de la Boetie, that in the night he had fresh and violent attack of
dysentery. She had called in physician and apothecary, and prayed me to
lose no time coming, which (after dinner) I did. He was delighted to see
me; and when I was going away, under promise to turn the following day,
he begged me more importunately and affectionately than he was wont to
do, to give him as such of my company as possible. I was a little
affected; yet was about to leave, when Madame de la Boetie, as if she
foresaw something about to happen, implored me with tears to stay the
night. When I consented, he seemed to grow more cheerful. I returned
home the next day, and on the Thursday I paid him another visit. He had
become worse; and his loss of blood from the dysentery, which reduced his
strength very much, was largely on the increase. I quitted his side on
Friday, but on Saturday I went to him, and found him very weak. He then
gave me to understand that his complaint was infectious, and, moreover,
disagreeable and depressing; and that he, knowing thoroughly my
constitution, desired that I should content myself with coming to see him
now and then. On the contrary, after that I never left his side.
It was only on the Sunday that he began to converse with me on any
subject beyond the immediate one of his illness, and what the ancient
doctors thought of it: we had not touched on public affairs, for I found
at the very outset that he had a dislike to them.
But, on the Sunday, he had a fainting fit; and when he came to himself,
he told me that everything seemed to him confused, as if in a mist and in
disorder, and that, nevertheless, this visitation was not unpleasing to
him. "Death," I replied, "has no worse sensation, my brother." "None so
bad," was his answer. He had had no regular sleep since the beginning of
his illness; and as he became worse and worse, he began to turn his
attention to questions which men commonly occupy themselves with in the
last extremity, despairing now of getting better, and intimating as much
to me. On that day, as he appeared in tolerably good spirits, I took
occasion to say to him that, in consideration of the singular love I bore
him, it would become me to take care that his affairs, which he had
conducted with such rare prudence in his life, should not be neglected at
present; and that I should regret it if, from want of proper counsel, he
should leave anything unsettled, not only on account of the loss to his
family, but also to his good name.
He thanked me for my kindness; and after a little reflection, as if he
was resolving certain doubts in his own mind, he desired me to summon his
uncle and his wife by themselves, in order that he might acquaint them
with his testamentary dispositions. I told him that this would shock
them. "No, no," he answered, "I will cheer them by making out my case to
be better than it is." And then he inquired, whether we were not all
much taken by surprise at his having fainted? I replied, that it was of
no importance, being incidental to the complaint from which he suffered.
"True, my brother," said he; "it would be unimportant, even though it
should lead to what you most dread." "For you," I rejoined, "it might be
a happy thing; but I should be the loser, who would thereby be deprived
of so great, so wise, and so steadfast a friend, a friend whose place I
should never see supplied." "It is very likely you may not," was his
answer; "and be sure that one thing which makes me somewhat anxious to
recover, and to delay my journey to that place, whither I am already
half-way gone, is the thought of the loss both you and that poor man and
woman there (referring to his uncle and wife) must sustain; for I love
them with my whole heart, and I feel certain that they will find it very
hard to lose me. I should also regret it on account of such as have, in
my lifetime, valued me, and whose conversation I should like to have
enjoyed a little longer; and I beseech you, my brother, if I leave the
world, to carry to them for me an assurance of the esteem I entertained
for them to the last moment of my existence. My birth was, moreover,
scarcely to so little purpose but that, had I lived, I might have done
some service to the public; but, however this may be, I am prepared to
submit to the will of God, when it shall please Him to call me, being
confident of enjoying the tranquillity which you have foretold for me.
As for you, my friend, I feel sure that you are so wise, that you will
control your emotions, and submit to His divine ordinance regarding me;
and I beg of you to see that that good man and woman do not mourn for my
departure unnecessarily."
