish:
“Ubi non ingenii, sed animi negotium agitur.”
[“Where the question is not about the wit, but about the soul.”
--Seneca, Ep., 75.]
To see the trouble that Seneca gives himself to fortify himself against
death; to see him so sweat and pant to harden and encourage himself, and
bustle so long upon this perch, would have lessened his reputation with
me, had he not very bravely held himself at the last. His so ardent and
frequent agitations discover that he was in himself impetuous and
passionate,
“Magnus animus remissius loquitur, et securius . . .
non est alius ingenio, alius ammo color;”
[“A great courage speaks more calmly and more securely. There is
not one complexion for the wit and another for the mind.”
--Seneca, Ep. 114, 115]
he must be convinced at his own expense; and he in some sort discovers
that he was hard pressed by his enemy. Plutarch’s way, by how much it is
more disdainful and farther stretched, is, in my opinion, so much more
manly and persuasive: and I am apt to believe that his soul had more
assured and more regular motions. The one more sharp, pricks and makes
us start, and more touches the soul; the other more constantly solid,
forms, establishes, and supports us, and more touches the understanding.
That ravishes the judgment, this wins it. I have likewise seen other
writings, yet more reverenced than these, that in the representation of
the conflict they maintain against the temptations of the flesh, paint
them, so sharp, so powerful and invincible, that we ourselves, who are of
the common herd, are as much to wonder at the strangeness and unknown
force of their temptation, as at the resisting it.
To what end do we so arm ourselves with this harness of science? Let us
look down upon the poor people that we see scattered upon the face of the
earth, prone and intent upon their business, that neither know Aristotle
nor Cato, example nor precept; from these nature every day extracts
effects of constancy and patience, more pure and manly than those we so
inquisitively study in the schools: how many do I ordinarily see who
slight poverty? how many who desire to die, or who die without alarm or
regret? He who is now digging in my garden, has this morning buried his
father or his son. The very names by which they call diseases sweeten
and mollify the sharpness of them: the phthisic is with them no more than
a cough, dysentery but a looseness, the pleurisy but a stitch; and, as
they gently name them, so they patiently endure them; they are very great
and grievous indeed when they hinder their ordinary labour; they never
keep their beds but to die:
“Simplex illa et aperta virtus in obscuram et solertem
scientiam versa est.”
[“That overt and simple virtue is converted into an obscure and
subtle science.”--Seneca, Ep., 95.]
I was writing this about the time when a great load of our intestine
troubles for several months lay with all its weight upon me; I had the
enemy at my door on one side, and the freebooters, worse enemies, on the
other,
“Non armis, sed vitiis, certatur;”
[“The fight is not with arms, but with vices.”--Seneca, Ep. 95.]
and underwent all sorts of military injuries at once:
“Hostis adest dextra laevaque a parte timendus.
Vicinoque malo terret utrumque latus.”
[“Right and left a formidable enemy is to be feared, and threatens
me on both sides with impending danger.”--Ovid, De Ponto, i. 3, 57.]
A monstrous war! Other wars are bent against strangers, this against
itself, destroying itself with its own poison. It is of so malignant and
ruinous a nature, that it ruins itself with the rest; and with its own
rage mangles and tears itself to pieces. We more often see it dissolve
of itself than through scarcity of any necessary thing or by force of the
enemy. All discipline evades it; it comes to compose sedition, and is
itself full of it; would chastise disobedience, and itself is the
example; and, employed for the defence of the laws, rebels against its
own. What a condition are we in! Our physic makes us sick!
“Nostre mal s’empoisonne
Du secours qu’on luy donne.”
“Exuperat magis, aegrescitque medendo.”
[“Our disease is poisoned with its very remedies”--AEnead, xii. 46.]
“Omnia fanda, nefanda, malo permista furore,
Justificam nobis mentem avertere deorum.”
[“Right and wrong, all shuffled together in this wicked fury, have
deprived us of the gods’ protection.”
