Essays of Michel de Montaigne - 103

world proceeds quite the other way, and thinks nothing profitable that is
not painful; it has great suspicion of facility. My appetite, in various
things, has of its own accord happily enough accommodated itself to the
health of my stomach. Relish and pungency in sauces were pleasant to me
when young; my stomach disliking them since, my taste incontinently
followed. Wine is hurtful to sick people, and ‘tis the first thing that
my mouth then finds distasteful, and with an invincible dislike.
Whatever I take against my liking does me harm; and nothing hurts me that
I eat with appetite and delight. I never received harm by any action
that was very pleasant to me; and accordingly have made all medicinal
conclusions largely give way to my pleasure; and I have, when I was
young,
“Quem circumcursans huc atque huc saepe Cupido
Fulgebat crocink splendidus in tunic.”
[“When Cupid, fluttering round me here and there, shone in his rich
purple mantle.”--Catullus, lxvi. 133.]
given myself the rein as licentiously and inconsiderately to the desire
that was predominant in me, as any other whomsoever:
“Et militavi non sine gloria;”
[“And I have played the soldier not ingloriously.”
--Horace, Od., iii. 26, 2.]
yet more in continuation and holding out, than in sally:
“Sex me vix memini sustinuisse vices.”
[“I can scarcely remember six bouts in one night”
--Ovid, Amor., iii. 7, 26.]
‘Tis certainly a misfortune and a miracle at once to confess at what a
tender age I first came under the subjection of love: it was, indeed, by
chance; for it was long before the years of choice or knowledge; I do not
remember myself so far back; and my fortune may well be coupled with that
of Quartilla, who could not remember when she was a maid:
“Inde tragus, celeresque pili, mirandaque matri
Barba meae.”
[“Thence the odour of the arm-pits, the precocious hair, and the
beard which astonished my mother.”--Martial, xi. 22, 7.]
Physicians modify their rules according to the violent longings that
happen to sick persons, ordinarily with good success; this great desire
cannot be imagined so strange and vicious, but that nature must have a
hand in it. And then how easy a thing is it to satisfy the fancy? In my
opinion; this part wholly carries it, at least, above all the rest. The
most grievous and ordinary evils are those that fancy loads us with; this
Spanish saying pleases me in several aspects:
“Defenda me Dios de me.”
[“God defend me from myself.”]
I am sorry when I am sick, that I have not some longing that might give
me the pleasure of satisfying it; all the rules of physic would hardly be
able to divert me from it. I do the same when I am well; I can see very
little more to be hoped or wished for. ‘Twere pity a man should be so
weak and languishing, as not to have even wishing left to him.
The art of physic is not so fixed, that we need be without authority for
whatever we do; it changes according to climates and moons, according to
Fernel and to Scaliger.--[Physicians to Henry II.]--If your physician
does not think it good for you to sleep, to drink wine, or to eat such
and such meats, never trouble yourself; I will find you another that
shall not be of his opinion; the diversity of medical arguments and
opinions embraces all sorts and forms. I saw a miserable sick person
panting and burning for thirst, that he might be cured, who was
afterwards laughed at for his pains by another physician, who condemned
that advice as prejudicial to him: had he not tormented himself to good
purpose? There lately died of the stone a man of that profession, who
had made use of extreme abstinence to contend with his disease: his
fellow-physicians say that, on the contrary, this abstinence had dried
him up and baked the gravel in his kidneys.
I have observed, that both in wounds and sicknesses, speaking discomposes
and hurts me, as much as any irregularity I can commit. My voice pains
and tires me, for ‘tis loud and forced; so that when I have gone to a
whisper some great persons about affairs of consequence, they have often
desired me to moderate my voice.
