RENAISSANCE MAIN POINTS
FRANÇOIS RABELAIS
(1494 – 1553?)
MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE (1533 – 1592)
READER, thou hast here an honest book; it
doth at the outset forewarn thee that, in contriving the same, I have proposed
to myself no other than a domestic and private end: I have had no consideration
at all either to thy service or to my glory. My powers are not capable of any
such design. I have dedicated it to the particular commodity of my kinsfolk and
friends, so that, having lost me (which they must do shortly), they may therein
recover some traits of my conditions and humors, and by that means preserve
more whole, and more life-like, the knowledge they had of me. Had my intention
been to seek the world's favor, I should surely have adorned myself with
borrowed beauties: I desire therein to be viewed as I appear in mine own
genuine, simple, and ordinary manner, without study and artifice: for it is
myself I paint. My defects are therein to be read to the life, and my
imperfections and my natural form, so far as public reverence hath permitted
me. If I had lived among those nations, which (they say) yet dwell under the
sweet liberty of nature's primitive laws, I assure thee I would most willingly
have painted myself quite fully and quite naked. Thus, reader, myself am the matter of my book: there's no reason thou shouldst employ thy leisure about so frivolous and vain a
subject. Therefore, farewell.
From MONTAIGNE,
To
Madame Diane de Foix, Comtesse
de Gurson.
I never yet saw that father, but let his son be never
so decrepit or deformed, would not, notwithstanding, own him: not,
nevertheless, if he were not totally besotted, and blinded with his paternal
affection, that he did not well enough discern his defects: but that with all
defaults, he was still his. Just so, I see better than any other, that all I
write here are but the idle of a man that has only nibbled upon the outward
crust of sciences in his nonage, and only retained a general and formless image
of them; who has got a little snatch of everything, and nothing of the whole, a
la Francoise. For I know, in general, that there is such a thing as physic, as
jurisprudence; four parts in mathematics, and, roughly, what all these aim and
point at; and peradventure, I yet know farther, what sciences in general
pretend unto, in order to the service of our life: but to dive farther than
that, and to have cudgeled my brains in the study of Aristotle, the monarch of
all modern learning, or particularly addicted myself to any one science, I have
done it; neither is there any one art of which I am able to draw the first
lineaments and dead color; insomuch that there is not a boy of the lowest form
in a school, that may not pretend to be wiser than I, who am not able to
examine him in his first lesson, which, if I am at any time forced upon, I am
necessitated, in my own defense, to ask him, unaptly
enough, some universal questions, such as may serve to try his natural
understanding; a lesson as strange and unknown to him, as his is to me.
I never seriously settled myself to the reading any
book of solid learning but Plutarch and Seneca; and there, like the Danaides, I eternally fill, and it as constantly runs out;
something of which drops upon this paper, but little or nothing stays with me.
History is my particular game as to matter of reading, or else poetry, for
which I have particular kindness and esteem: for, as Cleanthes
said, as the voice, forced through the narrow passage of a trumpet, comes out
more forcible and shrill; so, methinks, a sentence pressed within the harmony
of verse, darts out more briskly upon the understanding, and strikes my ear and
apprehension with a smarter and more pleasing effect. As to the natural parts I
have, of which this is the essay, I find them to bow under the burden; my fancy
and judgment do but grope in the dark, tripping and stumbling in the way, and
when I have gone as far as I can, I am in no degree satisfied; I discover still
a new and greater extent of land before me, with a troubled and imperfect sight
and wrapped up in clouds, that I am not able to penetrate. And taking upon me
to write indifferently of whatever comes into my head, and therein making use
of nothing but my own proper and natural means, if it befall me, as ofttimes it does, accidentally to meet in any good author,
the same heads and commonplaces upon which I have attempted to write (as I did
but just now in Plutarch's "Discourse of the
Force of Imagination"), to see myself so weak and so forlorn, so heavy and
so flat, in comparison of those better writers, I at once pity or despise
myself. Yet do I please myself with this, that my opinions have often the honor
and good fortune to jump with theirs, and that I go in the same path, though at
a very great distance, and can say, "Ah, that is so." I am farther
satisfied to find, that I have a quality, which every one is not blessed
withal, which is, to discern the vast difference between them and me; and
notwithstanding all that, suffer my own inventions, low and feeble as they are,
to run on in their career, without mending or plastering up the defects that
this comparison has laid open to my own view. And, in plain truth, a man had need
of a good strong back to keep pace with these people. The indiscreet scribblers
of our times, who among their laborious nothings, insert whole sections and
pages out of ancient authors, with a design, by that means, to illustrate their
own writings, do quite contrary; for this infinite dissimilitude of ornaments
renders the complexion of their own compositions so sallow and deformed, that
they lose much more than they get.
The philosophers, Chrysippus
and Epicurus, were in this of two quite contrary humors: the first not only in
his books mixed passages and sayings of other authors, but entire pieces, and,
in one, the whole "Medea" of Euripides;
which gave Apollodorus occasion to say, that should a
man pick out of his writings all that was none of his, he would leave him
nothing but blank paper: whereas the latter, quite contrary, in three hundred
volumes that he left behind him, has not so much as any one quotation.
[…]
But, be it how it will, and whatever these essays of
mine may be, I will say I never intended to conceal them, no more than my old
bald grizzled portrait before them, where the painter has presented you not
with a perfect face, but with mine. For these are my own particular opinions
and fancies, and I deliver them as only what I myself believe, and not for what
is to be believed by others. I have no other end in this writing, but only to
reveal myself, who, also, shall, peradventure, be another thing tomorrow, if I
chance to meet any new instruction to change me. I have no authority to be believed, neither do I desire it, being too conscious of my
own ignorance to be able to instruct others.
