Book 1, Chapter 27: Of Friendship (2 of 3)

In this part of the essay Montaigne talks about the dangers of marriage. Then, he goes into intimate detail about his relationship with Etienne, including the heart-warming account of the first time they met.

'in the friendship I speak of, the souls mixed so universally that there is no more sign of the seam by which they were first conjoined'

We can’t compare the love we bear to women to other friendships, even though that too, unlike family relationships, is an act of our own choice. Nonetheless, its fire is more active, more eager, and more sharp. But also, more fickle and inconstant; it is a fever subject to intermissions and fits, and it seizes just one part of us. Friendship’s fire, on the other hand, is general and universal, temperate and equal, a constant established heat. In love, it is frantic desire that flies from us. Aristo writes of the hunter that  pursues the hare, in cold and heat, to the mountain, to the shore, but no longer cares for it once it is taken. He only delights in chasing that which flees from him. 

Fruition destroys love, which has only fleshly motives, and is therefore capable of being satiated. Friendship, on the contrary, is enjoyed proportionately as it is desired; and is only nourished and improved by enjoyment, because it is in itself spiritual, and so, like the soul, it grows more refined by practice. Under this perfect friendship, the other fleeting affections have in my younger years found some place in me, to say nothing of him, who himself so confesses but too much in his verses; so that I had both these passions. But I could always differentiate between them. The two cannot be compared - one maintains its flight in so high and so brave a place, that it can only look down with disdain at the other, flying at a far humbler pitch below. 

Marriage is a covenant to which only the entrance is free. The continuance is forced and compulsory, depending on other things than our own free will, and normally contracted for other motives. In marriage, there are a thousand intricacies to unravel, enough to break the thread and to divert the current of a lively affection. Friendship, however, has no interest but itself. And to be honest, the ordinary talent of women is not such sufficient to maintain the communication required to support this sacred tie. Also, they do not have the constancy of mind, to sustain the pinch of so hard and durable a knot. If there could be free and voluntary familiarity contracted without marriage, where not only the souls might have this entire fruition, but the bodies also might share in the alliance, the friendship would certainly be more full and perfect. But women have not yet arrived at such perfection. 

That other Grecian license (Montaigne appears to be referring to gay sex) is justly abhorred by our manners. And that too, because it is practiced between lovers who are so different in age and in office, cannot provide any more perfect a union and harmony than the other.

I don’t think anyone will contradict me when I point out that the love that the son of Venus felt upon sight of the springing and blossoming youth was simply founded upon external beauty, the false image of a young body. This immoderate ardour could not have ground this love upon the soul, the sight of which as yet lay concealed. It sprang straight way, it did not blossom in maturity. Cicero said, "Love is a desire of contracting friendship arising from the beauty of the object."

Let me return to my own more just and true description. For the rest, what we commonly call friends are only acquaintance and familiarities, either contracted by chance or for some purpose. There is little communication between our souls. But in the friendship I speak of, the souls mixed so universally that there is no more sign of the seam by which they were first conjoined. If someone asked me why I loved him, I could only answer: because it was he, because it was I. That’s all I can say; I don’t know what inexplicable and fated power that brought on this union. We sought one another long before we met. The things we’d heard about each other wrought our affections more than mere reports would normally do. I think it was by some secret appointment of heaven. Our first meeting, at a great city entertainment, was by chance, and we found ourselves so mutually taken with one another, so acquainted, and so endeared, that from then on nothing was so near to us as one another. He wrote an excellent Latin satire, since published, on the subject. When we first met we were both full-grown men, and he some years older, so we were destined to have only a short time together. Our intelligences had very recently and very late come to perfection and there was no time to lose. Also, we felt no need to conform to the example of those slow and regular friendships that require so many long preliminary conversation. This has no other idea than that of itself, and can only refer to itself: this is no one special consideration, nor two, nor three, nor four, nor a thousand. End of the day I can’t say why my whole will plunged and lost itself in his, and that having seized his whole will, brought it back with equal concurrence and appetite to plunge and lose itself in mine. I may truly say lose, reserving nothing to ourselves that was either his or mine.