This story is worth a diversion. Some one in a certain Greek school
speaking loud as I do, the master of the ceremonies sent to him to speak
softly: “Tell him, then, he must send me,” replied the other, “the tone
he would have me speak in.” To which the other replied, “That he should
take the tone from the ears of him to whom he spake.” It was well said,
if it is to be understood: “Speak according to the affair you are
speaking about to your auditor,” for if it mean, “‘tis sufficient that he
hear you, or govern yourself by him,” I do not find it to be reason. The
tone and motion of my voice carries with it a great deal of the
expression and signification of my meaning, and ‘tis I who am to govern
it, to make myself understood: there is a voice to instruct, a voice to
flatter, and a voice to reprehend. I will not only that my voice reach
him, but, peradventure, that it strike and pierce him. When I rate my
valet with sharp and bitter language, it would be very pretty for him to
say; “Pray, master, speak lower; I hear you very well”:
“Est quaedam vox ad auditum accommodata,
non magnitudine, sed proprietate.”
[“There is a certain voice accommodated to the hearing, not by its
loudness, but by its propriety.”--Quintilian, xi. 3.]
Speaking is half his who speaks, and half his who hears; the latter
ought to prepare himself to receive it, according to its bias; as with
tennis-players, he who receives the ball, shifts and prepares, according
as he sees him move who strikes the stroke, and according to the stroke
itself.
Experience has, moreover, taught me this, that we ruin ourselves by
impatience. Evils have their life and limits, their diseases and their
recovery.
The constitution of maladies is formed by the pattern of the constitution
of animals; they have their fortune and their days limited from their
birth; he who attempts imperiously to cut them short by force in the
middle of their course, lengthens and multiplies them, and incenses
instead of appeasing them. I am of Crantor’s opinion, that we are
neither obstinately and deafly to oppose evils, nor succumb to them from
want of courage; but that we are naturally to give way to them, according
to their condition and our own. We ought to grant free passage to
diseases; I find they stay less with me, who let them alone; and I have
lost some, reputed the most tenacious and obstinate, by their own decay,
without help and without art, and contrary to its rules. Let us a little
permit Nature to take her own way; she better understands her own affairs
than we. But such an one died of it; and so shall you: if not of that
disease, of another. And how many have not escaped dying, who have had
three physicians at their tails? Example is a vague and universal
mirror, and of various reflections. If it be a delicious medicine, take
it: ‘tis always so much present good. I will never stick at the name nor
the colour, if it be pleasant and grateful to the palate: pleasure is one
of the chiefest kinds of profit. I have suffered colds, gouty
defluxions, relaxations, palpitations of the heart, megrims, and other
accidents, to grow old and die in time a natural death. I have so lost
them when I was half fit to keep them: they are sooner prevailed upon by
courtesy than huffing. We must patiently suffer the laws of our
condition; we are born to grow old, to grow weak, and to be sick, in
despite of all medicine. ‘Tis the first lesson the Mexicans teach their
children; so soon as ever they are born they thus salute them: “Thou art
come into the world, child, to endure: endure, suffer, and say nothing.”
‘Tis injustice to lament that which has befallen any one which may befall
every one:
“Indignare, si quid in to inique proprio constitutum est.”
[“Then be angry, when there is anything unjustly decreed against
thee alone.”--Seneca, Ep., 91.]
See an old man who begs of God that he will maintain his health vigorous
and entire; that is to say, that he restore him to youth:
“Stulte, quid haec frustra votis puerilibus optas?”
[“Fool! why do you vainly form these puerile wishes?”
--Ovid., Trist., 111. 8, II.]
is it not folly? his condition is not capable of it. The gout, the
stone, and indigestion are symptoms of long years; as heat, rains, and
winds are of long journeys. Plato does not believe that AEsculapius
troubled himself to provide by regimen to prolong life in a weak and
wasted body, useless to his country and to his profession, or to beget
healthful and robust children; and does not think this care suitable to
the Divine justice and prudence, which is to direct all things to
utility. My good friend, your business is done; nobody can restore you;
they can, at the most, but patch you up, and prop you a little, and by
that means prolong your misery an hour or two:
“Non secus instantem cupiens fulcire ruinam,
Diversis contra nititur obiicibus;
Donec certa dies, omni compage soluta,
Ipsum cum rebus subruat auxilium.”