He proceeded to inquire how they behaved at present. "Very well," said
I, "considering the circumstances." "Ah!" he replied, "that is, so long
as they do not abandon all hope of me; but when that shall be the case,
you will have a hard task to support them." It was owing to his strong
regard for his wife and uncle that he studiously disguised from them his
own conviction as to the certainty of his end, and he prayed me to do the
same. When they were near him he assumed an appearance of gaiety, and
flattered them with hopes. I then went to call them. They came, wearing
as composed an air as possible; and when we four were together, he
addressed us, with an untroubled countenance, as follows: "Uncle and
wife, rest assured that no new attack of my disease, or fresh doubt that
I have as to my recovery, has led me to take this step of communicating
to you my intentions, for, thank God, I feel very well and hopeful; but
taught by observation and experience the instability of all human things,
and even of the life to which we are so much attached, and which is,
nevertheless, a mere bubble; and knowing, moreover, that my state of
health brings me more within the danger of death, I have thought proper
to settle my worldly affairs, having the benefit of your advice." Then
addressing himself more particularly to his uncle, "Good uncle," said he,
"if I were to rehearse all the obligations under which I lie to you, I am
sure that I never should make an end. Let me only say that, wherever I
have been, and with whomsoever I have conversed, I have represented you
as doing for me all that a father could do for a son; both in the care
with which you tended my education, and in the zeal with which you pushed
me forward into public life, so that my whole existence is a testimony of
your good offices towards me. In short, I am indebted for all that I
have to you, who have been to me as a parent; and therefore I have no
right to part with anything, unless it be with your approval."
There was a general silence hereupon, and his uncle was prevented from
replying by tears and sobs. At last he said that whatever he thought for
the best would be agreeable to him; and as he intended to make him his
heir, he was at liberty to dispose of what would be his.
Then he turned to his wife. "My image," said he (for so he often called
her, there being some sort of relationship between them), "since I have
been united to you by marriage, which is one of the most weighty and
sacred ties imposed on us by God, for the purpose of maintaining human
society, I have continued to love, cherish, and value you; and I know
that you have returned my affection, for which I have no sufficient
acknowledgment. I beg you to accept such portion of my estate as I
bequeath to you, and be satisfied with it, though it is very inadequate
to your desert."
Afterwards he turned to me. "My brother," he began, "for whom I have so
entire a love, and whom I selected out of so large a number, thinking to
revive with you that virtuous and sincere friendship which, owing to the
degeneracy of the age, has grown to be almost unknown to us, and now
exists only in certain vestiges of antiquity, I beg of you, as a mark of
my affection to you, to accept my library: a slender offering, but given
with a cordial will, and suitable to you, seeing that you are fond of
learning. It will be a memorial of your old companion."
Then he addressed all three of us. He blessed God that in his extremity
he had the happiness to be surrounded by those whom he held dearest in
the world, and he looked upon it as a fine spectacle, where four persons
were together, so unanimous in their feelings, and loving each other for
each other's sake. He commended us one to the other; and proceeded thus:
"My worldly matters being arranged, I must now think of the welfare of my
soul. I am a Christian; I am a Catholic. I have lived one, and I shall
die one. Send for a priest; for I wish to conform to this last Christian
obligation." He now concluded his discourse, which he had conducted with
such a firm face and with so distinct an utterance, that whereas, when I
first entered his room, he was feeble, inarticulate in his speech, his
pulse low and feverish, and his features pallid, now, by a sort of
miracle, he appeared to have rallied, and his pulse was so strong that
for the sake of comparison, I asked him to feel mine.
I felt my heart so oppressed at this moment, that I had not the power to
make him any answer; but in the course of two or three hours, solicitous
to keep up his courage, and, likewise, out of the tenderness which I had
had all my life for his honour and fame, wishing a larger number of
witnesses to his admirable fortitude, I said to him, how much I was
ashamed to think that I lacked courage to listen to what he, so great a
sufferer, had the courage to deliver; that down to the present time I had
scarcely conceived that God granted us such command over human
infirmities, and had found a difficulty in crediting the examples I had
read in histories; but that with such evidence of the thing before my
eyes, I gave praise to God that it had shown itself in one so excessively
dear to me, and who loved me so entirely, and that his example would help
me to act in a similar manner when my turn came. Interrupting me, he
begged that it might happen so, and that the conversation which had
passed between us might not be mere words, but might be impressed deeply
on our minds, to be put in exercise at the first occasion; and that this
was the real object and aim of all philosophy.