--Catullus, De Nuptiis Pelei et Thetidos, V. 405.]
In the beginning of these popular maladies, one may distinguish the sound
from the sick; but when they come to continue, as ours have done, the
whole body is then infected from head to foot; no part is free from
corruption, for there is no air that men so greedily draw in that
diffuses itself so soon and that penetrates so deep as that of licence.
Our armies only subsist and are kept together by the cement of
foreigners; for of Frenchmen there is now no constant and regular army to
be made. What a shame it is! there is no longer any discipline but what
we see in the mercenary soldiers. As to ourselves, our conduct is at
discretion, and that not of the chief, but every one at his own. The
general has a harder game to play within than he has without; he it is
who has to follow, to court the soldiers, to give way to them; he alone
has to obey: all the rest if disolution and free licence. It pleases me
to observe how much pusillanimity and cowardice there is in ambition; by
how abject and servile ways it must arrive at its end; but it displeases
me to see good and generous natures, and that are capable of justice,
every day corrupted in the management and command of this confusion.
Long toleration begets habit; habit, consent and imitation. We had
ill-formed souls enough, without spoiling those that were generous and
good; so that, if we hold on, there will scarcely remain any with whom to
intrust the health of this State of ours, in case fortune chance to
restore it:
“Hunc saltem everso juvenem succurrere seclo,
Ne prohibete.”
[“Forbid not, at least, that this young man repair this ruined age.”
--Virgil, Georg., i. 500. Montaigne probably refers to Henry, king
of Navarre, afterwards Henry IV.]
What has become of the old precept, “That soldiers ought more to fear
their chief than the enemy”?--[Valerius Maximus, Ext. 2.]--and of that
wonderful example, that an orchard being enclosed within the precincts of
a camp of the Roman army, was seen at their dislodgment the next day in
the same condition, not an apple, though ripe and delicious, being pulled
off, but all left to the possessor? I could wish that our youth, instead
of the time they spend in less fruitful travels and less honourable
employments, would bestow one half of that time in being an eye-witness
of naval exploits, under some good captain of Rhodes, and the other half
in observing the discipline of the Turkish armies; for they have many
differences and advantages over ours; one of these is, that our soldiers
become more licentious in expeditions, theirs more temperate and
circumspect; for the thefts and insolencies committed upon the common
people, which are only punished with a cudgel in peace, are capital in
war; for an egg taken by a Turkish soldier without paying for it, fifty
blows with a stick is the fixed rate; for anything else, of what sort or
how trivial soever, not necessary to nourishment, they are presently
impaled or beheaded without mercy. I am astonished, in the history of
Selim, the most cruel conqueror that ever was, to see that when he
subdued Egypt, the beautiful gardens about Damascus being all open, and
in a conquered land, and his army encamped upon the very place, should be
left untouched by the hands of the soldiers, by reason they had not
received the signal of pillage.
But is there any disease in a government that it is worth while to physic
with such a mortal drug?--[i.e. as civil war.]--No, said Favonius, not
even the tyrannical usurpation of a Commonwealth. Plato, likewise, will
not consent that a man should violate the peace of his country in order
to cure it, and by no means approves of a reformation that disturbs and
hazards all, and that is to be purchased at the price of the citizens’
blood and ruin; determining it to be the duty of a good patriot in such a
case to let it alone, and only to pray to God for his extraordinary
assistance: and he seems to be angry with his great friend Dion, for
having proceeded somewhat after another manner. I was a Platonist in
this point before I knew there had ever been such a man as Plato in the
world. And if this person ought absolutely to be rejected from our
society (he who by the sincerity of his conscience merited from the
divine favour to penetrate so far into the Christian light, through the
universal darkness wherein the world was involved in his time), I do not
think it becomes us to suffer ourselves to be instructed by a heathen,
how great an impiety it is not to expect from God any relief simply his
own and without our co-operation. I often doubt, whether amongst so many
men as meddle in such affairs, there is not to be found some one of so
weak understanding as to have been really persuaded that he went towards
reformation by the worst of deformations; and advanced towards salvation
by the most express causes that we have of most assured damnation; that
by overthrowing government, the magistracy, and the laws, in whose
protection God has placed him, by dismembering his good mother, and
giving her limbs to be mangled by her old enemies, filling fraternal
hearts with parricidal hatreds, calling devils and furies to his aid, he
can assist the most holy sweetness and justice of the divine law.