[“Like one who, desiring to stay an impending ruin, places various
props against it, till, in a short time, the house, the props, and
all, giving way, fall together.”--Pseudo-Gallus, i. 171.]
We must learn to suffer what we cannot evade; our life, like the harmony
of the world, is composed of contrary things--of diverse tones, sweet and
harsh, sharp and flat, sprightly and solemn: the musician who should only
affect some of these, what would he be able to do? he must know how to
make use of them all, and to mix them; and so we should mingle the goods
and evils which are consubstantial with our life; our being cannot
subsist without this mixture, and the one part is no less necessary to it
than the other. To attempt to combat natural necessity, is to represent
the folly of Ctesiphon, who undertook to kick with his mule.--[Plutarch,
How to restrain Anger, c. 8.]
I consult little about the alterations I feel: for these doctors take
advantage; when they have you at their mercy, they surfeit your ears with
their prognostics; and formerly surprising me, weakened with sickness,
injuriously handled me with their dogmas and magisterial fopperies--one
while menacing me with great pains, and another with approaching death.
Hereby I was indeed moved and shaken, but not subdued nor jostled from my
place; and though my judgment was neither altered nor distracted, yet it
was at least disturbed: ‘tis always agitation and combat.
Now, I use my imagination as gently as I can, and would discharge it, if
I could, of all trouble and contest; a man must assist, flatter, and
deceive it, if he can; my mind is fit for that office; it needs no
appearances throughout: could it persuade as it preaches, it would
successfully relieve me. Will you have an example? It tells me: “that
‘tis for my good to have the stone: that the structure of my age must
naturally suffer some decay, and it is now time it should begin to
disjoin and to confess a breach; ‘tis a common necessity, and there is
nothing in it either miraculous or new; I therein pay what is due to old
age, and I cannot expect a better bargain; that society ought to comfort
me, being fallen into the most common infirmity of my age; I see
everywhere men tormented with the same disease, and am honoured by the
fellowship, forasmuch as men of the best quality are most frequently
afflicted with it: ‘tis a noble and dignified disease: that of such as
are struck with it, few have it to a less degree of pain; that these are
put to the trouble of a strict diet and the daily taking of nauseous
potions, whereas I owe my better state purely to my good fortune; for
some ordinary broths of eringo or burst-wort that I have twice or thrice
taken to oblige the ladies, who, with greater kindness than my pain was
sharp, would needs present me half of theirs, seemed to me equally easy
to take and fruitless in operation, the others have to pay a thousand
vows to AEsculapius, and as many crowns to their physicians, for the
voiding a little gravel, which I often do by the aid of nature: even the
decorum of my countenance is not disturbed in company; and I can hold my
water ten hours, and as long as any man in health. The fear of this
disease,” says my mind, “formerly affrighted thee, when it was unknown to
thee; the cries and despairing groans of those who make it worse by their
impatience, begot a horror in thee. ‘Tis an infirmity that punishes the
members by which thou hast most offended. Thou art a conscientious
fellow;”
“Quae venit indigne poena, dolenda venit:”
[“We are entitled to complain of a punishment that we have not
deserved.”--Ovid, Heroid., v. 8.]
