LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
VOL. I
| Michel de Montaigne (Photogravure) | [Frontispiece] | |
| Meaux | To face page | [26] |
| Basel | ” | [62] |
| Baden en Argow | ” | [76] |
| Constance | ” | [96] |
| Kempten | ” | [116] |
| Augsburg | ” | [128] |
| Munich | ” | [150] |
| Insbruck | ” | [158] |
| Brixen | ” | [172] |
| Trent | ” | [180] |
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.