Ambition, avarice, cruelty, and revenge have not sufficient natural
impetuosity of their own; let us bait them with the glorious titles of
justice and devotion. There cannot a worse state of things be imagined
than where wickedness comes to be legitimate, and assumes, with the
magistrates’ permission, the cloak of virtue:
“Nihil in speciem fallacius, quam prava religio,
ubi deorum numen prxtenditur sceleribus.”
[“Nothing has a more deceiving face than false religion, where the
divinity of the gods is obscured by crimes.”--Livy, xxxix. 16.]
The extremest sort of injustice, according to Plato, is where that which
is unjust should be reputed for just.
The common people then suffered very much, and not present damage only:
“Undique totis
Usque adeo turbatur agris,”
[“Such great disorders overtake our fields on every side.”
--Virgil, Eclog., i. II.]
but future too; the living were to suffer, and so were they who were yet
unborn; they stript them, and consequently myself, even of hope, taking
from them all they had laid up in store to live on for many years:
“Quae nequeunt secum ferre aut abducere, perdunt;
Et cremat insontes turba scelesta casas . . .
Muris nulla fides, squalent populatibus agri.”
[“What they cannot bear away, they spoil; and the wicked mob burn
harmless houses; walls cannot secure their masters, and the fields
are squalid with devastation.”
--Ovid, Trist., iii. 10, 35; Claudianus, In Eutyop., i. 244.]
Besides this shock, I suffered others: I underwent the inconveniences
that moderation brings along with it in such a disease: I was robbed on
all hands; to the Ghibelline I was a Guelph, and to the Guelph a
Ghibelline; one of my poets expresses this very well, but I know not
where it is.
[“So Tories called me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.”--Pope, after Horace.]
The situation of my house, and my friendliness with my neighbours,
presented me with one face; my life and my actions with another. They
did not lay formal accusations to my charge, for they had no foundation
for so doing; I never hide my head from the laws, and whoever would have
questioned me, would have done himself a greater prejudice than me; they
were only mute suspicions that were whispered about, which never want
appearance in so confused a mixture, no more than envious or idle heads.
I commonly myself lend a hand to injurious presumptions that fortune
scatters abroad against me, by a way I have ever had of evading to
justify, excuse, or explain myself; conceiving that it were to compromise
my conscience to plead in its behalf:
“Perspicuitas enim argumentatione elevatur;”
[“For perspicuity is lessened by argument.”
(“The clearness of a cause is clouded by argumentation.”)
--Cicero, De Nat. Deor., iii. 4.]
and, as if every one saw as clearly into me as I do myself, instead of
retiring from an accusation, I step up to meet it, and rather give it
some kind of colour by an ironical and scoffing confession, if I do not
sit totally mute, as of a thing not worth my answer. But such as look
upon this kind of behaviour of mine as too haughty a confidence, have as
little kindness for me as they who interpret the weakness of an
indefensible cause; namely, the great folks, towards whom want of
submission is the great fault, harsh towards all justice that knows and
feels itself, and is not submissive humble, and suppliant; I have often
knocked my head against this pillar. So it is that at what then befell
me, an ambitious man would have hanged himself, and a covetous man would
have done the same. I have no manner of care of getting;
“Si mihi, quod nunc est, etiam minus; et mihi vivam
Quod superest aevi, si quid superesse volent dii:”
[“If I may have what I now own, or even less, and may live for
myself what of life remains, if the gods grant me remaining years.”
--Horace, Ep., i. 18, 107.]
but the losses that befall me by the injury of others, whether by theft