Shakespeare's Montaigne

by Michel de Montaigne

  3.2

  OTHERS fashion man; I repeat him and represent a particular one, but ill made and whom, were I to form a new, he should be far other than he is. But he is now made.

  And though the lines of my picture change and vary, yet lose they not themselves. The world runs all on wheels. All things therein move without intermission; yea, the earth, the rocks of Caucasus, and the pyramids of Ægypt, both with the public and their own motion. [1] Constancy itself is nothing but a languishing and wavering dance.

  I cannot settle my object. It goeth so unquietly and staggering, with a natural drunkenness. I take it in this plight, as it is at the instant I amuse myself about it. I describe not the essence but the passage. Not a passage from age to age, or, as the people reckon, from seven years to seven, but from day to day, from minute to minute. My history must be fitted to the present. I may soon change, not only fortune but intention. It is a counter-roule [2] of diverse and variable accidents and irresolute imaginations, and sometimes contrary: whether it be that myself am other, or that I apprehend subjects by other circumstances and considerations. Howsoever, I may perhaps gainsay [3] myself, but truth (as Demades said) I never gainsay. Were my mind settled, I would not essay but resolve myself. [4] It is still a prentise [5] and a probationer.

  I propose a mean life and without luster; ’tis all one. They fasten all moral philosophy as well to a popular and private life, as to one of richer stuff. Every man beareth the whole stamp of human condition.

  Authors communicate themselves unto the world by some special and strange mark; I the first by my general disposition, as Michel de Montaigne, not as a grammarian, or a poet, or a lawyer. If the world complain I speak too much of myself, I complain, it speaks no more of itself.

  But is it reason that, being so private in use, I should pretend to make myself public in knowledge? Or is it reason I should produce into the world, where fashion and art have such sway and command, the raw and simple effects of nature, and of a nature as yet exceeding weak? To write books without learning, is it not to make a wall without stone or such like thing? Conceits [6] of music are directed by art, mine by hap. [7]

  Yet have I this according to learning, that never man handled subject he understood or knew better than I do this I have undertaken, being therein the cunningest man alive. Secondly, that never man waded further into his matter, nor more distinctly sifted the parts and dependences of it, nor arrived more exactly and fully to the end he proposed unto it. To finish the same, I have need of naught but faithfulness, which is therein as sincere and pure as may be found. I speak truth, not my belly-full, but as much as I dare; and I dare the more the more I grow into years, for it seemeth custom alloweth old age more liberty to babble and indiscretion to talk of itself. It cannot herein be as in trades, where the craftsman and his work do often differ. Being a man of so sound and honest conversation, writ he so foolishly? Are such learned writings come from a man of so weak a conversation? Who hath but an ordinary conceit and writeth excellently, one may say his capacity is borrowed, not of himself. A skilful man is not skilful in all things; but a sufficient man is sufficient everywhere, even unto ignorance.

  Here my books and myself march together and keep one pace. Elsewhere one may commend or condemn the work, without the workman; here not: who toucheth one, toucheth the other. He who shall judge of it without knowing him, shall wrong himself more than me; he that knows it hath wholly satisfied me. Happy beyond my merit, if I get this only portion of public approbation, as I may cause men of understanding to think I had been able to make use and benefit of learning, had I been endowed with any, and deserved better help of memory.

  Excuse we here what I often say, that I seldom repent myself and that my conscience is contented with itself, not of an angel’s or a horse’s consciences but as of a man’s conscience. Adding ever this clause, not of ceremony but of true and essential submission: that I speak enquiring and doubting, merely and simply referring myself from resolution unto common and lawful opinions. I teach not; I report.

  No vice is absolutely vice which offendeth not, and a sound judgement accuseth not. For the deformity and incommodity thereof is so palpable as peradventure they have reason who say it is chiefly produced by sottishness [8] and brought forth by ignorance. So hard is it to imagine one should know it without hating it.

