INTRODUCTION
In the world of literature there are many instances which exhibit the personality of a particular writer identified so completely with certain of his works that he is, so to speak, divorced from all association with any others, however great their merit, which he may have left behind him. The popular verdict, so often swayed by incomprehensible impulse, is given in favour of one or two books, and all the rest fall into oblivion or neglect. How trifling is the vogue of Walton’s “Lives” compared with that of the “Angler.” To the multitude Swift is known almost entirely as the author of Gulliver, and the name of Gray suggests the “Elegy” as inevitably as that of Cowper suggests “John Gilpin.” In like manner we find the fame of Montaigne resting on the “Essays” alone; but this case is in a measure exceptional. Montaigne died in 1592, and until 1774 the “Essays” comprised the whole of his literary legacy. In the year last mentioned, a certain M. Prunis, who was collecting materials for a history of Perigord, discovered in a chest at the Château de Montaigne the manuscript account of the writer’s travels in Switzerland, the Empire, and Italy in the years 1580 and 1581.
Notwithstanding the fame of the writer, and the inherent interest of the long-hidden work, the “Journal” failed to win the public favour, and virtually Montaigne still kept the status of a single book author. It has never roused much enthusiasm in France, in spite of a generous and appreciative article by Sainte-Beuve in the Nouveaux Lundis. “Montaigne,” he writes, “is the intimate friend of every one of us, and of our intimate friends it is impossible to know too much.” And he then goes on to demonstrate the extraordinary value and interest of the “Journal” when read in connection with the “Essays.” It is casting no slur on the “Journal” to say that it is inferior to the writers masterpiece in literary grace; and, so much being granted, it may be asserted that nowhere in Montaigne’s writings is his personality, with its attractive wisdom and no less attractive weaknesses, more clearly and completely exhibited than in the work under consideration.
This excellence of self-portraiture may be explained by the fact that the Montaigne of the “Essays” greets us as the philosopher in his study, face to face with the innumerable problems to be canvassed in determining the rules which should guide man’s conduct towards his fellows. Here with laborious care he searches the world of books for illustrations apt for the establishment of his position and for its defence. Now and then, in spite of the quaint charm of the writing, it seems as if we cannot see the wood for the trees, and we regret that we cannot enjoy a closer personal acquaintance with the author, a knowledge at first hand, and not blurred by the cloud of approving witnesses which it has pleased him to summon up from the caverns of the libraries. But with the Montaigne of the “Journal” it is altogether different. Here we find the man giving his experience of a phase of life which, for good or evil, has become almost normal in these latter days. Most of us have crossed the Alps and descended upon Italy; and, changed as the conditions of travel are, it raises a sympathetic interest to read of the humours of the road in Montaigne’s time, and to compare his experience with our own. We are introduced to him face to face with troubles and pleasures, the intensity of which it is not difficult to gauge: the knavery of postmasters: the stupidity of guides: the discomfort of this inn, and the excellence of that. We listen to his simple narrative of his experience of men and cities, and learn to know him better here than when encumbered by the swarming hypotheses and guarding clauses which fill the pages of his opus magnum. When he begins to speculate, his reflections are given in the plainest words, and rarely fail to reveal one or other of those lovable personal traits with which acquaintance, as well as tradition, will have invested him. His large-minded toleration, his fastidious care lest any judgment given should be based on insufficient knowledge, and his reluctance to commit himself to any positive statement—characteristics which dominate the drift of thought in the “Essays”—reappear in the “Journal,” and help to give to his utterances on the world as he found it an authority which few contemporary travellers could claim.
In any comparison he felt bound to draw between things in France and things over the frontier, toleration is his watchword; and he knew no more of the spirit of Chauvinism than he did of the word. But he seems to have found some tendencies in that direction in the carriage of certain young Frenchmen whom he met at Padua, and he goes on to lament that the number of these should be large enough to constitute a society in itself, and that on this account his young countrymen should be debarred from making acquaintance with the people of the place. Again, he shows a little resentment at finding himself surrounded by such a crowd of Frenchmen as he found in Rome. He is full of praise of the iron work of Switzerland, and of the cookery as well. The bed-chambers in Germany did not always please him, but he could not say too much in favour of the porcelain stoves and the coverlets stuffed with feathers; and when he found the charges at the baths of Baden a little arbitrary, he adds that he would have fared no better in France. He describes the private houses round Constance as being far superior to the parallel class of house in France; and, in taking exception in a general way to defects in the service at the inns, he remarks that these things seemed amiss to him chiefly because they were unfamiliar: indeed, he lavished so much praise on German ways of living that the patriotism of his amanuensis, was in one instance stirred to remonstrance. Montaigne had evidently a strong liking for Germany (though indeed he is somewhat uncomplimentary as to the personal charms of the ladies of Augsburg) and he left it with reluctance; for, when he arrived at Botzen and marked the prevalence of Italian customs there, he wrote in a strain of regret to Francis Hottoman, the jurisconsult whom he had met at Basel, expressing his satisfaction at the treatment he had met with in that city and his regrets at bidding farewell to the Empire, even though his goal were Italy. Vanity is the proverbial weakness of the Frenchman, but the only trace of it in Montaigne’s record is to be found in his action at Augsburg when some of the town officers took him for a baron, and he bade his companions not correct the error. His remarks thereanent show that he was more swayed by considerations of practical utility than by the desire of personal exaltation; as he goes on to say that, being credited with a baron’s rank, he would doubtless receive more attention from the hands of the authorities.