He then took my hand, and continued: "Brother, friend, there are many
acts of my life, I think, which have cost me as much difficulty as this
one is likely to do; and, after all, I have been long prepared for it,
and have my lesson by heart. Have I not lived long enough? I am just
upon thirty-three. By the grace of God, my days so far have known
nothing but health and happiness; but in the ordinary course of our
unstable human affairs, this could not have lasted much longer; it would
have become time for me to enter on graver avocations, and I should thus
have involved myself in numberless vexations, and, among them, the
troubles of old age, from which I shall now be exempt. Moreover, it is
probable that hitherto my life has been spent more simply, and with less
of evil, than if God had spared me, and I had survived to feel the
thirst for riches and worldly prosperity. I am sure, for my part, that
I now go to God and the place of the blessed." He seemed to detect in
my expression some inquietude at his words; and he exclaimed, "What, my
brother, would you make me entertain apprehensions? Had I any, whom
would it become so much as yourself to remove them?"
The notary, who had been summoned to draw up his will, came in the
evening, and when he had the documents prepared, I inquired of La Boetie
if he would sign them. "Sign them," cried he; "I will do so with my own
hand; but I could desire more time, for I feel exceedingly timid and
weak, and in a manner exhausted." But when I was going to change the
conversation, he suddenly rallied, said he had but a short time to live,
and asked if the notary wrote rapidly, for he should dictate without
making any pause. The notary was called, and he dictated his will there
and then with such speed that the man could scarcely keep up with him;
and when he had done, he asked me to read it out, saying to me, "What a
good thing it is to look after what are called our riches." 'Sunt haec,
quoe hominibus vocantur bona'. As soon as the will was signed, the
chamber being full, he asked me if it would hurt him to talk. I
answered, that it would not, if he did not speak too loud. He then
summoned Mademoiselle de Saint Quentin, his niece, to him, and addressed
her thus: "Dear niece, since my earliest acquaintance with thee, I have
observed the marks of, great natural goodness in thee; but the services
which thou rendered to me, with so much affectionate diligence, in my
present and last necessity, inspire me with high hopes of thee; and I am
under great obligations to thee, and give thee most affectionate thanks.
Let me relieve my conscience by counselling thee to be, in the first
place, devout, to God: for this doubtless is our first duty, failing
which all others can be of little advantage or grace, but which, duly
observed, carries with it necessarily all other virtues. After God, thou
shouldest love thy father and mother--thy mother, my sister, whom I
regard as one of the best and most intelligent of women, and by whom I
beg of thee to let thy own life be regulated. Allow not thyself to be
led away by pleasures; shun, like the plague, the foolish familiarities
thou seest between some men and women; harmless enough at first, but
which by insidious degrees corrupt the heart, and thence lead it to
negligence, and then into the vile slough of vice. Credit me, the
greatest safeguard to female chastity is sobriety of demeanour. I
beseech and direct that thou often call to mind the friendship which was
betwixt us; but I do not wish thee to mourn for me too much--an
injunction which, so far as it is in my power, I lay on all my friends,
since it might seem that by doing so they felt a jealousy of that blessed
condition in which I am about to be placed by death. I assure thee, my
dear, that if I had the option now of continuing in life or of completing
the voyage on which I have set out, I should find it very hard to choose.
Adieu, dear niece."
Mademoiselle d'Arsat, his stepdaughter, was next called. He said to her:
"Daughter, you stand in no great need of advice from me, insomuch as you
have a mother, whom I have ever found most sagacious, and entirely in
conformity with my own opinions and wishes, and whom I have never found
faulty; with such a preceptress, you cannot fail to be properly
instructed. Do not account it singular that I, with no tie of blood to
you, am interested in you; for, being the child of one who is so closely
allied to me, I am necessarily concerned in what concerns you; and
consequently the affairs of your brother, M. d'Arsat, have ever been
watched by me with as much care as my own; nor perhaps will it be to your
disadvantage that you were my step-daughter. You enjoy sufficient store
of wealth and beauty; you are a lady of good family; it only remains for
you to add to these possessions the cultivation of your mind, in which I
exhort you not to fail. I do not think necessary to warn you against
vice, a thing so odious in women, for I would not even suppose that you
could harbour any inclination for it--nay, I believe that you hold the
very name in abhorrence. Dear daughter, farewell."