  Malice sucks up the greatest part of her own venom and therewith empoisoneth herself. Vice leaveth, as an ulcer in the flesh, a repentance in the soul, which still scratcheth and bloodieth itself. For reason effaceth other griefs and sorrows but engendereth those of repentance, the more irksome because inwards, as the cold and heat of agues is more offensive than that which comes outward. I account vice (but each according to their measure) not only those which reason disallows and nature condemns but such as men’s opinion hath forged as false and erroneous, if laws and custom authorize the same.

  In like manner, there is no goodness but gladdeth an honest disposition. There is truly I wot not what kind of congratulation of well doing which rejoiceth us in ourselves, and a generous jollity that accompanieth a good conscience. A mind courageously vicious may happily arm itself with security, but she shall never munite [9] herself with this self-joying delight and satisfaction. It is no small pleasure for one to feel himself preserved from the contagion of an age so infected as ours, and to say to himself, “Could a man enter and see even into my soul, yet should he not find me guilty, either of the affliction or ruin of anybody; nor culpable of envy or revenge; nor of public offence against the laws; nor tainted with innovation, trouble, or sedition; nor spotted with falsifying of my word. And although the liberty of times allowed and taught it every man, yet could I never be induced to touch the goods or dive into the purse of any French man, and have always lived upon mine own, as well in time of war as of peace; nor did I ever make use of any poor man’s labor without reward.” [10] These testimonies of an unspotted conscience are very pleasing, which natural joy is a great benefit unto us, and the only payment never faileth us.

  To ground the recompense of virtuous actions upon the approbation of others is to undertake a most uncertain or troubled foundation. Namely in an age so corrupt and times so ignorant as this is, the vulgar people’s good opinion is injurious. Whom trust you in seeing what is commendable? God keep me from being an honest man, according to the description I daily see made of honour, each one by himself. Quæ fuerant vitia, mores sunt. What erst were vices are now grown fashions. [11]

  Some of my friends have sometimes attempted to school me roundly and sift me plainly, either of their own motion or invited by me, as to an office [12] which to a well-composed mind, both in profit and lovingness, exceedeth all the duties of sincere amity. Such have I ever entertained with open arms of courtesy and kind acknowledgement. But now to speak from my conscience, I often found so much false measure in their reproaches and praises that I had not greatly erred if I had rather erred than done well after their fashion.

  Such as we especially who live a private life, not exposed to any gaze but our own, ought in our hearts establish a touchstone and thereto touch our deeds and try our actions and, accordingly, now cherish and now chastise ourselves. I have my own laws and tribunal to judge of me whither I address myself more than anywhere else. I restrain my actions according to others but extend them according to myself. None but your self knows rightly whether you be demisse [13] and cruel, or loyal and devout. Others see you not, but guess you by uncertain conjectures. They see not so much your nature as your art. Adhere not then to their opinion, but hold unto your own. Tuo tibi iudicio est utendum. Virtutis et viciorum graue ipsius conscientiæ pondus est: qua sublata, iacent omnia. You must use your own judgement. The weight of the very conscience of vice and virtues is heavy: take that away, and all is down. [14]

  But whereas it is said that repentance nearly [15] followeth sin seemeth not to imply sin placed in his rich array, which lodgeth in us as in his proper mansion. One may disavow and disclaim vices that surpr
ise us and whereto our passions transport us. But those which by long habit are rooted in a strong and anchored in a powerful will are not subject to contradiction. Repentance is but a denying of our will and an opposition of our fantasies, which diverts us here and there. It makes some disavow his former virtue and continency.

  Quæ mens est hodie, cur eadem non puero fuit,

  Velcur his animis incolumes non redeunt genæ?

  Why was not in a youth same mind as now?