“consider this chastisement: ‘tis very easy in comparison of others, and
inflicted with a paternal tenderness: do but observe how late it comes;
it only seizes on and incommodes that part of thy life which is, one way
and another, sterile and lost; having, as it were by composition, given
time for the licence and pleasures of thy youth. The fear and the
compassion that the people have of this disease serve thee for matter of
glory; a quality whereof if thou bast thy judgment purified, and that thy
reason has somewhat cured it, thy friends notwithstanding, discern some
tincture in thy complexion. ‘Tis a pleasure to hear it said of oneself
what strength of mind, what patience! Thou art seen to sweat with pain,
to turn pale and red, to tremble, to vomit blood, to suffer strange
contractions and convulsions, at times to let great tears drop from thine
eyes, to urine thick, black, and dreadful water, or to have it suppressed
by some sharp and craggy stone, that cruelly pricks and tears the neck of
the bladder, whilst all the while thou entertainest the company with an
ordinary countenance; droning by fits with thy people; making one in a
continuous discourse, now and then making excuse for thy pain, and
representing thy suffering less than it is. Dost thou call to mind the
men of past times, who so greedily sought diseases to keep their virtue
in breath and exercise? Put the case that nature sets thee on and impels
thee to this glorious school, into which thou wouldst never have entered
of thy own free will. If thou tellest me that it is a dangerous and
mortal disease, what others are not so? for ‘tis a physical cheat to
expect any that they say do not go direct to death: what matters if they
go thither by accident, or if they easily slide and slip into the path
that leads us to it? But thou dost not die because thou art sick; thou
diest because thou art living: death kills thee without the help of
sickness: and sickness has deferred death in some, who have lived longer
by reason that they thought themselves always dying; to which may be
added, that as in wounds, so in diseases, some are medicinal and
wholesome. The stone is often no less long-lived than you; we see men
with whom it has continued from their infancy even to their extreme old
age; and if they had not broken company, it would have been with them
longer still; you more often kill it than it kills you. And though it
should present to you the image of approaching death, were it not a good
office to a man of such an age, to put him in mind of his end? And,
which is worse, thou hast no longer anything that should make thee desire
to be cured. Whether or no, common necessity will soon call thee away.
Do but consider how skilfully and gently she puts thee out of concern
with life, and weans thee from the world; not forcing thee with a
tyrannical subjection, like so many other infirmities which thou seest
old men afflicted withal, that hold them in continual torment, and keep
them in perpetual and unintermitted weakness and pains, but by warnings
and instructions at intervals, intermixing long pauses of repose, as it
were to give thee opportunity to meditate and ruminate upon thy lesson,
at thy own ease and leisure. To give thee means to judge aright, and to
assume the resolution of a man of courage, it presents to thee the state
of thy entire condition, both in good and evil; and one while a very
cheerful and another an insupportable life, in one and the same day. If
thou embracest not death, at least thou shakest hands with it once a
month; whence thou hast more cause to hope that it will one day surprise
thee without menace; and that being so often conducted to the water-side,
but still thinking thyself to be upon the accustomed terms, thou and thy
confidence will at one time or another be unexpectedly wafted over. A
man cannot reasonably complain of diseases that fairly divide the time
with health.”
I am obliged to Fortune for having so often assaulted me with the same
sort of weapons: she forms and fashions me by use, hardens and habituates
me, so that I can know within a little for how much I shall be quit. For
want of natural memory, I make one of paper; and as any new symptom
happens in my disease, I set it down, whence it falls out that, having
now almost passed through all sorts of examples, if anything striking
threatens me, turning over these little loose notes, as the Sybilline
leaves, I never fail of finding matter of consolation from some
favourable prognostic in my past experience. Custom also makes me hope
better for the time to come; for, the conduct of this clearing out having
so long continued, ‘tis to be believed that nature will not alter her
course, and that no other worse accident will happen than what I already
feel. And besides, the condition of this disease is not unsuitable to my
prompt and sudden complexion: when it assaults me gently, I am afraid,
for ‘tis then for a great while; but it has, naturally, brisk and
vigorous excesses; it claws me to purpose for a day or two. My kidneys
held out an age without alteration; and I have almost now lived another,
