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7. That our deeds are judged by the intention
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[The end of this chapter, written just before Montaigne died, turns fairly routine thoughts about motive into a personal declaration: Montaigne intends his death to be morally at one with his life.]
[A] ‘Death,’ they say, ‘settles all obligations.’ I know some who have taken that in a perverse sense. King Henry VII of England made an agreement with Don Felipe, the son of the Emperor Maximilian or (to situate him more nobly) the father of the Emperor Charles V, by which Don Felipe would hand over to him his enemy the Duke of Suffolk (of the White Rose, who had fled into hiding in the Low Countries) provided that he promise to make no attempt on the Duke’s life. Yet as he lay a-dying Henry ordered his son in his testament to have the Duke killed as soon as his own death was over.1
More recently, in that tragedy put on for us by the Duke of Alba with the deaths of Count Horn and Count Egmont, there were many events worthy of note.2 Among others was the fact that Count Egmont, on whose faith and assurances Count Horn had put himself into the hands of the Duke of Alba, insistently begged that he be executed first, so that his death should free him from the obligation he had incurred towards Count Horn.
It would seem that death had not freed King Henry from his sworn undertaking, but that Count Egmont had discharged his even before he died: we cannot be held to promises beyond our power or our means. That is why – since actions and performances are not wholly in our power and since nothing is really in our power but our will – it is on the will that all the rules and duties of Man are based and established. And so, since Count Egmont held his soul and his will to be debtors to his promise, he would without a doubt have been acquitted of his obligation even had he survived Count Horn, given that it was not in his power to carry it out. But the King of England, by breaking his word intentionally, cannot be absolved just because he put off the act of treachery until after his death – no more than that mason in Herodotus who loyally kept the secret of the treasures of the king of Egypt during his lifetime, only to reveal it to his children when he died.3
[C] I have seen many men in my time smitten in conscience for having withheld other men’s goods who arrange in their testaments to put things right after they are dead. But it is valueless to fix a date for so urgent a matter or to wish to right wrongs without feeling or cost. They must pay with something which is truly theirs: the more burdensome and onerous their payment the more just and meritorious their atonement. Repentance begs for burdens.
Worse still are they who reserve for their last will and testament some hate-ridden provision affecting a near one, having concealed it during their lifetime. By stirring up against their memory the one they have offended they show scant regard for their reputations; and they show even less for their consciences since they cannot, even out of respect for death, make their animosities die, prolonging the life of them beyond their own. They are iniquitous judges, postponing judgement until they can no longer take cognizance of the case.
If I can, I will prevent my death from saying anything not first said by my life.