The journal of Montaigne's travels in Italy by way of Switzerland and Germany in 1580 and 1581, Volume 2 (of 3)

In Short

This journal is a quiet, observant record of a traveler’s progress through the heart of Italy. Eschewing the grandiloquent tone of a typical Renaissance travelogue, the author focuses on the mundane: the quality of the wine, the peculiarities of church services, the comfort of inns, and the persistent management of his own health. By documenting the texture of daily life in the 1580s—from the behavior of local clergy to the architecture of gardens—the text remains a vital, human-scale portrait of a world in transition.

The Story

The journey unfolds as a series of deliberate, often unhurried, movements across the Italian peninsula. The narrator is less a tourist seeking monumental revelations than a man of curiosity navigating a foreign land with a mixture of pragmatic skepticism and genuine interest. He travels through towns like Verona, Bologna, and Florence, constantly measuring what he sees against his experiences in France. He is struck by the stark contrasts between the regions: the turbulence of city politics in one place, the surprising poverty of some baths in another, and the excessive, performative piety he observes in Rome.

As he makes his way toward Rome, the narrative shifts from simple description to a more layered account of how the past and present collide. He describes the subterranean ruins of cities, where new buildings rest casually upon the foundations of ancient ones, and he reflects on the way religious fervor manifests in both the grandest cathedrals and the most private, intimate moments of the citizenry. His presence in Rome is marked by his interactions with the Church; he balances his sincere devotion with a sharp eye for the absurdities of clerical ritual and the bureaucratic nature of power.

Throughout the narrative, the author is shadowed by his own health. He suffers from bouts of colic and kidney pain, and he meticulously records the effectiveness of the mineral waters and the various treatments he encounters. Rather than viewing travel as an escape from himself, he treats the journey as an extension of his daily life, incorporating his suffering into the landscape of his movement. He finds himself in the company of various French expatriates and local figures, yet he remains an independent observer, often preferring to adjust his itinerary based on rumors of brigands or the simple desire to see a particular vista.

As the journey nears its conclusion in this volume, he finds himself in Loreto, reflecting on the pilgrims he has encountered and the complex system of hospitality and trade that sustains the road. He leaves behind gifts at shrines, engages in polite discourse with church authorities about the censorship of his own writing, and maintains a rigorous, if occasionally irritable, independence. He does not seek a spiritual climax; instead, he finds satisfaction in the continuity of his observations, finishing the stage of his travels with a pragmatic acknowledgment of the road ahead. He does not return home as a changed man in the sense of a grand transformation, but rather as one who has successfully mapped the world against the contours of his own character.

How It Unfolds

Arrivals and observations The traveler enters Italian cities, noting their size and comparing their amenities to the familiar towns of his native France. He pays close attention to the local government, church architecture, and the behavior of the inhabitants, often finding the social customs as interesting as the art.

The search for relief Seeking to manage his recurring physical ailments, he visits various mineral baths and springs. He reports on the efficacy of these waters with a medical, almost scientific detachment, noting the tastes and temperatures that either soothe or irritate his system.

The negotiation of the road The journey is frequently interrupted by the practical realities of travel: unreliable innkeepers, the threat of brigands, and the logistical challenges of hiring horses. He manages these obstacles with a mix of cautious diplomacy and occasional flashes of temper.

Encounters with the divine and the profane Upon reaching Rome, the narrative focuses on the intricate pageantry of papal ceremonies and the deep-seated religious habits of the Roman people. He balances his admiration for the city's scale with a critical, yet observant, eye toward the theatricality of the Church's public rituals.

Reflections on the journey’s end Moving toward the shrines of Loreto, he observes the streams of pilgrims and the commerce of faith. He concludes this leg of the journey by summarizing his expenses and his interactions with the custodians of the sacred sites, maintaining his focus on the granular details of his existence.

The People

The narrator, M. de Montaigne, is the primary figure. He is a man of status but little pretension, acting as both an investigator of the world and a patient monitoring his own bodily humors. He is driven by a restless, intellectual curiosity, yet he is constantly hampered by the limitations of his physical health and the vagaries of local travel conditions.

Along the way, he encounters a variety of figures: the boisterous, often dishonest, innkeepers who challenge his patience; the local nobility and French ambassadors who offer him the traditional courtesies of his rank; and the church officials who engage him in dialogue regarding his writings. His interactions with these figures reveal his adaptability; he is equally comfortable discussing theology with a cardinal or arguing the price of a horse with a vetturino. He remains the same man throughout—pragmatic, observant, and fundamentally private—though his perspective on the world is subtly broadened by the sheer variety of human behavior he witnesses.

In Its Own Voice

M. de Montaigne remarked that the government here preserved the memory of its reverses, as it also preserved in their integrity the beautiful tombs of the ill-starred Scaligers.

The narrator observes how the city of Verona holds onto its history, both the triumphant and the tragic.

M. de Montaigne said that these last-named baths reminded him of those of Preissac near to Aix.

He constantly measures his current experiences against the memories of his life in France.

It seemed to me that they were not ill pleased with me: moreover, to justify their careful examination of my book and their condemnation of the same in divers particulars, they instanced several contemporary books, written by cardinals and ecclesiastical personages of high repute, which had been censured for blots of a like character, the good name of the author and the book itself having been left quite scatheless thereby.

He recounts a surprisingly cordial meeting with Roman censors, who treated his controversial writings with a pragmatic, almost professional, leniency.

What It's Really About

At its core, the text explores the tension between the transient traveler and the enduring landscape. It is an inquiry into what it means to observe—how personal bias, physical pain, and cultural background shape our perception of foreign places. The author is deeply concerned with the "everydayness" of human existence: how religion is practiced in the streets versus the chapel, how social rank is maintained through ceremony, and how history is literally buried beneath the feet of those who ignore it. It is a meditation on the self as an anchor in a shifting, often irrational world. It asks: how can a person remain rational and curious when confronted with the vast, chaotic, and often contradictory nature of human society?

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate the diary form—those who find more truth in a well-observed detail about an inn’s fare than in a grand historical thesis—will find this volume compelling. It offers a rare, unvarnished look at the sixteenth century, free from the romanticism that often colors our view of the Renaissance. You will find it feels intimate, like sitting across from a thoughtful, slightly opinionated companion who is more interested in the quality of the local artichokes than in praising the local monuments.

However, the book requires patience. Its pacing is dictated by the slow, uneven rhythm of mule travel and the author's own digressions. You will encounter archaic measurements, occasional mentions of obscure local politics, and a lack of traditional "plot." The author’s frankness about his health—including his detailed, sometimes graphic, monitoring of his kidney stones—may be off-putting to some, yet it is exactly this honesty that makes the book resonate across the centuries. It is a portrait of a man trying to live well and observe clearly in the midst of a fragile, often difficult world. What stays with you is not just the itinerary, but the portrait of a mind that finds its greatest satisfaction in simply being present.