The Complete Essays (127 page)

He was already engaged in that frenzied siege of Alexia, where the defenders numbered eighty thousand, when the whole of Gaul rose to attack him and raise the siege, gathering an army of a hundred and nine horses and two hundred and forty thousand infantry. What boldness, what insane confidence, he showed by deciding not to give up the siege he had undertaken and by determining to take on two such problems at the same time! And he did withstand them: after he had won that great battle against the forces outside he soon reduced to submission those he held under siege. (The same happened to Lucullus at the siege of Tigranocerta against King Tigranes, but under different circumstances, given the weakness of the enemy with whom Lucullus had to deal.)
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I would like to emphasize here two rare and extraordinary events concerning that siege of Alexia: one was that the Gauls, who had assembled to confront Caesar, first counted all their troops and then decided in council to cut out a goodly part of that huge crowd, fearing that they might produce chaos.

This fear that your forces are too numerous provided a new example: yet if you look at it the right way it is indeed likely that a body of soldiers should be only moderately big and limited to some definite size, both for the difficulty in feeding them and also for the difficulty of leading them or
keeping them in formation. At least it is easy to prove that those monstrously large armies have rarely achieved anything worthwhile, [C] which agrees with the saying of Cyrus in Xenophon, that the advantage lies not in numbers of men but in numbers of good men, the rest being less a help than a hindrance.
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And Bajazet based his decision to dispute the field with Tamberlane against the advice of his Captains mainly on the fact that the uncountable numbers of the enemy gave him certain hope of their falling into confusion. Scanderbeg, a good and very experienced judge, often said that ten or twelve thousand faithful combat troops should suffice a competent war-leader to guarantee his reputation in every sort of military need.

[A] The other point which seems to be contrary to both the reason and usages of war is that Vercingetorix (who had been named General commanding all the areas of Gaul which were under revolt) should have taken the decision to go and shut himself up in Alexia. For a man in command of an entire country must never, except in a case of extreme necessity, so hem himself in that the fight becomes his last stand, his only hope lying in defence; in other cases he must ensure his liberty, so as to have the means of providing for things in general over all the regions he controls.

To get back to Caesar. As time passed he became a little more slow and deliberate, as Oppius who was intimate with him shows; Caesar later judged that he should not really hazard the honour acquired from so many victories, which one single disaster could lose for him. That concords with what is said by the Italians when they wish to reprove that rash bravery found in younger men by calling them
bisognosi d’honore
, ‘needy of honour’: they say that since they are still hungry for reputation, which is hard to come by, they are right to go and look for it at any price – something which ought not to be done by those who have already acquired a store of it. In this appetite as in any other there can indeed be found a just moderation between desire for glory and satiety.

Caesar was far removed from the scruples of the Ancient Romans who wished to exploit only their simple, straightforward valour, yet he brought more conscience to bear than we would nowadays; he would not have approved of acquiring the victory by any sort of means. In the war against Ariovistus he was parleying with him when a disturbance broke out between the two armies, started by the horsemen of the enemy; during the
confusion Caesar found himself in a position of real advantage over Ariovistus: but he had no wish to exploit it, fearing that he could have been accused of having acted throughout in bad faith.

He customarily wore in battle his most splendid equipment, brilliantly coloured so as to make himself stand out. When approaching the enemy he kept his soldiers on a shorter, tighter rein.

When the Ancient Greeks wished to accuse anyone of extreme inadequacy they used the common proverb: ‘He can neither read nor swim.’
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He shared their opinion that to know how to swim was most useful in war, and he derived many advantages from it: when he needed to hurry he normally swam across any rivers he encountered for, like Alexander the Great, he preferred to travel on foot. When he was in Egypt he was forced to escape in a small boat; so many jumped in with him that it was in danger of going under; he therefore preferred to jump into the sea and swim out to his fleet which was about two hundred yards away, holding his writing-tablets above the water in his left hand and dragging his armour along with his teeth to prevent the enemy getting hold of it. He was then well on in years.

Never did a leader in war inspire greater trust in his soldiers: at the beginning of the Civil Wars, each of his centurions offered to pay out of his own purse for one soldier and his equipment, while his foot-soldiers offered to serve him at their own expense, those who were better off undertaking to defray the expenses of the poorer ones.