To show how little of the braggart was in him it may be noted that when he visited the church of S. Lorenzo at Florence he did not refrain from naming, amongst the other sights he saw there, the French banners captured from Marshal Strozzi’s forces by the Florentines, and when on his way home he passed by Fornovo, the scene of the great French victory in 1495, does not allude to the battle at all. On the other hand, he expressly records that he turned aside from the road between Pavia and Milan to view the field of the battle so disastrous to the arms of France.
The bent of Montaigne’s mind led him to devote his chief attention to the rules and institutions which regulated public life in the lands he visited, rather than to what modern travellers call “sights,” and in Fynes Moryson’s travels about ten, and in Coryat’s about thirty years later, the same tendencies appear. When at any time he does describe any human achievement, it is usually some mechanical device, such as the watch-tower and the water-works at Augsburg. Italy was rich, or probably much richer, in paintings than she is now, but only on three or four occasions does he find any worth mentioning. Nevertheless he writes pages in praise of the ridiculous squirts and tubes which are devised to drench the unwary visitors to Italian gardens now, just as they did at the time when he was on his travels. Artificial water-works of all sorts seem to have had a peculiar fascination for him: indeed on his way back to France he paid a second visit to Pratolino, near Florence, in order to compare the merits of the fountains there with those which he had seen at Tivoli. He ends the description of his expedition with the following thoroughly characteristic sentences: “Et essendo pregato dal casiero del palazzo di dire la mia sentenzia di quelle bellezze e di Tivoli, ne discorsi non comparando questi luoghi in generale, ma parte per parte, con le diverse considerazioni dell’un e dell’altro, essendo vicendevolmente vittore ora questo, or quello.”
Perhaps it would be unfair to attribute to indifference Montaigne’s comparative silence over Italian painting. In his day it was not the fashion to write so copiously as at present concerning this particular phase of art, nor was it deemed necessary that every third-rate painter should possess his exponent and prophet. Whatever the reason, Montaigne passed it by in silence, save in a few instances, and the cause of his appreciation in these cases was evidently that the pictures possessed historic interest. At Caprarola he found portraits of Henry II. of France, Catherine dei Medici and their two sons. He mentions the pictures at Loreto, referring probably to the ex voto daubs and not to the works of Signorelli and Melozzo da Forli. In his visit to the Vatican he notices a certain gallery which was being decorated with views of Italy, ancient and modern, by the order of Gregory XIII., the reigning Pope, and also those by Vasari in the Sala Regia depicting recent events of history which could hardly fail to interest him—the battle of Lepanto, the massacre of S. Bartholomew, and the death of Coligny. At Padua he praises the gardens of the Arena, but leaves unnoticed the chapel and its frescoes: probably he had never heard Giotto’s name. He has much to say of the Piazza at Siena, of the fountain and of the bronze wolf, but only a few words as to the exterior of the Cathedral, and not one about the many works of art within. At the Certosa at Pavia he mentions the carven façade and the tomb of Gian Galeazzo Visconti, but ignores the paintings. Sculpture seems to have had much greater fascination for him: he gives the names of many of the great works in the Vatican and Capitol, and praises Michael Angelo’s “Moses” and his statues in the Medici Chapel at Florence. He makes special mention of “la belle fame qui est aus pieds du Pape Pol tiers en la nouvelle église de S. Pierre,” the statue which the prudery of a later Pontiff caused to be encased in robes of bronze.
Montaigne would occasionally throw a hard word at the Jesuits, and probably he disliked them as a body, but, however this might be, he seldom failed to seek out any member of the order who might be resident in the cities he visited; no doubt because he knew he would meet a well-educated man, and one able to converse with him on the topics he had most at heart. At Rome he gives high praise to the diligence and ability of the Jesuits, probably for the reason that he found the practical drift of their policy congenial to his own humour. He certainly showed no sign of enthusiasm in contemplating the scenes of the more emotional phenomena of Catholicism, for he made no reference to S. Catherine when describing Siena, and Assisi he did not deem worth a visit. He probably went to Loreto on account of the historic fame of the Santa Casa, and he was certainly much more impressed by the material aspect of the prevalent legend, the crowds of pilgrims, the shops for the sale of candles and ex votos, the riches of the treasury, and the profit of the pilgrimage to the townsfolk, than by the spiritual aspect of the same.