A friend of mine, then, having read the preceding
chapter, the other day told me, that I should a little farther have extended my
discourse on the education of children. Now, Madame, if I had any sufficiency
in this subject, I could not possibly better employ it, than to present my best
instructions to the little gentleman that threatens you shortly with a happy
birth (for you are too generous to begin otherwise than with a male); for
having had so great a hand in the treaty of your marriage, I have a certain
particular right and interest in the greatness and prosperity of the issue that
shall spring from it. But, in truth, all
I understand as to that particular is only this, that the greatest and most
important difficulty of human science is the education of children. For as in
agriculture, the husbandry that is to precede planting, as also planting
itself, is certain, plain, and well known; but after that which is planted
comes to life, there is a great deal more to be done, more art to be used, more
care to be taken, and much more difficulty to cultivate and bring it to
perfection; so it is with men; it is no hard matter to get children; but after
they are born, then begins the trouble, solicitude, and care rightly to train,
principle, and bring them up. The symptoms of their inclinations in that tender
age are so obscure, and the promises so uncertain and fallacious, that it is
very hard to establish any solid judgment or conjecture upon them.
Cubs of bears and puppies readily discover their
natural inclination; but men, so soon as ever they are grown up, applying
themselves to certain habits, engaging themselves in certain opinions, and
conforming themselves to particular laws and customs, easily alter, or at least
disguise, their true and real disposition; and yet it is hard to force the
propensity of nature. Whence it comes to pass, that for not having chosen the
right course, we often take very great pains, and consume a good part of our
time in training up children to things, for which, by their natural
constitution, they are totally unfit. In this difficulty, nevertheless, I am
clearly of opinion, that they ought to be instructed
in the best and most advantageous studies, without taking too much notice of,
or being too superstitious in those light prognostics they give of themselves
in their tender years.
The charge of the tutor you shall provide for your
son, upon the choice of whom depends the whole success of his education, has
several other great and considerable parts and duties required in so important
a trust, besides that of which I am about to speak: these, however, I shall not
mention, as being unable to add anything of moment to the common rules: and in
this, wherein I take upon me to advise, he may follow it so far only as it
shall appear advisable.
'Tis the custom of
pedagogues to be eternally thundering in their pupil's ears, as they were
pouring into a funnel, while the business of the pupil is only to repeat what
the others have said: now I would have a tutor to correct this error, and, that
at the very first, he should, according to the capacity he has to deal with,
put it to the test, permitting his pupil himself to taste things, and of himself
to discern and choose them, sometimes opening the way to him, and sometimes
leaving him to open it for himself; that is, I would not have him alone to
invent and speak, but that he should also hear his pupil speak in turn.
Socrates, and since him Arcesilaus, made first their
scholars speak, and then they spoke to them… It is good to make him, like a
young horse, trot before him that he may judge of his going and how much he is
to abate of his own speed, to accommodate himself to the vigor and capacity of
the other. For want of which due proportion we spoil all; which also to know
how to adjust, and to keep within an exact and due measure, is one of the
hardest things I know, and 'tis the effect of a high and well-tempered soul to
know how to condescend to such puerile motions and to govern and direct them. I
walk firmer and more secure up hill than down.
Such as, according to our common way of teaching,
undertake, with one and the same lesson, and the same measure of direction, to
instruct several boys of differing and unequal capacities, are infinitely
mistaken; and 'tis no wonder, if in a whole multitude of scholars, there are
not found above two or three who bring away any good account of their time and
discipline. Let the master not only examine him about the grammatical
construction of the bare words of his lesson, but about the sense and substance
of them, and let him judge of the profit he has made, not by the testimony of
his memory, but by that of his life. Let him make him put what he has learned
into a hundred several forms, and accommodate it to so many several subjects,
to see if he yet rightly comprehends it, and has made it his own. 'Tis a sign of crudity and indigestion to disgorge what we
eat in the same condition it was swallowed; the stomach
has not performed its office unless it have altered the form and condition of
what was committed to it to concoct. Our minds work only upon trust, when bound
and compelled to follow the appetite of another's fancy, enslaved and
captivated under the authority of another's instruction; we have been so
subjected to the trammel, that we have no free, nor
natural pace of our own; our own vigor and liberty are extinct and gone…
Let him make [his pupil] examine and thoroughly sift
everything he reads, and lodge nothing in his fancy upon simple authority and
upon trust. Aristotle's principles will then be no more principles to him, than
those of Epicurus and the Stoics: let this diversity of opinions be propounded
to, and laid before him; he will himself choose, if he
be able; if not, he will remain in doubt.
For, if he embrace the
opinions of Xenophon and Plato, by his own reason,
they will no more be theirs, but become his own. Who follows another, follows
nothing, finds nothing, nay, is inquisitive after nothing. Let him at least, know that he knows. It will
be necessary that he imbibe their knowledge, not that he be corrupted with
their precepts; and no matter if he forgot where he had his learning, provided
he know how to apply it to his own use. Truth and reason are common to every
one, and are no more his who state them first, than
his who speaks them after: 'tis no more according to Plato, than according to
me, since both he and I equally see and understand them. Bees cull their
several sweets from this flower and that blossom, here and there where they
find them, but themselves afterward make the honey, which is all and purely
their own, and no more thyme and marjoram: so the several fragments he borrows
from others, he will transform and shuffle together to compile a work that
shall be absolutely his own; that is to say, his judgment: his instruction,
labor and study, tend to nothing else but to form that… The advantages of our
study are to become better and wiser. 'Tis, says Epicharmus, the understanding that sees and hears, 'tis the
understanding that improves everything, that orders everything, and that acts,
rules, and reigns: all other faculties are blind, and deaf, and without soul.