All in the room were weeping and lamenting; but he held without
interruption the thread of his discourse, which was pretty long. But
when he had done, he directed us all to leave the room, except the women
attendants, whom he styled his garrison. But first, calling to him my
brother, M. de Beauregard, he said to him: "M. de Beauregard, you have
my best thanks for all the care you have taken of me. I have now a thing
which I am very anxious indeed to mention to you, and with your
permission I will do so." As my brother gave him encouragement to
proceed, he added: "I assure you that I never knew any man who engaged in
the reformation of our Church with greater sincerity, earnestness, and
single-heartedness than yourself. I consider that you were led to it by
observing the vicious character of our prelates, which no doubt much
requires setting in order, and by imperfections which time has brought
into our Church. It is not my desire at present discourage you from
this course, for I would have no one act in opposition to his conscience;
but I wish, having regard to the good repute acquired by your family from
its enduring concord--a family than which none can be dearer to me; a
family, thank God! no member of which has ever been guilty of dishonour
--in regard, further, to the will of your good father to whom you owe so
much, and of your, uncle, I wish you to avoid extreme means; avoid
harshness and violence: be reconciled with your relatives; do not act
apart, but unite. You perceive what disasters our quarrels have brought
upon this kingdom, and I anticipate still worse mischiefs; and in your
goodness and wisdom, beware of involving your family in such broils; let
it continue to enjoy its former reputation and happiness. M. de
Beauregard, take what I say in good part, and as a proof of the
friendship I feel for you. I postponed till now any communication with
you on the subject, and perhaps the condition in which you see me address
you, may cause my advice and opinion to carry greater authority." My
brother expressed his thanks to him cordially.
On the Monday morning he had become so ill that he quite despaired of
himself; and he said to me very pitifully: "Brother, do not you feel pain
for all the pain I am suffering? Do you not perceive now that the help
you give me has no other effect than that of lengthening my suffering?"
Shortly afterwards he fainted, and we all thought him gone; but by the
application of vinegar and wine he rallied. But he soon sank, and when
he heard us in lamentation, he murmured, "O God! who is it that teases
me so? Why did you break the agreeable repose I was enjoying? I beg of
you to leave me." And then, when he caught the sound of my voice, he
continued: "And art thou, my brother, likewise unwilling to see me at
peace? O, how thou robbest me of my repose!" After a while, he seemed
to gain more strength, and called for wine, which he relished, and
declared it to be the finest drink possible. I, in order to change the
current of his thoughts, put in, "Surely not; water is the best." "Ah,
yes," he returned, "doubtless so;--(Greek phrase)--." He had now become,
icy-cold at his extremities, even to his face; a deathly perspiration was
upon him, and his pulse was scarcely perceptible.
This morning he confessed, but the priest had omitted to bring with him
the necessary apparatus for celebrating Mass. On the Tuesday, however,
M. de la Boetie summoned him to aid him, as he said, in discharging the
last office of a Christian. After the conclusion of Mass, he took the
sacrament; when the priest was about to depart, he said to him:
"Spiritual father, I implore you humbly, as well as those over whom you
are set, to pray to the Almighty on my behalf; that, if it be decreed in
heaven that I am now to end my life, He will take compassion on my soul,
and pardon me my sins, which are manifold, it not being possible for so
weak and poor a creature as I to obey completely the will of such a
Master; or, if He think fit to keep me longer here, that it may please
Him to release my present extreme anguish, and to direct my footsteps in
the right path, that I may become a better man than I have been." He
paused to recover breath a little; priest was about to go away, he called
him back and proceeded: "I desire to say, besides, in your hearing this:
I declare that I was christened and I have lived, and that so I wish to
die, in the faith which Moses preached in Egypt; which afterwards the
Patriarchs accepted and professed in Judaea; and which, in the course of
time, has been transmitted to France and to us." He seemed desirous of
adding something more, but he ended with a request to his uncle and me to
send up prayers for him; "for those are," he said, "the best duties that
Christians can fulfil one for another." In the course of talking, his
shoulder was uncovered, and although a man-servant stood near him, he
asked his uncle to re-adjust the clothes. Then, turning his eyes towards
me, he said, "Ingenui est, cui multum debeas, ei plurimum velle debere."