since they changed their state; evils have their periods, as well as
benefits: peradventure, the infirmity draws towards an end. Age weakens
the heat of my stomach, and, its digestion being less perfect, sends this
crude matter to my kidneys; why, at a certain revolution, may not the
heat of my kidneys be also abated, so that they can no more petrify my
phlegm, and nature find out some other way of purgation. Years have
evidently helped me to drain certain rheums; and why not these excrements
which furnish matter for gravel? But is there anything delightful in
comparison of this sudden change, when from an excessive pain, I come, by
the voiding of a stone, to recover, as by a flash of lightning, the
beautiful light of health, so free and full, as it happens in our sudden
and sharpest colics? Is there anything in the pain suffered, that one
can counterpoise to the pleasure of so sudden an amendment? Oh, how much
does health seem the more pleasant to me, after a sickness so near and so
contiguous, that I can distinguish them in the presence of one another,
in their greatest show; when they appear in emulation, as if to make head
against and dispute it with one another! As the Stoics say that vices
are profitably introduced to give value to and to set off virtue, we can,
with better reason and less temerity of conjecture, say that nature has
given us pain for the honour and service of pleasure and indolence. When
Socrates, after his fetters were knocked off, felt the pleasure of that
itching which the weight of them had caused in his legs, he rejoiced to
consider the strict alliance betwixt pain and pleasure; how they are
linked together by a necessary connection, so that by turns they follow
and mutually beget one another; and cried out to good AEsop, that he
ought out of this consideration to have taken matter for a fine fable.
The worst that I see in other diseases is, that they are not so grievous
in their effect as they are in their issue: a man is a whole year in
recovering, and all the while full of weakness and fear. There is so
much hazard, and so many steps to arrive at safety, that there is no end
on’t before they have unmuffled you of a kerchief, and then of a cap,
before they allow you to walk abroad and take the air, to drink wine, to
lie with your wife, to eat melons, ‘tis odds you relapse into some new
distemper. The stone has this privilege, that it carries itself clean
off: whereas the other maladies always leave behind them some impression
and alteration that render the body subject to a new disease, and lend a
hand to one another. Those are excusable that content themselves with
possessing us, without extending farther and introducing their followers;
but courteous and kind are those whose passage brings us any profitable
issue. Since I have been troubled with the stone, I find myself freed
from all other accidents, much more, methinks, than I was before, and
have never had any fever since; I argue that the extreme and frequent
vomitings that I am subject to purge me: and, on the other hand, my
distastes for this and that, and the strange fasts I am forced to keep,
digest my peccant humours, and nature, with those stones, voids whatever
there is in me superfluous and hurtful. Let them never tell me that it
is a medicine too dear bought: for what avail so many stinking draughts,
so many caustics, incisions, sweats, setons, diets, and so many other
methods of cure, which often, by reason we are not able to undergo their
violence and importunity, bring us to our graves? So that when I have
the stone, I look upon it as physic; when free from it, as an absolute
deliverance.
And here is another particular benefit of my disease; which is, that it
almost plays its game by itself, and lets ‘me play mine, if I have only
courage to do it; for, in its greatest fury, I have endured it ten hours
together on horseback. Do but endure only; you need no other regimen
play, run, dine, do this and t’other, if you can; your debauch will do
you more good than harm; say as much to one that has the pox, the gout,
or hernia! The other diseases have more universal obligations; rack our
actions after another kind of manner, disturb our whole order, and to
their consideration engage the whole state of life: this only pinches the
skin; it leaves the understanding and the will wholly at our own
disposal, and the tongue, the hands, and the feet; it rather awakens than
stupefies you. The soul is struck with the ardour of a fever,
overwhelmed with an epilepsy, and displaced by a sharp megrim, and, in
short, astounded by all the diseases that hurt the whole mass and the
most noble parts; this never meddles with the soul; if anything goes
amiss with her, ‘tis her own fault; she betrays, dismounts, and abandons
herself. There are none but fools who suffer themselves to be persuaded
that this hard and massive body which is baked in our kidneys is to be
dissolved by drinks; wherefore, when it is once stirred, there is nothing
to be done but to give it passage; and, for that matter, it will itself
make one.