The late Admiral de Chastillon recently provided a case similar to that in our own Civil Wars, for the French in his army furnished the pay of the mercenaries in their units out of their own purses. You could not find many examples of such burning and spontaneous devotion among those who march under our old regime, under our ancient religious polity.
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[C] Emotion dominates us more vigorously than reason. Yet in the war against Hannibal, following the free-born example of the People of Rome in their City, the soldiers and captains refused their pay; in the camp of Marcellus those who did accept it were dubbed mercenaries.

[A] When Caesar’s soldiers were worsted near Dyracchium, they so spontaneously offered themselves to be chastised and punished that he needed to console them rather than to berate them. One single cohort of his men withstood the legions of Pompey for over four hours until
virtually all were put out of action by arrow-wounds; over one hundred and thirty thousand arrows were found in their trenches; one soldier called Scaeva, who was in charge of an entry-slit, remained undefeated at his post despite having one eye transfixed, one shoulder and thigh shot through and a shield pierced in two hundred and thirty places. It often happened that any soldiers of Caesar’s who were made prisoner accepted to be killed rather than to change sides. When Granius Petronius was taken prisoner in Africa, Scipio had his companions put to death and then sent to inform him that he was granting him his life because of his rank of quaestor. Petronius retorted that the soldiers of Caesar were used to granting life to others not to receiving it themselves; he at once killed himself with his own hands.
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There are innumerable examples of their loyalty; but we must not overlook the bold stroke of the men who were besieged at Salona (a town which had declared for Caesar against Pompey); for the event which took place there was a rare one: Marcus Octavius was investing Salona; the besieged were in every way reduced to the ultimate extremity; to supply what they lacked in men (since most of them were killed or wounded) they had freed all their slaves; to be able to use their catapults, they were reduced to cutting off their wives’ tresses to make into ropes; apart from that there was a staggering shortage of food. They were determined, nevertheless, not to surrender. When they had dragged this siege out to such a length that Octavius had grown careless and was paying less attention to his campaign, they picked one day just before noon, stationed their women and children on the walls so that things should look normal, then made such a frenzied sortie against the besiegers that they broke through the first rank of their guards, then the second, then the third, then the fourth, then the rest, forcing them entirely to abandon their entrenchments and driving them right back to their ships. Octavius himself fled to Dyrrachium, where Pompey was staying.
¹¹

I cannot for the while recall having come across any other examples of the besieged routing the mass of the besiegers and winning mastery of the field, nor of a sortie leading to a pure and total victory in battle.

35. On three good wives

[A chapter which in some ways is a pendant to II, 10, ‘On books’. History, true history, can be a source of both aesthetic delight and of moral profit. It is potentially a valuable alternative to moral fiction, to tales (such as those of Boccaccio). Montaigne’s preoccupation with great-souled suicides in the Stoic mould is rarely more visible than in this chapter; it is given prominence by coming near the end of Book II and so having (until Book III was published) the air of leading up to the conclusion.]

[A] As every man knows, they are not counted in dozens, especially in performing their matrimonial obligations: for marriage is a business full of so many thorny conditions that a woman cannot keep her intentions in it for long. Even the men (who are there under slightly better terms) find it hard to do so.

[B] The touchstone of a good marriage, the real test, concerns the time that the association lasts, and whether it has been constant – sweet, loyal and pleasant. In our century wives usually reserve their displays of duty and vehement love for when they have lost their husbands; [C] then at least they bear witness to their good intentions – a laggardly, unseasonable witness, by which they prove that they love their husbands only once they are dead. [B] Life is full of inflammatory material: death, love and social duties. Just as fathers hide their love for their sons so as to keep themselves honoured and respected, so do wives readily hide theirs for their husbands. That particular mystery-play is not to my taste! It is no good widows tearing their hair and clawing their faces: I go and whisper straight in the ear of their chambermaid or private secretary, ‘How did they get on? What were they like when living together?’ I always remember that proverbial saying:
‘Jactantius moerent, quae minus dolent.’
[Women who weep most ostentatiously grieve least.]
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Their lamentations are loathed by living husbands and useless to the dead ones. We husbands will willingly let them laugh afterwards if they will only laugh with us while we are alive.