Book 1, Chapter 12: Of Constancy

How one reacts to surprise, particularly to negative surprise, is important. Montaigne urges a state of constancy, where one does not get overly moved by every misfortune that happens to befall

It is natural to ‘tremble at the terrible noise of thunder ... and be affrightened even to paleness and convulsion’ but one’s judgment should stay sound, and one’s reason should not be shaken, and one should not consent to his fright or discomposure

The idea of constancy and resolution implies that we should not hesitate to use all ‘decent and honest’ means to secure ourselves from harm, and any harmful incidents that do occur, and that we are unable to avoid, we should face with bravery. It does not mean that we should be so ‘brave’ as to not secure ourselves from inconvenience, or that we should show no fear of misfortune occurring. We should not condemn any action that we use to defend ourselves, no matter how irregular or ungraceful it may be.

Several countries use the strategy of retreat in war, to good effect, and their backs have proven to be more dangerous to their enemies than their faces. Socrates, when told by Laches that bravery means standing firm in the face of an enemy, laughed and responded, would it be considered cowardly, if one were to win by giving ground to their enemy? Homer also encourages ‘the science of flight’.

- The Lacedoemonians (an area in ancient Greece) were a nation usually stubborn in maintaining their ground. In the battle of Plataea however, they found themselves unable to break up the strong Persian army, and decided to disperse and retire. The Persians, imagining that they fled, dispersed in turn and the Lacedoemonians’s were able to gain victory through this strategy.

When an army is in the line of fire – something that happens quite often in war – it is considered bad for the soldier to leave his post. But considering the violence and fast-paced nature of that moment in the trenches, in the middle of enemy attack, abandoning one’s post, or ducking, or stepping aside, or any similar act of fear, is considered inevitable, and many have been laughed at by their fellow soldiers for doing just this.

And yet, many have saved their lives from a simple ducking or moving aside. The Marquis was almost hit by a shotgun once, and he slipped aside, and if he had not, he would have certainly died. Similarly the Duke of Urbino saw a gunman shoot a canon that was pointed directly at him, and he ducked. Otherwise, the shot would have hit him in the chest. Honestly speaking, I do not think these evasions are pre-meditated. How can one make a judgment when something so sudden occurs? In fact, it is easier to believe that fortune would favour these men’s apprehension. In other words, just to perceive and sense the danger would take them so long, that it would be too late to actually act. Personally, I cannot endure the sound of sudden gunshots, and I have observed braver men than I feel the same way.  

The Stoics did not pretend that philosophers need to be immune to surprise.

 (The Stoics are members of the ancient Greek school of philosophy that believed virtue was based on knowledge, and that we should live in harmony with nature, and bear its hardships with endurance and strength)

 It is natural to ‘tremble at the terrible noise of thunder, or the sudden clatter of some falling ruin, and be affrightened even to paleness and convulsion’. BUT one’s judgment should stay sound, and one’s reason should not be shaken, and one should not consent to his fright or discomposure. The first reaction is the same, whether one is a philosopher or not, but the second reaction is quite different. For the non-philosopher, the surprise will penetrate his ‘seat of reason, infecting and corrupting it, so that he judges according to his fear’ and changes his behaviour accordingly. The wise Stoic, on the other hand, will follow this advice of Virgil, from the Aeneid:

 ‘Though tears flow, the mind remains unmoved’

The Aristotelian philosopher Virgil does not dismiss the worries of the mind, but he moderates them.   

Book 1, Chapter 4: That The Soul Expends Its Passions Upon False Objects, Where The True Are Wanting

In this essay, Montaigne muses on why we always look for someone or something to blame when things go wrong, and why we like little dogs and monkeys. 

Have you ever tried to hit something, and then missed your target? The arm hits nothing then but wind, and this is painful. Lucan tells us the wind itself loses its force if it is diffused in air; it needs to hit against a tree.

Similarly the soul, when disturbed or agitated, needs an object on which to aim and act. Otherwise, it will turn against itself. Plutarch tells us that the reason we like little dogs and monkeys is that there is an ‘amorous part’ is us – one which wants to love – and if it doesn’t have something to love, it will create one, ‘false and frivolous’ as it may be. The soul would rather ‘deceive itself, be creating a false and fantastical subject … than not have something.’

Some animals, when attacked, allow their fury to fall upon the attacking weapon, In furious rage they break and twist the spears that attack them.