And certainly we render it timorous and servile, in not allowing it the liberty
and privilege to do anything of itself. Whoever asked his pupil what he thought
of grammar or rhetoric, and of such and such a
sentence of
And for this reason, conversation with men is of very
great use and travel into foreign countries of singular advantadge;
not to bring back (as most of our young monsieurs do)
an account only of how many paces Santa Rotonda is in
circuit; or of the richness of Signora Livia's
petticoats; or, as some others, how much Nero's face, in a statue in such an
old ruin, is longer and broader than that made for him on some medal; but to be
able chiefly to give an account of the humors, manners, customs and laws of
those nations where he has been, and that we may whet and sharpen our wits by
rubbing them against those of others. I would that a boy should be sent abroad
very young, and first, so as to kill two birds with one stone, into those
neighboring nations whose language is most differing from our own, and to which,
if it be not formed betimes, the tongue will grow too stiff to bend.
And also 'tis the general opinion of all, that a child should not be brought up in his mother's
lap. Mothers are too tender, and their natural affection is apt to make the
most discreet of them all too tender and lax, that they can neither find in
their hearts to give them due correction for the faults they commit, nor suffer
them to be inured to hardships and hazards, as they ought to be. They will not
endure to see them return all dust and sweat from their exercise, to drink cold
drink when they are hot, nor see them mount an unruly horse, nor take a foil in
hand against a rude fencer, or so much as to discharge a carbine. And yet there
is no remedy; whoever will breed a boy to be good for anything when he comes to
be a man, must by no means spare him when young, and must very often transgress
the rules of physic… It is not enough to fortify his soul: you are also to make
his sinews strong…
And yet, even in this conversing with men I spoke of
but now, I have observed this vice, that instead of gathering observations from
others, we make it our whole business to lay ourselves upon them, and are more
concerned how to expose and set out our own commodities, than how to increase
our stock by acquiring new. Silence, therefore, and modesty are very
advantageous qualities in conversation. One should, therefore, train up this
boy to be sparing and a husband of his knowledge when he has acquired it; and
to forbear taking exceptions at or reproving every idle saying or ridiculous
story that is said or told in his presence; for it is a very unbecoming
rudeness to carp at everything that is not agreeable to our own palate. Let him
be satisfied with correcting himself, and not seem to condemn everything in
another he would not do himself, nor dispute it as against common customs. Let him avoid these vain and uncivil images
of authority, this childish ambition of coveting to appear better bred and more
accomplished, than he really will, by such carriage, discover himself to be.
And, as if opportunities of interrupting and reprehending were not to be
omitted, to desire thence to derive the reputation of something more than
ordinary. For as it becomes none but great poets to
make use of the poetical license, so it is intolerable for any but men of great
and illustrious souls to assume privilege above the authority of custom. Let
him be instructed not to engage in discourse or dispute but with a champion
worthy of him, and, even there, not to make use of all the little subtleties
that may seem pat for his purpose, but only such arguments as may best serve
him. Let him be taught to be curious in the election and choice of his reasons,
to abominate impertinence, and, consequently, to affect brevity; but, above
all, let him be lessoned to acquiesce and submit to truth so soon as ever he
shall discover it, whether in his opponent's argument, or upon better
consideration of his own; for he shall never be preferred to the chair for a
mere clatter of words and syllogisms, and is no further engaged to any argument
whatever, than as he shall in his own judgment approve it: nor yet is arguing a
trade, where the liberty of recantation and getting off upon better thoughts,
are to be sold for ready money.
Let his conscience and virtue be eminently manifest in
his speaking, and have only reason for their guide. Make him understand, that
to acknowledge the error he shall discover in his own argument, though only
found out by himself, is an effect of judgment and sincerity, which are the
principal things he is to seek after; that obstinacy and contention are common
qualities, most appearing in mean souls; that to revise and correct himself, to
forsake an unjust argument in the height and heat of dispute, are rare, great,
and philosophical qualities. Let him be advised; being in company, to have his
eye and ear in every corner, for I find that the places of greatest honor are
commonly seized upon by men that have least in them, and that the greatest
fortunes are seldom accompanied with ability… Let him examine every man's
talent; a peasant, a bricklayer, a passenger: one may learn something from
every one of these in their several capacities, and something will be picked
out of their discourse whereof some use may be made at one time or another;
nay, even the folly and impertinence of others will contribute to his
instruction. By observing the graces and manners of all he sees, he will create
to himself an emulation of the good, and a contempt of
the bad.
Let an honest curiosity be suggested to his fancy of
being inquisitive after everything; whatever there is singular and rare near
the place where he is, let him go and see it; a fine house, a noble fountain,
an eminent man, the place where a battle has been anciently fought, the
passages of Caesar and Charlemagne. Let him inquire into the manners, revenues
and alliances of princes, things in themselves very pleasant to learn, and very
useful to know.
Human understanding is marvelously
enlightened by daily conversation with men, for we are, otherwise, compressed
and heaped up in ourselves, and have our sight limited to the length of
our own noses. One asking Socrates of what country he was, he did not make
answer, of Athens, but of the world; he whose imagination was fuller and wider,
embraced the whole world for his country, and extended his society and
friendship to all mankind; not as we do, who look no further than our feet.
When the vines of my village are nipped with the frost, my parish priest
presently concludes, that the indignation of God is gone out against all the human race, and that the cannibals have already got
the pip…
This great world which some do yet multiply as
several species under one genus, is the mirror wherein we are to behold
ourselves, to be able to know ourselves as we ought to do in the true bias. In
short, I would have this to be the book my young gentleman should study with
the most attention. So many humors, so many sects, so many judgments, opinions,
laws and customs, teach us to judge aright of our own, and inform our
understanding to discover its imperfection and natural infirmity, which is no
trivial speculation. So many mutations of states and kingdoms, and so many
turns and revolutions of public fortune, will make us wise enough to make no
great wonder of our own. So many great names, so many famous victories and
conquests drowned and swallowed in oblivion, render our hopes ridiculous of
eternizing our names by the taking of half-a-score of light horse, or a hen
roost, which only derives its memory from its ruin. The pride and arrogance of
so many foreign pomps and ceremonies, the inflated
majesty of so many courts and grandeurs, accustom and fortify our sight without
astonishment or winking to behold the luster of our own; so many millions of
men, buried before us, encourage us not to fear to go seek such good company in
the other world: and so of all the rest. Pythagoras was wont to say, that our
life resembles the great and populous assembly of the Olympic games, wherein
some exercise the body, that they may carry away the glory of the prize; others
bring merchandise to sell for profit; there are, also, some (and those none of
the worst sort) who pursue no other advantage than only to look on, and
consider how and why everything is done, and to be spectators of the lives of
other men, thereby the better to judge of and regulate their own.
