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.