Montaigne, sceptic as he was in dealing with religious questions, never allowed this disposition to induce him to take up an unqualified attitude of hostility. Over the claims of the miraculous he kept his judgment in suspense, and did not condemn as a necessary imposture what he could not accept as a proven truth. Joseph Glanvil, in Sadducismus Triumphatus, holds a similar position in condemning what he calls “the credulity of unbelief,” that is, when sceptics, by way of discrediting phenomena which they cannot accept, suggest, as an alternative explanation, something still harder to believe. At Loreto, in commenting on the alleged miraculous cure of a certain M. Marteau, Montaigne shows a marked inclination to accept the popular version of the story, and omits to appraise the divers subjective influences which invariably play an important part in remedial phenomena of this description. Again, he is swayed by the same humour in writing concerning the peculiar virtue of the earth in the Campo Santo at Pisa, which was fabled to preserve human remains from corruption for any length of time.
Nothing that Montaigne saw in his travels seems to have given him more pleasure than the sight of the exquisite cultivation of the plains and hillsides in Italy and the consequent well-being of the contadini. On this subject he writes with enthusiasm and even astonishment while descending the southern slopes of the Alps, and traversing the Lombard plain and the lovely valley of Clitumnus. Nowhere in the “Journal” does he speak with a stronger note of gratification than in describing these evidences of material prosperity: not even when he tells of an interview with some learned man, or sets down some new facts concerning prevalent laws and institutions, or ventures on some shrewd and luminous inference founded on his experiences of the men and cities he had got to know in the course of his travels.
The part of the “Journal” which will be found most interesting to contemporary readers is unquestionably that which describes his sojourn in Rome. His perception was dazzled and awe-stricken at the spectacle of the vast and ruinous habitation which then sheltered the greatest unifying influence still existing in the world; but, impressed as he was by the majesty of the Papal power, he made it quite clear that this was not for him the true Rome. His conception of the genius of the place was in the main a subjective one. With an intelligence disciplined and enriched by historic study, he seemed to behold at every turn the phantom of that astounding domination, now empty, vain, and shattered; and, in recording his reflections on this pregnant theme, his style rises as near to rhapsody as his well-balanced temperament would allow.
With respect to Rome as he found it, Montaigne was profoundly impressed by the manifestation of the concentrated power of the Catholic Church, the splendour of the religious functions, and the activity and devotion of the various confraternities. He estimates this show of religious enthusiasm, and the ardour of the people over their spiritual exercises, as the chief glory of the place as it then existed. At the same time he was quite unconvinced by the spectacle of an attempt by some priests to exorcise evil spirits, and evidently viewed the whole affair as a nauseous imposture, like Fynes Moryson on a subsequent visit. His tolerant disposition is shown by the keen interest he took over the Lutheran baptismal and marriage rites which he witnessed at Augsburg, and few experiences of his travels seem to have interested him more than the ceremony of circumcision, which he witnessed in the house of a Jew in Rome, and described in minute detail and at great length.