To examples may fitly be applied all the profitable
discourses of philosophy, to which all human actions, as to their best rule,
ought to be especially directed: a scholar shall be taught to know what it is
to know, and what to be ignorant; what ought to be the end and design of study;
what valor, temperance and justice are; the difference between ambition and
avarice, servitude and subjection, license and liberty; by what token a man may
know true and solid contentment; how far death, affliction, and disgrace are to
be apprehended:
After having taught him what will make him more wise
and good, you may then entertain him with the elements of logic, physics,
geometry, rhetoric, and the science which he shall then himself most incline
to, his judgment being beforehand formed and fit to choose, he will quickly
make his own. The way of instructing him ought to be sometimes by discourse,
and sometimes by reading, sometimes his governor shall put the author himself,
which he shall think most proper for him, into his hands, and sometimes only
the marrow and substance of it; and if himself be not conversant enough in
books to turn to all the fine discourses the books contain for his purpose,
there may some man of learning be joined to him, that upon every occasion shall
supply him with what he stands in need of, to furnish it to his pupil. And who
can doubt, but that this way of teaching is much more easy and natural than that
of Gaza, in which the precepts are so intricate, and so harsh, and the words so
vain, lean, and insignificant, that there is no hold to be taken of them,
nothing that quickens and elevates the wit and fancy, whereas here the mind has
what to feed upon and to digest. This fruit, therefore, is not only without
comparison, much more fair and beautiful; but will also be much more early
ripe.
If this pupil shall happen to be of so contrary a
disposition, that he had rather hear a tale of a tub than the true narrative of
some noble expedition or some wise and learned discourse; who at the beat of
drum, that excites the youthful ardor of his companions, leaves that to follow
another that calls to a dance or the bears; who would not wish, and find it
more delightful and more excellent, to return all dust and sweat victorious
from a battle, than from tennis or from a ball, with the prize of those
exercises; I see no other remedy, but that he be bound prentice in some good
town to learn to make minced pies, though he were the son of a duke; according
to Plato's precept, that children are to be placed out and disposed of, not
according to the wealth, qualities, or condition of the father, but according
to the faculties and the capacity of their own souls.
Michel de Montaigne:
On Cannibals (1580)
http://www.wsu.edu:8080/~wldciv/world_civ_reader/world_civ_reader_2/montaigne.html
The discovery of so many new lands in the Renaissance had
less impact on most Europeans than one might suppose. They were largely
absorbed in recovering (and competing with) their own classical past and
engaging in violent theological and political disputes among themselves. Yet
some Europeans were profoundly shaken by the new discoveries into realizing
that much of the world thought and lived very differently from what was then
known as "Christendom." No writer was more strongly moved to view his
own society from a new perspective in the light of reports brought back of the
habits of the natives of the "
When King Pyrrhus invaded
I
had with me for a long time a man who had lived for ten or twelve years in this
other world which has been discovered in our time, in the place where Villegaignon landed, which he named Antarctic France (1). This discover of an
enormous land seems to me to be worth contemplating. I doubt that I could
affirm that another such may not be discovered in the future, since so many
greater people than I were mistaken about this one. I'm afraid that our eyes
are bigger than our stomachs, and that we have more curiosity than
comprehension. We try to embrace everything but succeed only in grasping the
wind.
. .
. I do not find that there is anything barbaric or savage about this nation,
according to what I've been told, unless we are to call barbarism whatever
differs from our own customs. Indeed, we seem to have no other standard of
truth and reason than the opinions and customs of our own country. There at
home is always the perfect religion, the perfect legal system--the perfect and
most accomplished way of doing everything. These people are wild in the same
sense that fruits are, produced by nature, alone, in her ordinary way. Indeed,
in that land, it is we who refuse to alter our artificial ways and reject the
common order that ought rather to be called wild, or savage, (2) In them the
most natural virtues and abilities are alive and vigorous, whereas we have
bastardized them and adopted them solely to our corrupt taste. Even so, the
flavor and delicacy of some of the wild fruits from those countries is
excellent, even to our taste, better than our cultivated ones. After all, it
would hardly be reasonable that artificial breeding should be able to outdo our
great and powerful mother, Nature. We have so burdened the beauty and richness
of her works by our innovations that we have entirely stifled her. Yet whenever
she shines forth in her purity she puts our vain and frivolous enterprises
amazingly to shame.
All
our efforts cannot create the nest of the tiniest bird: its structure, its
beauty, or the usefulness of its form; nor can we create the web of the lowly
spider. All things, said Plato are produced by nature, chance, or human skill,
the greatest and most beautiful things by one of the first two, the lesser and
most imperfect, by the latter.
These
nations seem to me, then, barbaric in that they have been little refashioned by
the human mind and are still quite close to their original naiveté. They are
still ruled by natural laws, only slightly corrupted by ours. They are in such
a state of purity that I am sometimes saddened by the thought that we did not
discover them earlier, when there were people who would have known how to judge
them better than we. It displeases me that Lycurgus
or Plato didn't know them, for it seems to me that these peoples surpass not
only the portraits which poetry has made of the Golden Age and all the
invented, imaginary notions of the ideal state of humanity, but even the
conceptions and the very aims of philosophers themselves. They could not
imagine such a pure and simple naiveté as we encounter in them; nor would they
have been able to believe that our society might be maintained with so little
artifice and social structure.