And what about us? How do we react when we suffer misfortunes that are out of our control. Who or what can we blame? It is common practice, in such cases, to tear at your hair or beat your breast. Cicero, seeing someone tearing his hair in sorrow, commented, ‘Does this man think that baldness is a remedy for grief?’

And then there are those who rail against God.

- A neighbouring king who had gone through some sort of misfortune, blamed God and decided to revenge Him. He ordered that for 10 years noone could pray to God, or even mention Him. Such an action can be seen as not only foolish, but vain: two vices that always go together. There is more arrogance in such an action than there is wit.

- Augustus Ceaser was caught in a stormy sea, and decided in revenge to remove the statue of Neptune (the God of the sea) from amongst his other deities.

These are instances of people ‘invading God himself, or at least Fortune, as if she had ears that were subject to our batteries’. I’ll end with a quote from Plutarch

‘We must not trouble the gods with our affairs; they take no heed of our angers and disputes’

Book 1, Chapter 2: Of Sorrow

Montaigne discusses the nature of sorrow, sadness, and grief. Also those of love, and joy, and of emotions so strong that they cannot be expressed. 

I never feel sorrow. Sorrow is overrated. I hate it when the world respects sadness, seeing 'wisdom, virtue, and conscience' to lie within. 'Foolish and sordid guise!' I say. Italians call this word 'la tristezza', which translated as 'evil'. I think this is apt. Sadness is hurtful, idle, cowardly, and mean.

But of course, there's much more to say on sadness. I have some stories:

- The King of Egypt was taken prisoner by Persia. He saw his daughter pass before him; she was a prisoner too. She carried a bucket, and she looked terrible. His friends around him wept. The King remained unmoved. Immediately after, he witnessed his son being led to execution. Still, he didn't react. Finally, he saw a fried being dragged away among the captives. He began to wail and cry and tear his hair.

And a similar one:

- Our own prince was told his elder brother had died. Soon after, he learned his younger brother had also died. He 'withstood these two assaults with exemplary resolution'. Then, one of his servants died. He was overcome with sorrow and mourning. As if he had been 'brimful of grief' and this last addition had tipped him over. But also, there's another explanation. This is important:

'only this last affliction was to be manifested be tears, the two first far exceeding all manner of expression'.

Yes. The strongest emotions cannot be expressed in tears, I say. Two legends of my time to illustrate:

 An ancient painter wanted to represent the death of a woman and its effect on those around her. He drew each of her acquaintances with grief-stricken, sad faces, but over the face of her father, he drew a veil. Meaning it was impossible to express the deep sorrow that he felt. Similarly, the poets represent the mother Noebe, who lost seven sons and seven daughters, as being transformed into a rock.

The rock represents the stupefaction, the numbing of our faculties, when we are faced with more sadness than we can bear. Excessive grief astonishes the soul, renders us incapable of ordinary functioning. When we're faced with truly terrible news, we are 'surprised, stupefied, and in a manner deprived of all power of motion'. When we cry, it seems we are able to vent, and release tension, and allow ourselves to work out the problem within.

I will tell you a very sad story now

- A soldier, who had been admired for his exceptional bravery, had fought a particularly valiant battle. When the armour was removed off the body of the person he had killed, he found that it was his own son. Without saying a word, he turned away his eyes, stood fixedly contemplating the body, until the sorrow overcame his vital spirits and he fell to the ground 'stone-dead'.

So you see, true, pure grief is unspeakable. It cannot be articulated.

Let's talk about love now; I have beautiful things to say about the unspeakable qualities of love:

'He who can say how he burns with love, has little fire'

In the throes of love, we are unable to express it. The soul at that time is 'over-burdened, and labouring with profound thoughts; and the body dejected and languishing with desire'

'all passions that suffer themselves to be relished and digested are but moderate.'

So think again, when you hear, 'I love you'. Seneca said, 'Light griefs can speak: deep sorrows are dumb.'

Unexpected joy, by the way, produces the same effects. A Roman lady died for joy to see her son return from war. I have several other examples of people, overcome with joy at hearing some wonderful news, die.

one last - 'a testimony to the imbecility of human nature':

A scholar called Diodorus was being debated with, in his own school, in front of a great authority. Unable to win the argument, he died on the spot, from shame.

This is how I end the essay - read into it what you like:

'I, for my part, am very little subject to these violent passions; I am naturally of a stubborn apprehension, which also, by reasoning, I every day harden and fortify.'