The main object of Montaigne’s journey was to visit certain foreign baths, with the hope of getting relief from the pains which he suffered through gall-stone and gravel. Seeing that he must almost always have been in pain, or at least discomfort, and that the inconveniences of travel were in themselves no light burden in these days, the constant cheerfulness of his temper, and his freshness of sentiment and speech, whenever he chanced to be brought face to face with some attractive experience, prove what a sweet and happy nature his must have been. He records how on the road from Terni to Spoleto he was suffering from colic, which had vexed him for the last four-and-twenty hours, but this plague did not prevent him from expressing his delight over the exquisite scenery on either hand. Travel by itself was to him the keenest pleasure, as he shows in the quaint remarks he lets fall when journeying from Trent to Rovere. His companions were seemingly aggrieved that he occasionally led them a wild-goose chase, and brought them back to the point from which they started; but he gaily assured them that he never missed his way, because, as he never made plans, the place in which he might find himself at sunset must needs be the legitimate end of the day’s travel. Perhaps of all the humours he displayed en route, the most marked was his insatiable curiosity and his avidity of fresh experience. He met the Pope (Gregory XIII.), the Grand Duke of Tuscany, the Duke of Ferrara, and cardinals, ambassadors, chancellors, and officials out of number, and hardly one of these got rid of him without having to listen and reply to divers well-judged questions. He even went so far as to pay visits to the lodgings of the fashionable cortigiane in Rome, as Coryat did at Venice. In many places he writes in a strain which shows that, in spite of bodily ills and his clear perception of the troubles of the world, he felt a keen joy in life. On setting out for Italy he declared he seemed to be in like case to one who reads some delightful story or good book and dreads to turn the last page. The pleasure of travel was to him so intense, that he hated the sight of the place where he ought by rights to stop and rest. The grant of Roman citizenship evidently pleased him greatly, as did his election as Mayor of Bordeaux, though he coquetted a little with the burgesses at first. But though he and the world were good friends, he kept constantly before his mind the certainty and the nearness of the hour when they must part. There is nothing of fear, nothing even of querulousness, in his reflections when he was evidently very ill at Lucca. “It would be too great cowardice and ischifiltà on my part if, knowing that I am every day in danger of death from these ailments, and drawing nearer thereto every hour in the course of nature, I did not do my best to bring myself into a fitting mood to meet my end whenever it may come. And in this respect it is wise to take joyfully all the good fortune God may send. Moreover there is no remedy, nor rule, nor knowledge whereby to keep clear of these evils which, from every side and at every minute, gather round man’s footsteps, save in the resolve to endure them with dignity, or boldly and promptly make an end of them.” We seem here to be very far from the traditional frivolity of the Frenchman; much nearer to the calm wisdom of Epictetus or Marcus Aurelius.
Montaigne travelled in company with M. Mattecoulon, his younger brother; M. d’Estissac, probably the son of the lady to whom he dedicated the “Essay,” Book ii. No. 8; M. de Caselis, who left the party to stay on at Padua; and M. d’Hautoy, who seems to have remained with him all through the journey. Mattecoulon remained in Rome after Montaigne’s final departure, and shortly after he was imprisoned on account of a duel (“Essays,” ii. 27), and liberated by the good offices of the King of France. M. d’Estissac seems to have remained behind with him.
The first two books of the “Essays” were published in 1580, before the author set forth on his travels, and the work, as we know it, was first given to the world in 1588, with the third book added. In this book he refers to several incidents of his sojourn in Rome—notably to the grant of Roman citizenship which was then made to him. In addition, he carefully revised the first and second books by the light of his foreign experiences, and made some six hundred additions, many of which refer to incidents connected with his journey. He mentions the strange story of Mary Germain, who underwent transformation from the female to the male sex, a story also noticed by Ambrose Paré, the great French surgeon; the execution at Rome of Catena, a notorious criminal; and his visit to Tasso at Ferrara. Curiously enough, he makes no mention of this visit in the “Journal.”
It is hard to believe that a man so communicative as Montaigne would have kept secret from his friends the existence of the written record he made of his journey; and, taking it for granted that the existence of the MS. was suspected, it is just as hard to understand how it happened that a search was not made for it after his death, and that it should have lain undiscovered till M. Prunis found it in 1774. The MS. was complete, except a leaf or so at the beginning, and nearly half of it seems to have been written from dictation by a valet or secretary, Montaigne himself having taken up the task on February 16th, 1581. The handwriting, both of master and man, was very bad, and it needed all the skill of M. Capperonier, the royal librarian at Paris, and of other experts, to disentangle the meaning of the caligraphy, and make a legible copy. When this was finished, it was placed in the hands of M. Querlon, who brought out the first edition in 1774.
It would be unreasonable to expect any elegancies of style in the portion of the “Journal” written down by the secretary from dictation, and when Montaigne himself takes the pen in hand he does not greatly mend matters. All through will be found the strangest mixture of subjects, and jerkiness of style. The most incongruous themes are treated in juxtaposition. At Augsburg, at the end of a discussion with a Lutheran theologian, he throws in the remark that they had white hares for supper; and again, while speaking of mixed marriages, he records that here they clean windows with a hairbrush fixed on the end of a stick. At Rome he passes in a breath from a consideration of the relative prevalence of heresy in France and Spain to a remark that all the cargo boats on the Tiber are towed by buffaloes. In cataloguing the advantages of the city as a place of abode he tells how many of the palaces of the high nobility were at the disposition of any strange gentleman who might wish to repair thither for the night with a companion to his taste, and how in no other city in the world could be heard so many sermons and theological disputes.
As soon as he had crossed the Alps on his homeward way Montaigne evidently looked upon his journey as over. The entries in the “Journal” are merely memoranda of the various stopping places, and the note of sadness in these closing sentences is very evident. All interest in the places he passed is now vanished, and the humours of the road appeal to him no more. He is going home, an old man afflicted by an ailment which has proved incurable, with only the prospect of a few years of invalid life before him, and he may well be excused for falling into a mood which throws a darker shade over the last pages of his record.