This
is a people, I would say to Plato, among whom there is no commerce at all, no
knowledge of letters, no knowledge of numbers, nor any judges, or political
superiority, no habit of service, riches, or poverty, no contracts, no
inheritance, no divisions of property, no occupations but easy ones, no respect
for any relationship except ordinary family ones, no clothes, no agriculture,
no metal, no use of wine or wheat. The very words which mean "lie,"
"treason," "deception," "greed,"
"envy," "slander" and "forgiveness" are unknown. How far his imaginary Republic would be from
such perfection:
Hos natura modos primum dedit. . . . (5)
They
have their wars against peoples who live beyond their mountains, further
inland, to which they go entirely naked, bearing no other arms that bows and
sharpened stakes like our hunting spears. The courage with which they fight is
amazing: their battles never end except through death of bloodshed, for they do
not even understand what fear is. Each one carries back as a trophy the head of
the enemy that he has skilled, and hangs it up at the entrance to his home.
After having treated their prisoners well for a long time, giving them all the
provisions that they could one, he who is the chief calls a great assembly of his acquaintances. He ties a rope to one of the arms of the
prisoner and on the other end, several feet away, out of harm's way, and gives
to his best friend the arm to hold; and the two of them, in the presence of the
assembled group, slash him to death with their swords. That
done, they roast him and eat him together, sending portions to their absent
friends. They do this, not as is supposed, for nourishment as did the
ancient Scythians; it represents instead an extreme form of vengeance. The
proof of this is that when they saw that the Portuguese, who had allied
themselves with their adversaries, when they executed their captives
differently, burying them up to the waist and firing numerous arrows into the
remainder of the body, hanging them afterward, they viewed these people from
another world, who had spread the knowledge of many vices among their
neighbors, and who were much more masterly than they in every sort of evil,
must have chosen this sort of revenge for a reason. Thinking that it must be
more bitter than their own, they abandoned their ancient way to imitate this
one.
I am
not so concerned that we should remark on the barbaric horror of such a deed,
but that, while we quite rightly judge their faults, we are blind to our own. I
think it is more barbaric to eat a man alive than to eat him dead, to tear
apart through torture and pain a living body which can still feel, or to burn
it alive by bits, to let it be gnawed and chewed by dogs or pigs (as we have no
only read, but seen, in recent times, not against old enemies but among neighbors and fellow-citizens, and--what is
worse--under the pretext of piety and religion. (6) Better to roast
and eat him after he is dead.
Translated
by Paul Brians
(1)
(2) Sauvage in French means both wild and savage.
(3) The ivy grows best when it grows wild,
and the arbutus is most lovely when it grows in solitude; untaught birds sing
most sweetly . Propertius, I, ii, 10.
(4) Men freshly molded from the hands of the
gods. (Seneca: Epistles, 90.)
(5) These are the first laws laid down by
Nature. (Virgil: Georgics, II, 20.)
(6) Montaigne is
describing the tortures frequently carried out by the Holy Inquisition against
heretics.
TRANSLATED
FROM THE FRENCH WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR BY
ON
the 1st of September, when the baths of the Pyrenees begin to have efficacy,
several persons from France, Spain and other countries were assembled at those
of Cauterets, some to drink the waters, some to bathe
in them, and others to be treated with mud; remedies so marvelous, that
patients given over by physicians go home cured from Cauterets.
My intention is not to speak to you either of the situation or the virtue of
the baths; but only to recount what is pertinent to the matter I am about to
write. The patients remained at these baths until they found themselves
sufficiently improved in health; but then, as they were preparing to return
home, there fell such excessive and extraordinary rains, that it seemed as
though God had forgotten his promise to Noah that he would never again destroy
the world with water. The houses of Cauterets were so
flooded that it was impossible to abide in them. Those who had come from
But
a widow of long experience, named Oisille, resolved
to banish from her mind the fear of bad roads, and repair to Notre Dame de Serrance; not that she was so superstitious as to suppose
that the glorious Virgin would quit her place at her son's right hand to come
and dwell in a desert land, but only because she wished to see the holy place
of which she had heard so much; and also because she was assured that if there
were any means of escaping from a danger, the monks were sure to find it out.
She met with no end of difficulties; but at last she arrived, after having
passed through places almost impracticable, and so difficult to climb and
descend, that notwithstanding her age and her weight, she was compelled to
perform the greater part of the journey on foot. But the most piteous thing was
that most of her servants and horses died on the way, and that she arrived with
one man and one woman only at Serrance, where she was
charitably received by the monks.
There
were also among the French two gentlemen who had gone to the baths rather to
accompany the ladies they loved than for any need they themselves had to use
the waters. These gentlemen, seeing that the company was breaking up, and that
the husbands of their mistresses were taking them away, thought proper to
follow them at a distance, without acquainting any one with their purpose. The
two married gentlemen and their wives arrived one evening at the house of a man
who was more a bandit than a peasant. The two young gentlemen lodged at a
cottage hard by, and hearing a great noise about
If you would know the names of the three gentlemen, that of the
married one was Hircan, and his wife's Parlamente. The widow's name was Longarine. One of
the young gentlemen was called Dagoucin, and the
other Saffredent. They were in the saddle all day,
and towards evening they descried a belfry, to which they made the best of
their way, not without toil and trouble, and were humanely welcomed by the
abbot and the monks. The abbey is called St. Savin's.
The abbot, who was of a very good house, lodged them honorably, and on the way
to their lodgings begged them to acquaint him with their adventures.
