The Sieur de la Brousse, Montaigne's brother, and Montaigne are travelling together during the civil wars when they meet a gentleman of good sort. He is of the contrary party, though he pretends otherwise. In this sort of war the cards are so shuffled that the enemy is not distinguished by language or habit, being nourished under the same law, air, and manners. Montaigne himself is afraid of meeting his own troops in a place where he is not known, lest he fear to tell his name, or worse. By such a mistake he has already lost men and horses, and an Italian gentleman his page, bred with the greatest care, was miserably slain. The gentleman they meet has so desperate, half-dead a fear upon him at meeting any horse, or passing any town that holds for the King, that Montaigne at last discovers it to be alarms of conscience. It seemed to the poor man as if through his visor and the crosses upon his cassock one would have penetrated into his bosom. So wonderful is the power of conscience. It makes us betray, accuse, and fight against ourselves, and for want of other witnesses, give evidence against ourselves.
Bessus the Paeonian, reproached for pulling down a nest of young sparrows and killing them, replies that he had reason, seeing those little birds never ceased falsely to accuse him of the murder of his father. The parricide had been concealed. The revenging fury of conscience caused it to be discovered by him who was to suffer for it. Hesiod corrects Plato: punishment is born at the same time as sin. Whoever expects punishment already suffers it, and whoever has deserved it expects it. Wickedness contrives torments against itself, as the wasp stings and loses its sting forever. At the same time men take delight in vice, a displeasure springs in the conscience that afflicts them sleeping and waking. Apollodorus dreams he is flayed by the Scythians and boiled, and his heart mutters that it is the cause of all these mischiefs. Epicurus said no hiding-hole could conceal the wicked, since they could never assure themselves of being hid whilst their conscience discovered them to themselves. As an ill conscience fills us with fear, a good one gives greater confidence. Montaigne has gone through several hazards with a more steady pace from the secret knowledge of his own will and the innocence of his intentions. Scipio, accused before the people of crimes of a very high nature, instead of excusing himself says it will become them well to sit in judgment upon a head by whose means they have the power to judge all the world. Another time, instead of defence, he bids citizens go render thanks for the victory over the Carthaginians, and the accuser himself follows to the Temple. When Petilius, set on by Cato, demands an account of the money that passed through his hands in Antioch, Scipio produces a book of receipts and disbursements, then refuses to deliver it to the prothonotary and, in the presence of the whole senate, tears it to pieces. Montaigne does not believe the most seared conscience could have counterfeited so great an assurance.
The putting of men to the rack is a dangerous invention, and seems rather a trial of patience than of truth. He who has the fortitude to endure it conceals the truth, and he who has not. Why should pain sooner make a man confess what really is than force him to say what is not? If the innocent has courage to undergo those torments, why should not the guilty have the same, so fair a reward as life being in prospect? The ground of the invention proceeds from the force of conscience: it seems to assist the rack against the guilty and fortify the innocent. When all is done, it is a trial full of uncertainty and danger. What would not a man say, what would not a man do, to avoid so intolerable torments? Pain will make even the innocent lie. Him whom the judge has racked that he may not die innocent, he makes die both innocent and racked. A thousand and a thousand have charged their own heads by false confessions, among them Philotas under Alexander. Some say it is the least evil human weakness could invent. Montaigne calls it very inhuman, and to very little purpose. Many nations less barbarous than the Greeks and Romans repute it horrible to torment a man for a fault of which they are yet in doubt. How can he help your ignorance? Are you not unjust, that, not to kill him without cause, do worse than kill him? A country-woman accuses one of a severe general's soldiers of taking the little soup meat she had left to nourish her children. Of this proof there was none. The general cautions her that a lie would make her guilty of false accusation. She persists. He causes the soldier's belly to be ripped up to clear the truth of the fact, and the woman is found to be right. An instructive sentence. The soup is there. The next charge still has no proof but a living body.
Coming Up in Chapter 63
Argument and instruction cannot lead us to action, Montaigne says, unless experience forms the soul for the course we design. Philosophers therefore left their studies and sallied out to meet fortune, some abandoning riches, others seeking labour. Death is the one work practice cannot assist. We experiment it but once, and all arrive as apprentices.