  Or why bears not this mind a youthful brow? [16]

  That is an exquisite life which even in his own private keepeth itself in awe and order. Everyone may play the juggler [17] and represent an honest man upon the stage. But within, and in bosom, where all things are lawful, where all is concealed—to keep a due rule or formal decorum, that’s the point. The next degree is to be so in one’s own home and in his ordinary actions, whereof we are to give account to nobody, wherein is no study nor art. And therefore Byas, [18] describing the perfect state of a family, whereof (sayeth he) the master be such inwardly by himself as he is outwardly, for fear of the laws and respect of men’s speeches. And it was a worthy saying of Julius Drusus to those workmen, which for three thousand crowns offered so to reform his house that his neighbours should no more overlook into it. “I will give you six thousand” (said he), “and contrive it so that on all sides every man may look into it.” The custom of Agesilaus is remembered with honour, who in his travail was wont to take up his lodging in churches, that the people and gods themselves might pry into his private actions. Some have been admirable to the world, in whom nor his wife nor his servant ever noted anything remarkable. Few men have been admired of their familiars. [19]

  No man hath been a prophet, not only in his house but in his own country, sayeth the experience of histories. Even so in things of nought. [20] And in this base example is the image of greatness discerned. In my climate of Gascoigne [21] they deem it a jest to see me in print. The further the knowledge which is taken of me is from my home, of so much more worth am I. In Guienne [22] I pay printers; in other places they pay me. Upon this accident they ground who, living and present, keep close-lurking to purchase credit when they shall be dead and absent. [23] I had rather have less. [24] And I cast not myself into the world but for the portion I draw from it. That done, I quit it.

  The people attend on such a man with wonderment from a public act unto his own doors. Together with his robes he leaves-off his part; falling so much the lower, by how much higher he was mounted. View him within there, all is turbulent, disordered, and vile. And were order and formality found in him, a lively, impartial, and well-sorted judgement is required to perceive and fully to discern him in these base and private actions. Considering that order is but a dumpish and drowsy virtue. To gain a battle, perform an ambassage, [25] and govern a people are noble and worthy actions. To chide, laugh, sell, pay, love, hate, and mildly and justly to converse both with his own and with himself; not to relent, and not gainsay himself, are things more rare, more difficult, and less remarkable. [26]

  Retired lives sustain that way, whatever some say, offices as much or more crabbed and extended than other lives do. And private men (sayeth Aristotle) serve virtue more hardly [27] and more highly attend her than those which are magistrates or placed in authority. We prepare ourselves unto eminent occasions, more for glory than for conscience. The nearest way to come unto glory were to do that for conscience which we do for glory. And me seemeth the virtue of Alexander representeth much less vigor in her large theater than that of Socrates in his base and obscure exercitation. [28] I easily conceive Socrates in the room of Alexander; Alexander in that of Socrates, I cannot. If any ask the one what he can do, he will answer, Conquer the world. Let the same question be demanded of the other, he will say, lead my life conformably to its natural condition—a science much more generous, more important, and more lawful.

  The worth of the mind consisteth not in going high but in marching orderly. Her greatness is not exercised in greatness; in mediocrity, it is. As those which judge and touch us inwardly make no great account of the brightness of our public actions, and see they are but streaks and points of clear water, surging from a bottom otherwise slimy and full of mud; so those who judge us by this gay outward appearance conclude the same of our inward constitution and cannot couple popular faculties as theirs are unto these other faculties which amaze them so far from their level. So do we attribute savage shapes and oughly [29] forms unto devils. As who doth not ascribe high-raised eye-brows, open nostrils, a stern frightful visage, and a huge body unto Tamburlane, as is the form or shape of the imagination we have fore-conceived by the bruite [30] of his name? Had any heretofore showed me Erasmus, I could hardly have been induced to think but whatsoever he had said to his boy or host had been adages and apothegms. We imagine much more fitly an artificer [31] upon his close stool [32] or on his wife than a great judge, reverend for his carriage and regardful for his sufficiency. We think that from those high thrones they should not abase themselves so low as to live.

  As vicious minds are often incited to do well by some strange impulsion, so are virtuous spirits moved to do ill. They must then be judged by their settled estate, when they are near themselves and, as we say, at home, if at any time they be so; or when they are nearest unto rest and in their natural seat.

  Natural inclinations are by institution [33] helped and strengthened, but they neither change nor exceed. A thousand natures in my time have athwart a contrary discipline escaped toward virtue or toward vice.

  Sic ubi desuetæ silvis in carcere clausæ,

  Mansuevere feræ, et vultus posuere minaces,

  Atque hominem didicere pati, si torrida paruus

  Venit in ora cruor, redeunt rabiesque furorque,

  Admonitæque tument gustato sanguine fauces,

  Fervet, et a trepido vix abstinet ira magistro.

  So when wild beasts, disused from the wood,

  Fierce looks laid-down, grow tame, closed in a cage,

  Taught to bear man, if then a little blood

  Touch their hot lips, fury returns and rage;

  Their jaws by taste admonished swell with veins,

  Rage boils, and from faint keeper scarce abstains. [34]

  These original qualities are not grubbed [35] out, they are but covered and hidden. The Latin tongue is to me in a manner natural; I understand it better than French. But it is now forty years, I have not made use of it to speak nor much to write. Yet in some extreme emotions and sudden passions, wherein I have twice or thrice fallen since my years of discretion—and namely one, when my father, being in perfect health, fell all along upon me in a swoon—I have ever, even from my very heart, uttered my first words in Latin; Nature rushing and by force expressing itself, against so long a custom. The like example is alleged of diverse others.

  Those which in my time have attempted to correct the fashions [36] in the world by new opinions reform the vices of appearance; those of essence they leave untouched, if they increase not. And their increase is much to be feared. We willingly protract all other well-doing upon these external reformations, of less cost and of greater merit; whereby we satisfy good-cheap [37] other natural, consubstantial, and intestine [38] vices.

  Look a little into the course of our experience. There is no man (if he listen to himself) that doth not discover in himself a peculiar form of his, a swaying [39] form, which wrestleth against the institution [40] and against the tempests of passions which are contrary unto him. As for me, I feel not myself much agitated by a shock; I commonly find myself in mine own place, as are sluggish and lumpish bodies. If I am not close and near unto myself, I am never far-off. My debauches or excesses transport me not much. There is nothing extreme and strange, yet have I sound fits and vigorous lusts.

  The true condemnation, and which toucheth the common fashion of our men, is that their very retreat [41] is full of corruption and filth. The idea of their amendment blurred and deformed; their repentance cra
zed and faulty, very near as much as their sin. Some, either because they are so fast and naturally joined unto vice or through custom, have lost all sense of its ugliness. To others (of whose rank I am) vice is burthenous, [42] but they counter-balance it with pleasure or other occasions, and suffer it and at a certain rate lend themselves unto it, though basely and viciously. Yet might happily [43] so remote a disposition of measure be imagined, where with justice, the pleasure might excuse the offence, as we say of profit. Not only being accidental and out of sin, as in thefts, but even in the very exercise of it, as in the acquaintance or copulation with women, where the provocation is so violent and, as they say, sometime unresistable. [44]

  In a town of a kinsman of mine, the other day being in Armignac, I saw a country man, commonly surnamed the Thief, who himself reported his life to have been thus. Being born a beggar and perceiving that to get his bread by the sweat of his brow and labour of his hands would never sufficiently arm him against penury, he resolved to become a thief; and in that trade had employed all his youth, safely, by means of his bodily strength. For he ever made up harvest and vintage in other men’s grounds, but so far off and in so great heaps that it was beyond imagination one man should in one night carry away so much upon his shoulders. And was so careful to equal the prey and disperse the mischief he did that the spoil was of less import to every particular man. He is now in old years indifferently rich; for a man of his condition (God-a-mercy his trade) which he is not ashamed to confess openly. And to reconcile himself with God, he affirmeth to be daily ready with his gettings and other good turns to satisfy the posterity of those he hath heretofore wronged or robbed; which if himself be not of ability to perform (for he cannot do all at once), he will charge his heirs withal, according to the knowledge he hath of the wrongs by him done to every man. By this description, be it true or false, he respecteth theft as a dishonest and unlawful action and hateth the same, yet less than pinching want. [45] He repents but simply, for in regard it was so counter-balanced and recompensed, he repenteth not. That is not that habit which incorporates us unto vice and confirmeth our understanding in it; nor is it that boisterous wind which by violent blasts dazzleth and troubleth our minds, and at that time confounds and overwhelms both us, our judgement, and all, into the power of vice.