After they had recounted them, he told them they were not the only persons who
had been unfortunate, for there were in another room two ladies who had escaped
as great a danger, or worse, inasmuch as they had encountered not men but
beasts; for these poor ladies met a bear from the mountain half a league this
side of Peyrchite, and fled from it with such speed
that their horses dropped dead under them as they entered the abbey gates; and
two of their women, who arrived long after them, reported that the bear had
killed all their men-servants. The two ladies and the three gentlemen then went
into the ladies' chamber, where they found them in tears, and saw they were Nomerfide and Ennasuite. They all
embraced, and after mutually recounting their adventures, they began to be
comforted through the sage exhortations of the abbot, counting it a great
consolation to have so happily met again; and next day they heard mass with
much devotion, and gave thanks to God for that he had delivered them out of
such perils.
Whilst
they were all at mass, a man came running into the church in his shirt, and
shouting for help, as if some one was close at his heels. Hircan
and the other gentlemen hastened to him to see what was the
matter, and saw two men pursuing him sword in hand. The latter would
have fled upon seeing so many people, but Hircan and
his party were too swift for them, and they lost their lives. On his return, Hircan discovered that the man in the shirt was one of
their companions named Geburon. His story was, that
being at a cottage near Peyrchite, he had been
surprised in his bed by three men. Springing out in his shirt he had seized his
sword, and mortally wounded one of them; and whilst the two others were busy
succoring their comrade, Geburon, seeing that the
odds were two to one against him, and that he was naked whilst they wore armor,
thought his safest course was to take to his heels, especially as his clothes
would not impede his running. He too praised God for his deliverance, and he
thanked those who had revenged him.
After
the company had heard mass and dined they sent to see if it were possible to
pass the Gave river, and were in consternation at hearing that the thing was
impracticable, though the abbot entreated them many times to remain with him
until the waters had abated. This they agreed to for that day, and in the
evening, when they were about to go to bed, there arrived an old monk who used
to come regularly every September to Our Lady of Serrance.
Being asked news of his journey, he stated that, in consequence of the flood,
he had come by the mountains, and traveled over the worst roads he had ever
seen in his life. He had beheld a very sad spectacle. A gentleman named Simontault, tired of waiting till the river should subside,
had resolved to attempt the passage, relying on the goodness of his horse, and
had made his domestics place themselves round him to break the force of the current;
but when they reached the middle of the stream the worst mounted were swept
away and were seen no more. Thereupon the gentleman made again for the bank he
had quitted. His horse, good as it was, failed him at his need; but by God's
will this happened so near the bank, that the gentleman was able at last to
scramble on all fours to the hard, not without having drunk a good deal of
water, and so exhausted that he could hardly sustain himself. Happily for him a
shepherd, leading back his sheep to the fields in the evening, found him seated
on the stones, dripping wet, and not less sad for the loss of his people who
had perished before his eyes. The shepherd, who understood his need both from
his appearance and his words, took him by the hand and led him to his cabin,
where he made a little fire and dried him as well as he could. That same
evening Providence conducted to the cabin the old monk, who told him the way to
Our Lady of Serrance, and assured him that he would
be better lodged there than elsewhere, and that he would find there an aged
widow named Oisille, who had met with an adventure as
distressing as his own.
The
company testified extreme joy at hearing the names of the good dame Oisille and the gentle knight Simontault;
and every one praised God for having saved the master and mistress after the
loss of the servants. Parlamente especially gave
hearty thanks to God, for she had long had a most affectionate servant in Simontault. They inquired carefully about the road to Serrance, and though the good old man represented it to
them as very difficult, nothing could stop them from setting out on that very
day, so well provided with all things necessary that nothing was left for them
to wish for. The abbot supplied them with the best horses in Lavedan, good Bearnese cloaks,
wine, and plenty of victuals, and a good escort to conduct them in safety
across the mountains. They traversed them more on foot than on horseback, and
arrived at last, after many toils, at Our Lady of Serrance.
Though the abbot was churlish enough, he durst not refuse to lodge them, for
fear of disobliging the lord of Bearn, by whom he
knew they were held in consideration; but like a true hypocrite as he was, he
showed them the best possible countenance, and took them to see the lady Oisille and the gentleman Simontault.
All were equally delighted to finding themselves so miraculously reassembled,
and the night was spent in praising God for the grace he had vouchsafed them.
After taking a little rest, towards morning they went to hear mass, and receive
the holy sacrament of union, by means of which all Christians are united as
one, and to beg of God, who had reassembled them through his goodness, the
grace to complete their journey for his glory.
After
dinner they sent to know if the waters were fallen, but finding, on the
contrary, that they were still higher, and that it would be a long time before
they could pass safely, they resolved to have a bridge made, abutting on two
rocks very near each other, and on which there still are planks used by people
on foot, who coming from Oleron wish to pass the
Gave. The abbot, very well pleased at their incurring an expense which would
increase the number of pilgrims, furnished them with workmen; but he was so
miserly that he would not contribute a farthing of his own. The workmen,
however, having declared that it would take at least ten or twelve days to
construct the bridge, the company began to grow tired. Parlamente,
the wife of Hircan, always active and never
melancholy, having asked her husband's permission to speak, said to old dame Oisille, "I am surprised, madam, that you, who have so
much experience that you fill the place of a mother to the rest of us women, do
not devise some amusement to mitigate the annoyance we shall suffer from so long
a delay; for unless we have something agreeable and virtuous to occupy us, we
are in danger of falling sick."
"What
is still worse," said Longarine, the young
widow, "we shall grow cross, which is an incurable malady; the more so as
there is not one of us but has cause to be extremely sad, considering our
several losses."
"Every
one has not lost her husband like you," said Ennasuite,
laughing. "To have lost servants is not a matter to break one's heart
about, since they can easily be replaced. However, I am decidedly of opinion
that we should pass the time away as agreeably as we can."
Nomerfide,
her companion, said it was a very good idea, and that if she passed one day
without amusement, she should be dead the next. The gentlemen all warmly
approved of the proposal, and begged dame Oisille to
direct what was to be done.