M. de Belot called in the afternoon to see him, and M. de la Boetie,
taking his hand, said to him: "I was on the point of discharging my debt,
but my kind creditor has given me a little further time." A little while
after, appearing to wake out of a sort of reverie, he uttered words which
he had employed once or twice before in the course of his sickness:
"Ah well, ah well, whenever the hour comes, I await it with pleasure and
fortitude." And then, as they were holding his mouth open by force to
give him a draught, he observed to M. de Belot: "An vivere tanti est?"
As the evening approached, he began perceptibly to sink; and while I
supped, he sent for me to come, being no more than the shadow of a man,
or, as he put it himself, 'non homo, sed species hominis'; and he said to
me with the utmost difficulty: "My brother, my friend, please God I may
realise the imaginations I have just enjoyed." Afterwards, having waited
for some time while he remained silent, and by painful efforts was
drawing long sighs (for his tongue at this point began to refuse its
functions), I said, "What are they?" "Grand, grand!" he replied. "I
have never yet failed," returned I, "to have the honour of hearing your
conceptions and imaginations communicated to me; will you not now still
let me enjoy them?" "I would indeed," he answered; "but, my brother,
I am not able to do so; they are admirable, infinite, and unspeakable."
We stopped short there, for he could not go on. A little before, indeed,
he had shown a desire to speak to his wife, and had told her, with as gay
a countenance as he could contrive to assume, that he had a story to tell
her. And it seemed as if he was making an attempt to gain utterance;
but, his strength failing him, he begged a little wine to resuscitate it.
It was of no avail, for he fainted away suddenly, and was for some time
insensible. Having become so near a neighbour to death, and hearing the
sobs of Mademoiselle de la Boetie, he called her, and said to her thus:
"My own likeness, you grieve yourself beforehand; will you not have pity
on me? take courage. Assuredly, it costs me more than half the pain I
endure, to see you suffer; and reasonably so, because the evils which we
ourselves feel we do not actually ourselves suffer, but it certain
sentient faculties which God plants in us, that feel them: whereas what
we feel on account of others, we feel by consequence of a certain
reasoning process which goes on within our minds. But I am going away"
--That he said because his strength was failing him; and fearing that he
had frightened his wife, he resumed, observing: "I am going to sleep.
Good night, my wife; go thy way." This was the last farewell he took of
her.
After she had left, "My brother," said he to me, "keep near me, if you
please;" and then feeling the advance of death more pressing and more
acute, or else the effect of some warm draught which they had made him
swallow, his voice grew stronger and clearer, and he turned quite with
violence in his bed, so that all began again to entertain the hope which
we had lost only upon witnessing his extreme prostration.
At this stage he proceeded, among other things, to pray me again and
again, in a most affectionate manner, to give him a place; so that I was
apprehensive that his reason might be impaired, particularly when, on my
pointing out to him that he was doing himself harm, and that these were
not of the words of a rational man, he did not yield at first, but
redoubled his outcry, saying, "My brother, my brother! dost thou then
refuse me a place?" insomuch that he constrained me to demonstrate to
him that, as he breathed and spoke, and had his physical being, therefore
he had his place. "Yes, yes," he responded, "I have; but it is not that
which I need; and, besides, when all is said, I have no longer any
existence." "God," I replied, "will grant you a better one soon."
"Would it were now, my brother," was his answer. "It is now three days
since I have been eager to take my departure."
Being in this extremity, he frequently called me, merely to satisfy him
that I was at his side. At length, he composed himself a little to rest,
which strengthened our hopes; so much so, indeed, that I left the room,
and went to rejoice thereupon with Mademoiselle de la Boetie. But, an
hour or so afterwards, he called me by name once or twice, and then with
a long sigh expired at three o'clock on Wednesday morning, the 18th
August 1563, having lived thirty-two years, nine months, and seventeen
days.
II.
To Monseigneur, Monseigneur de MONTAIGNE.
[This letter is prefixed to Montaigne's translation of the "Natural
Theology" of Raymond de Sebonde, printed at Paris in 1569.]