I moreover observe this particular convenience in it, that it is a
disease wherein we have little to guess at: we are dispensed from the
trouble into which other diseases throw us by the uncertainty of their
causes, conditions, and progress; a trouble that is infinitely painful:
we have no need of consultations and doctoral interpretations; the senses
well enough inform us both what it is and where it is.
By suchlike arguments, weak and strong, as Cicero with the disease of his
old age, I try to rock asleep and amuse my imagination, and to dress its
wounds. If I find them worse tomorrow, I will provide new stratagems.
That this is true: I am come to that pass of late, that the least motion
forces pure blood out of my kidneys: what of that? I move about,
nevertheless, as before, and ride after my hounds with a juvenile and
insolent ardour; and hold that I have very good satisfaction for an
accident of that importance, when it costs me no more but a dull
heaviness and uneasiness in that part; ‘tis some great stone that wastes
and consumes the substance of my kidneys and my life, which I by little
and little evacuate, not without some natural pleasure, as an excrement
henceforward superfluous and troublesome. Now if I feel anything
stirring, do not fancy that I trouble myself to consult my pulse or my
urine, thereby to put myself upon some annoying prevention; I shall soon
enough feel the pain, without making it more and longer by the disease of
fear. He who fears he shall suffer, already suffers what he fears. To
which may be added that the doubts and ignorance of those who take upon
them to expound the designs of nature and her internal progressions, and
the many false prognostics of their art, ought to give us to understand
that her ways are inscrutable and utterly unknown; there is great
uncertainty, variety, and obscurity in what she either promises or
threatens. Old age excepted, which is an indubitable sign of the
approach of death, in all other accidents I see few signs of the future,
whereon we may ground our divination. I only judge of myself by actual
sensation, not by reasoning: to what end, since I am resolved to bring
nothing to it but expectation and patience? Will you know how much I get
by this? observe those who do otherwise, and who rely upon so many
diverse persuasions and counsels; how often the imagination presses upon
them without any bodily pain. I have many times amused myself, being
well and in safety, and quite free from these dangerous attacks in
communicating them to the physicians as then beginning to discover
themselves in me; I underwent the decree of their dreadful conclusions,
being all the while quite at my ease, and so much the more obliged to the
favour of God and better satisfied of the vanity of this art.
There is nothing that ought so much to be recommended to youth as
activity and vigilance our life is nothing but movement. I bestir myself
with great difficulty, and am slow in everything, whether in rising,
going to bed, or eating: seven of the clock in the morning is early for
me, and where I rule, I never dine before eleven, nor sup till after six.
I formerly attributed the cause of the fevers and other diseases I fell
into to the heaviness that long sleeping had brought upon me, and have
ever repented going to sleep again in the morning. Plato is more angry
at excess of sleeping than at excess of drinking. I love to lie hard and
alone, even without my wife, as kings do; pretty well covered with
clothes. They never warm my bed, but since I have grown old they give me
at need cloths to lay to my feet and stomach. They found fault with the
great Scipio that he was a great sleeper; not, in my opinion, for any
other reason than that men were displeased that he alone should have
nothing in him to be found fault with. If I am anything fastidious in my
way of living ‘tis rather in my lying than anything else; but generally
I give way and accommodate myself as well as any one to necessity.
Sleeping has taken up a great part of my life, and I yet continue, at the
age I now am, to sleep eight or nine hours at one breath. I wean myself
with utility from this proneness to sloth, and am evidently the better
for so doing. I find the change a little hard indeed, but in three days
‘tis over; and I see but few who live with less sleep, when need
requires, and who more constantly exercise themselves, or to whom long
journeys are less troublesome. My body is capable of a firm, but not of
a violent or sudden agitation. I escape of late from violent exercises,
and such as make me sweat: my limbs grow weary before they are warm.
I can stand a whole day together, and am never weary of walking; but from
my youth I have ever preferred to ride upon paved roads; on foot, I get