"You
ask a thing of me, my children," replied the old lady, "which I find
very difficult. You want me to invent an amusement which shall dissipate your
ennui. I have been in search of such a remedy all my life long,
and I have never found but one, which is the reading of Holy Writ. It is in
such reading that the mind finds its true and perfect joy, whence proceed the
repose and the health of the body. If you ask me what I do to be so cheerful
and so healthy at so advanced an age, it is, that as
soon as I rise I read the Holy Scriptures. I see and contemplate the will of
God, who sent his Son on earth to announce to us that holy word and that good
news which promises the pardon of all sins, and the payment of all debts, by
the gift he has made us of his love, passion, and merits. This idea affords me
such joy, that I take my psalter, and sing with my
heart and pronounce with my lips, as humbly as I can, the beautiful canticles
with which the Holy Spirit inspired David and other sacred authors. The
pleasure I derive from them is so ravishing, that I regard as blessings the
evils which befal me every day, because I have in my
heart through faith Him who has suffered all these evils for me. Before supper
I retire in like manner to feed my soul with reading. In the evening I review
all I have done in the day; I ask pardon for my faults; I thank God for his
graces, and lie down in his love, fear, and peace, assured against all evils.
This, my children, is what has long been my amusement, after having searched
well, and found none more solid and more satisfying. It seems to me, then, that
if you will give yourselves every morning for an hour to reading, and say your
prayers devoutly during mass, you will find in this solitude all the charms
which cities could afford. In fact, he who knows God finds all things fair in him, and without him everything ugly and disagreeable. Take
my advice, therefore, I entreat you, if you wish to find happiness in life."
"Those
who have read the Holy Scriptures," said Hircan,
"as I believe we have done, will confess, madam, that what you have said
is true. But you must also consider that we are not yet so mortified but that
we have need of some amusement and corporeal pastime. When we are at home we
have the chase and hawking, which make us forget a thousand bad thoughts; the
ladies have their household affairs, their needlework, and sometimes dancing,
wherein they find laudable exercise. I propose then, on the part of the men,
that you, as the eldest lady, read to us in the morning the history of the life
of our Lord Jesus Christ, and of the great and wondrous things he has done for
us. After dinner until vespers we must choose some pastime which may be
agreeable to the body and not prejudicial to the soul. By this means we shall
pass the day cheerfully."
Dame
Oisille replied, that she had so much difficulty in
forgetting vanities, that she was afraid she should succeed ill in the choice
of such a pastime; also, that the matter should be referred to the majority of
voices. "And you, monsieur," she said to Hircan,
"shall give your opinion first."
"If
I thought," replied Hircan, "that the
diversion I should like to propose would be as agreeable to a certain lady in
this company as to myself, my choice would be soon announced; but as I am
afraid this would not be the case, I have nothing to say, but will submit to
the decision of the rest."
His
wife Parlamente colored up at these words, believing
they were meant for her. "Perhaps, Hircan,"
she said, a little angrily and half laughing, "that
the lady you think hardest to please could find means to content herself if she
had a mind. But let us say no more of the pastime in which only two can take
part, and think of one in which everybody can share."
"Since
my wife has so well comprehended my views," observed Hircan
to the other ladies, "and a private diversion is not to her taste, I
believe she is the best person to invent an amusement which will give
satisfaction to us all. I declare, therefore, beforehand, that I assent to her
proposal."
The
whole company spoke to the same effect, and Parlamente,
seeing that she was appointed mistress of the sports, thus addressed the
company: "Were I conscious of possessing as much capacity as the ancients
who invented the arts, I would contrive an amusement which should fulfil the obligation you lay upon me; but as I know
myself, and am aware that I find it difficult even to recollect the ingenious
inventions of others, I shall think myself lucky if I can closely follow those
who have already done what you desire. I believe there is not one of you but
has read the novels of Boccaccio recently translated
into French, and which the most Christian King, Francis I. of that name, Monseigneur le Dauphin, Madame la Dauphine, and Madame
Marguerite, prized so highly, that if Boccaccio could
hear them, the praises bestowed on him by those illustrious persons would
surely raise him from the dead. I can certify that the two ladies I have named,
and several other personages of the court, resolved to imitate Boccaccio, except in one thing—namely, in writing nothing
but what was true. Monseigneur and the two ladies
arranged at first that they would each write ten tales, and that they would
assemble a party of ten persons, selecting for it those whom they thought most
capable of telling a story with grace, and expressly excluding men of letters;
for Monseigneur did not wish that there should be any
intrusion of art into the matter, and was afraid lest the flowers of rhetoric
should be in some manner prejudicial to the truth of history. But the great
affairs in which the king afterwards became involved, the peace concluded
between the sovereign and the King of England, the accouchement of Madame la
Dauphine, and several other affairs of a nature to occupy the whole court,
caused this project to be forgotten; but as we have time to spare we will put
it into execution whilst waiting for the completion of our bridge. If you think
proper, we will go from
The
whole company declared they could not imagine anything better, and everyone
looked forward with impatience for the morrow. As soon as the morning broke
they all went to the chamber of Madame Oisille, whom
they found already at prayers. She read to them for a good hour, after which
they heard mass, and at
The
company being seated on the green turf, so soft and delicate that no one had
need of floor or carpet, "Which of us," said Simontault,
"shall have the command over the rest?"
"Since
you have been the first to speak," said Hircan,
"it is right you should have the command; for in sport all are
equals."
"God
knows," replied Simontault, "I could desire
nothing better in the world than to command such a company."
Parlamente,
who knew very well what that meant, began to cough, so that Hircan
did not perceive she had changed color, and told Simontault
to begin his tale, for all were ready to hear him. The same request being urged
by the whole company, Simontault said: "I have
been so ill-requited for my long services, ladies, that to revenge myself on
love and on the fair one who treats me with so much cruelty, I am about to make
a collection of misdeeds done by women to men, in the whole of which I will
relate nothing but the simple truth."