[C] Is it not enough to raise a man from the dead out of vexation, if a wife who had spat in my face while I was still there were to come and massage my feet once I am beginning to go! [B] If some honour resides in weeping for husbands it belongs to widows who laughed with them in life; let those widows who wept when they were alive laugh outwardly and inwardly once they are dead. Moreover, take no notice of those moist eyes and that pitiful voice: but do note the way they carry themselves and the colour of those plump cheeks beneath their veils! That way they speak to us in the kind of French we can understand! There are few widows who do not go on improving in health: and health is a quality which cannot lie. All that dutiful behaviour does not regard the past as much as the future: it is all profit not loss. When I was a boy an honest and most beautiful lady, a prince’s widow who is still alive, began to wear some little extras not allowed by our convention of widowhood. To those who reproached her with this she replied, ‘It is because I meet no new suitors now: I have left behind the desire to remarry.’

So as not to be totally out of keeping with our customs, I have selected three wives who, on the death of their husbands, did show the force of their goodness and their love. They are however rather diverse examples of pressing cases which resulted in a bold sacrifice gof life.

[A] In Italy Pliny the Younger had a man living near one of his houses who was appallingly tormented by ulcers which appeared on his private parts. His wife watched him languishing in pain; she begged him to allow her enough time to examine the symptoms of his disease: she would then tell him more frankly than anyone else what hope he could have. She obtained this of him and carefully examined him; she found that it was impossible for him to be cured and that all he could expect was, over a long period, to drag out a painful and languishing life. And so she advised him, as the surest, sovereign remedy, to kill himself. Finding him a little hesitant about so stark a deed she said: ‘You must never think, my Beloved, that the pains which I see you suffer do not affect me as much as you, or that to deliver myself from them I am unwilling to use the same remedy that I am prescribing for you. I wish to be your companion in your cure as I am in your illness: lay aside your fears and think only that we shall have the pleasure of that journey into death which must free us from such torments. We shall go happily away together.’ Having finished speaking and bringing new warmth to her husband’s heart, she resolved that they should cast themselves into the sea from a window in their house which gave on to it. And so as to maintain unto the end that loyal and vehement love by which she had clung to him in life, she wanted him also
to die in her arms. But fearing that those arms might fail her and that the clasp of her embrace might be loosened by the terror of the fall, she had herself tied to him, tightly bound by their waists. And thus she gave up her life for the repose of her husband.
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That woman was from a lowly class; among people of that condition it is not all that new to find signs of rare goodness.

Extrema per illos
Justifia excedens terris vestigia fecit
.

[When Justice finally left this earth, she left her last vestiges with them.]
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The other two are rich and noble; examples of virtue rarely make their home among people like that.

Arria was the wife of Caecinna Paetus, a great man of consular rank; she was the mother of another Arria, the wife of Thrasea Paetus who was so renowned for his virtue during the time of Nero; through this son-in-law she was the grandmother of Fannia. The similarity of name and fortune of these men and women has often led to confusion. This first Arria (when her husband Caecinna Paetus had been taken prisoner by the supporters of the Emperor Claudius after the defeat of Scribonianus whose faction he had supported) begged the men who were transferring their prisoner to Rome to take her aboard their ship, where she would be much less expense and trouble than the many people they would need to look after her husband since she alone would take care of his room, his cooking and all other chores. They refused this to her; so she leapt into a fisherman’s boat which she had immediately hired and in this manner followed her husband from Sclavonia.

One day in Rome in the presence of the Emperor she was familiarly approached by Junia, the widow of Scribonianus, because of their shared misfortunes; but she roughly thrust her away with these words: ‘Should I even talk to you or listen to you when Scribonianus, the husband of your bosom, is dead. Yet you are still alive!’ Such words and several other indications brought her relations to realize that, unable to endure her husband’s misfortune, she intended to do away with herself.

On hearing those words her son-in-law Thrasea begged her not to desire to kill herself, saying: ‘What? If I incurred a similar misfortune to Caecinna’s, would you want my wife, your daughter, to do likewise?’ – ‘What do you mean, would I!’ she replied. ‘Yes. Yes of course I would, if she had lived as long and as peacefully together with you as I did with my
husband.’ Such answers increased their worries about her and led to their watching her behaviour closely.

One day she said to those who were set to guard her: ‘It is no good, you know. You can force me to make the death I die much harsher: you cannot stop me from dying.’ She madly darted out of the chair she was sitting in and, with all her might, bashed her head against the nearby wall. The blow felled her to the ground, severely wounded and unconscious. They just managed to bring her round with great difficulty. ‘I told you plainly,’ she said, ‘that if you refuse me the means to kill myself easily, then I shall choose some other way, no matter how hard it might be.’

The end of so amazing a virtue came like this: by himself Paetus her husband did not have courage enough to kill himself, as the Emperor’s cruelty would force him to do some day or other; so having first used the appropriate arguments and exhortations for the counsel which she was giving him to bring him to do so, she seized the dagger which her husband was wearing, drew it, held it in her hand and concluded her exhortation thus: ‘This is the way to do it, Paetus.’ And that same instant, having struck herself a mortal blow in the bosom, she wrenched the dagger from her wound and offered it to him, ending her life as she did so with these noble, great-souled, immortal words:
‘Paete, non dolet.’
Those three words so full of beautiful meaning were all she had time to utter: ‘You see, Paetus: it doesn’t hurt.’
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Casta suo gladium cum traderet Arria Pæto,
  Quem de visceribus traxerat ipsa suis:
Si qua fides, vulnus quod feci, non dolet, inquit;
  
Sed quod tu facies, id mihi, Pate, dolet
.

[When chaste Arria proffered the blade to Paetus which she had torn from her very entrails, she said: ‘Believe me, that wound I have given myself does not hurt me. What hurts me, Paetus, is the wound you will give to yourself.’]

But it has much more living force in the original and a much richer meaning. Far from being depressed by the thought of her husband’s wound and death, or of her own, she was the one who advised and encouraged them; so, having performed that high courageous deed solely in the interest of her husband, even with the final words of her life her only thought was of removing from him his fear of following her by taking his life. Paetus at once struck himself through with that same blade, feeling shame, in my judgement, at having needed so costly and so precious a lesson.

There was a young and very high-born Roman matron called Pompeia Paulina. She had wedded Seneca in his extreme old age. Nero, that fine pupil of his, sent one of his courtiers to him to announce that he was sentenced to death.
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(Such sentences used to be executed in this way: when the Emperors of Rome had condemned any man of quality, they dispatched their officials to tell him to choose which death he would prefer and to see that he carried it out within such time as they caused to be prescribed, shorter or longer depending on how finely tempered their choleric humour was: it was a concession designed to allow him to put his affairs in order, though too short on occasions to permit him to do so. If the condemned person resisted their command they brought in suitable men to carry it out, either by slashing the veins in his arms and legs or forcing him to swallow poison. Men of honour did not wait for such compulsion but used their own doctors and surgeons to do the deed.) With a peaceful resolute expression Seneca listened to the order brought by Nero’s henchmen, then asked for paper to write his will. That was refused by the Captain, so Seneca turned to those who loved him and said: ‘Since I can bequeath you nothing else, out of gratitude for what I owe you I shall at least bequeath you the most beautiful thing I possess the portrait of my morals, of my life, which I pray you to conserve in your memory; by doing so you will acquire the reputation of ones who loved me purely and truly.’ At the same time with gentle words he quietened the bitter anguish which he saw that they were suffering, though sometimes speaking more firmly to rebuke them: ‘Where are all those beautiful precepts of philosophy?’ he asked. ‘What has happened to that store which we have set aside over so many years against the accidents of Fortune? Did we not know of Nero’s cruelty? What could we expect from a man who had killed his mother and his brother, except that he would also kill his tutor who had looked after him and brought him up?’

Having addressed them all in general, he turned aside to his wife; and since her heart and strength were yielding under the weight of her grief he held her tight in his arms; he prayed her that, for love of him, she should bear this misfortune a little more patiently, since the hour had come when he had to show the fruit of his studies not by speeches and arguments but by deeds, and since he, without the slightest doubt, was welcoming death not merely without grief but with joy. ‘Wherefore my Beloved do not dishonour it by your tears,’ he said, ‘lest it should seem that you love yourself more than my reputation. Quieten your grief and console yourself
with the knowledge that you have of me and of my actions, consecrating the rest of your life to those honourable occupations to which you are so devoted.’

Paulina replied, having somewhat recovered her composure and brought warmth again to her magnanimous heart by her noblest love: ‘No, Seneca. I am not one to leave you companionless in such great need. I do not want you to think that the virtuous examples of your life have not yet taught me to know how to make a fine death. When could I ever die better, or more honourably, or more as I would wish to, than together with you? Rest assured that it is with you that I shall go.’ Whereupon Seneca, welcoming such a beautiful and glorious resolve in his wife, and also to rid himself of his fear of leaving her to the tender mercies of his enemies after his death, replied: ‘I once taught you, Paulina, such things as served you to live your life contentedly. Now you prefer the honour of death: truly I will never begrudge you that. The constancy and the resolve of our common end may be equal: but allow that on your side the beauty and the glory are greater.’