Antoine Compagnon

Montaigne regrets that his contemporaries do not argue with him more, out of an aversion to being argued with themselves. Because they do not like to be contradicted, because it humiliates them, they refrain from contradicting others, and become more firmly entrenched in their own certainties.

One final point: if Montaigne gives in easily to others, it is not only out of courtesy and to encourage his conversational partners to speak freely to him; it is also because he is not always sure of himself. His opinions are changeable, and he sometimes disagrees with himself. Montaigne loves argument, but he does not need anyone else to provide it. What he detests above all are people who are so arrogant that they take offense when someone else contradicts them. If there is one thing Montaigne loathes, it is smugness, conceit.

Machiavellianism asserts that it is permissible to lie, to break one’s word, even to kill when it is in the best interests of the State, in order to ensure governmental stability, which is seen as the supreme good. Montaigne never became comfortable with this, denouncing dishonesty and hypocrisy wherever he found them. He invariably presents himself just as he is and says precisely what he thinks, disregarding etiquette. He prefers openness, directness, and loyalty to what he calls “the covered path”. For him, the end does not justify the means, and he is never prepared to sacrifice private morality for reasons of State.

Such foolish behaviour, Montaigne realizes, has done him no harm—has, in fact, brought him success. His conduct is not just more honest; it is more profitable as well. If a public figure lies once he is never believed again; he has chosen an expedient over the long term, and he has made the wrong decision. According to Montaigne, sincerity and fidelity to one’s pledged word constitute a much more profitable way of behaving. If you are not driven to honesty by moral conviction, practical reason should be incitement enough.

This is one of the most moving passages in the Essays; it is rare for Montaigne to talk about an event in his life, a private moment, in such detail. The story is about a fall from a horse, and the loss of consciousness that followed.

“In the time of our third or second troubles (I do not well remember which), going one day abroad to take the air, about a league from my own house, which is seated in the very centre of all the bustle and mischief of the late civil wars in France; thinking myself in all security and so near to my retreat that I stood in need of no better equipage, I had taken a horse that went very easy upon his pace, but was not very strong.

“Being upon my return home, a sudden occasion falling out to make use of this horse in a kind of service that he was not accustomed to, one of my train, a lusty, tall fellow, mounted upon a strong German horse, that had a very ill mouth, fresh and vigorous, to play the brave and set on ahead of his fellows, comes thundering full speed in the very track where I was, rushing like a Colossus upon the little man and the little horse, with such a career of strength and weight, that he turned us both over and over, topsy-turvy with our heels in the air: so that there lay the horse overthrown and stunned with the fall, and I ten or twelve paces from him stretched out at length, with my face all battered and broken, my sword which I had had in my hand, above ten paces beyond that, and my belt broken all to pieces, without motion or sense any more than a stock.” (II, 6)

Then comes the lengthy and vivid paragraph describing the misadventure, full of picturesque observations: the powerful charger ridden by one of his men; himself, “the little man and the little horse,” knocked over by the enormous animal bearing down suddenly on them. We can imagine the scene clearly; we are in the Dordogne countryside amid the vines, the small group frolicking in the sun. Then, the shock: Montaigne lying on the ground, his belt and sword broken and scattered, his face bruised and bloodied. Worst of all, he has been knocked unconscious.

It is all there. Though Montaigne gives us so many details, he remembers nothing of it; one of his men has told him what happened, carefully concealing the role of the charger and its rider. What fascinates and troubles him is his loss of consciousness, and then his slow return to life after being taken for dead and carried home. The accident is the closest Montaigne has ever come to death, and the experience was a gentle, ephemeral one. Death, it appears, is nothing much to be afraid of.

Besides this moral, Montaigne learns a more important, more modern lesson from the incident. It causes him to reflect on identity, on the relationship between the mind and the body. Though unconscious, it seems that he moved, spoke, and even gave orders to look after his wife, who had been notified of the accident and ran out to meet the returning party.

What are we, if our bodies move and we can talk and give directions without our will being involved? Where does the self exist? Thanks to a fall from a horse, Montaigne—before Descartes, before phenomenology, before Freud—anticipates by several centuries the tendency to wonder uneasily about subjectivity and intention, and conceives his own theory of identity; it is precarious, disjointed. Anyone who has fallen off a horse will understand what he means.