POETRY
MAURICE SCEVE (1500-1564)
Sceve
was born at
He was the leader of the
DELIE
The Eye, too
afire with my youthful errors,
Whirled like a weathercock, without design:
When suddenly (what delight, what terrors)
My Basilisk, now sharpening its sights,
Pierced Body, & Heart, put Reason to flight,
Lancing deep into the Soul of my Soul. (D 1)
A flame this
blest will endure in light,
Always bright, & clear to all,
As long as the World abides
And men hold Love in awe.
Thus I see little that might set apart
The ardor which will pursue our hearts
From the living virtue which will guide us
Beyond Heaven's infinite parts.
Our Juniper shall thus live on,
Unspoiled by death's Oblivion.
As Hecate, you will doom me to wander
Among the Shades, alive, & dead a hundred years:
As Diana, you will confine me to the Sky
Whence you descended to this vale of tears:
As Queen of Hell in your dark domain
You will increase or diminish my pains.
But as Moon infused into my veins
You were, & are, & shall be DELIE,
So knotted by Love to my idle thoughts
That Death itself could never untie us. (D 22)
Dawn was
extinguishing Stars in profusion,
Drawing up day from the regions below,
Apollo was rising above the Horizon,
Painting the high horned hills in gold.
Then, from the depth of the dark Abyss
In which my mind, at the end of its wits,
Often tunnels me through the night,
I called my ravished soul back to my side:
Who, drying the tears from my eyes,
Cleared my view of the Sun of my life. (D79)
As brown dusk
blackens into night
And Somnus slowly lulls the Earth,
Buried in the shadows of my curtains,
A dream comes to set my spirit free
To be admitted into the intimacy
Of its revered, & majestic queen.
But her manner is so easy, so dear,
So inviting, it seems to me I might soon
Be allowed to hold her without fear,
If only as Endymion the Moon. (D 126)
Every long,
& wide expanse of Sea,
Every whirling tract of solid land,
Every distant site of day, & night,
Every interval, O you who unsettle me,
Will be filled by your sweet severity.
Thus surpassing the spans of Time,
You will climb beyond the sphere of Stars,
Your sacred name, sped by my misery,
Traversing all creation at full sail. (D 259)
JOAQUIN DU BELLAY (1522-1560)
HYMN TO
THE WINDS
To you, troop so fleet,
That with winged wandering feet,
Through the wide world pass,
And with soft murmuring
Toss the green shades of spring
In woods and grass,
Lily and violet
I give, and blossoms wet,
Roses and dew;
This branch of blushing roses,
Whose fresh bud uncloses,
Wind-flowers too.
Ah, winnow with sweet breath,
Winnow the holt and heath,
Round this retreat;
Where all the golden morn
We fan the gold o' the corn,
In the sun's heat.
A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS
We that with like hearts love, we lovers
twain,
New wedded in the village by thy fane,
Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is
We bring these amaranths, these white lilies,
A sign, and sacrifice; may Love, we pray,
Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay;
Like these cool lilies may our loves remain,
Perfect and pure, and know not any stain;
And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour,
Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower.
A SONNET TO HEAVENLY BEAUTY
If this our little life is but a day
In the Eternal,--if the years in vain
Toil after hours that never come again, -
If everything that hath been must decay,
Why dreamest thou of joys that pass away,
My soul, that my sad body doth restrain?
Why of the moment's pleasure art thou fain?
Nay, thou hast wings,--nay, seek another stay.
There is the joy whereto each soul aspires,
And there the rest that all the world desires,
And there is love, and peace, and gracious mirth;
And there in the most highest heavens shalt thou
Behold the Very Beauty, whereof now
Thou worshippest the shadow upon earth.
PIERRE RONSARD (1524-1585)
ROSES
I send you here a wreath of blossoms blown,
And woven flowers at sunset gathered,
Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed
Loose leaves upon the grass at random strown.
By this, their sure example, be it known,
That all your beauties, now in perfect flower,
Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour,
Flowerlike, and brief of days, as the flower sown.
Ah, time is flying, lady--time is flying;
Nay, 'tis not time that flies but we that go,
Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying,
And of our loving parley none shall know,
Nor any man consider what we were;
Be therefore kind, my love, whiles thou art fair.
THE ROSE
See, Mignonne,
hath not the Rose,
That this morning did unclose
Her purple mantle to the light,
Lost, before the day be dead,
The glory of her raiment red,
Her colour, bright as yours is bright?
Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours,
The petals of her purple flowers
All have faded, fallen, died;
Sad Nature, mother ruinous,
That seest thy fair child perish thus
'Twixt matin song and even tide.
Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth,
Gather the fleet flower of your youth,
Take ye your pleasure at the best;
Be merry ere your beauty flit,
For length of days will tarnish it
Like roses that were loveliest.
OF HIS
LADY'S OLD AGE
When you are very old, at evening
You'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say,
Humming my songs, 'Ah well, ah well-a-day!
When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.'
None of your maidens that doth hear the thing,
Albeit with her weary task foredone,
But wakens at my name, and calls you one
Blest, to be held in long remembering.
I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid
On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade,
While you beside the fire, a grandame grey,
My love, your pride, remember and regret;
Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet,
And gather roses, while 'tis called to-day.
LADY'S
TOMB
As in the gardens, all through May, the
rose,
Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled,
Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red,
When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows;
Graces and Loves within her breast repose,
The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed,
Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead
The languid flower, and the loose leaves unclose, -
So this, the perfect beauty of our days,
When earth and heaven were vocal of her praise,
The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes;
And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb
Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom,
That dead, as living, she may be with roses.
Questions to accompany Rabelais’
passages:
Questions to accompany Montaigne’s essays:
Questions to accompany the Introduction
to the Heptameron: