Written by Natalie Zemon Davis (1928-2023), and published in 1983, this is a fascinating snippet of history, featuring -- as did The Fraud -- an intriguing case of imposture. My audio-version was nicely read by Sarah Mollo-Christensen.

The story, in brief, is this: In the year 1548, a relatively well-off Languedoc peasant named Martin Guerre abandons his home in Artigat, along with his wife, child, and inheritance.



He's had a troubled past. Married very young, even by the standards of the time, he suffers years of impotency, and his wife (Bertrande) years of disinterest, until such times as the "spell" that has been cast on them is lifted, and Bertrande has a child. Even then life was probably not easy for Martin -- his precarious sexuality to live down, sisters to marry off, possibly troubles with his authoritarian father. And there was no escape valve such as males in other communities enjoyed (a trip to the whaling grounds, for example, or to the mountain pastures). Some young men escaped to university or into the army, and some went to Spain. But Martin's father wouldn't have allowed any of these.

Eventually, there's a crisis. Martin is accused of stealing grain from his father. He vanishes. And nothing is heard of him for years.


Oto, 1994. We later find out that Martin did indeed cross the Pyrenees; he learnt Spanish, and ended up in Burgos

This is very awkward for Bertrande. After the difficult fallow period at the beginning of her marriage, when she resisted pressure to separate from her husband, she now finds herself embroiled in a different kind of problem. As a deserted wife, she couldn't remarry if there was no firm news that her husband was dead. There might have been tricksy ways round this, but Bertrande never took them. As far as she saw it, her material interests lay with her son, and what would one day be his inheritance, and in any case she had an inflexible sense of her own dignity and reputation. She lived virtuously and honorably.

Then, in 1556, someone turns up claiming to be Martin Guerre. This man is convincing enough to be accepted by several members of the community, including Martin's wife, sisters, and uncle (Pierre).

What was Bertrande thinking? Surely she must have known... However that may be, through a tacit or explicit agreement, Bertrande helped the new Martin to convert himself into her husband. Finally, she has a man she can live with in peace. She has two more children, one of whom survives.



Some years later, however, pressed by a family quarrel, Pierre denounces the new Martin as an impostor. New evidence has come to light, including the visit by a soldier, who claims that the real Martin Guerre fought in Flanders, and lost a leg... Bit by bit Pierre establishes the name of the man he now sees as a fraud: He's Arnaud du Tilh, aka Pansette.

Pierre pushes Bertrande to take her "husband" to court. Short on options, she agrees. We can surmise that she felt she couldn't refuse (a subsequent conviction would have implicated her in deliberate adultery if she didn't cooperate). But perhaps she was hoping the evidence would be insufficient, and life could go on... The new Martin declares in court that if Bertrande swears he is not her husband, he will accept condemnation and death. But she says nothing...

He puts up an admirable defence. But the judge finds him guilty.



So there's an appeal, in 1560, to the Parliament of Toulouse. One of the judges is Jean de Coras. (He later wrote one of the two key accounts of this whole business; the other is by Guillaume Le Sueur, also published in 1561.) Coras is pretty much persuaded of the innocence of the new Martin, despite some telling evidence on both sides.



He's about to pronounce a not-guilty verdict, when up rolls a man with a wooden leg. The real Martin Guerre has returned...

Such drama... You couldn't make this stuff up.

One by one, Guerre's family members accept him, including Bertrande. He treats her pleas for pardon quite harshly (refusing to countenance that he shares part of the responsibility for this mess by having abandoned her).

Arnaud du Tilh, having been exposed as a fraud, is condemned to death by hanging. Before his execution, he confesses, in public, but he is very careful to exonerate Bertrande. She knew nothing; she was simply deceived, as women so easily are. Bertrande herself portrays the whole thing as another bit of sorcery, of which she was the innocent victim.

For Coras, this story was not a comedy, in the way peasant doings were often depicted at the time, but much more akin to a tragedy. By Davis's account, he has a sneaking admiration for du Tilh, and leaves you wondering whether the tragedy lay not so much in the deception as in its discovery. Indeed, she herself concludes on an ambivalent note, pointing out that the story of Martin Guerre has been told and retold because it reminds us that surprises are always possible, and although she thinks she has managed to uncover the true face of the past, it could still be that Pansette has one more trick to play...



This was another Five Books recommendation, on the topic of "microhistory" this time. It is Davis's contributions to this field for which she is best remembered. As the label suggests, it's a method that involves detailed analysis of an incident, life, or location as a way of understanding wider society: "It used methods of close reading of sources as though through a microscope and reading against the grain, to reveal small details or clues that might challenge more established theories. Microhistory brought a different scale and point of view to the writing of history, one based on closeness and familiarity as opposed to distance and strangeness."

Davis was also noted for her focus on the otherwise marginalized -- peasants, artisans, and women.

She also brings a certain creativity and strategy of inference to bear on her sources. One history professor is quoted as saying: "What Natalie did was show how archives could be used creatively... Natalie taught us how to ask the archives why they are there in the first place. Why do people keep these things? What do they reveal when you read over their shoulder?"

This is evident in The Return of Martin Guerre. Previous historical accounts had largely glossed over the part played by Bertrande, "but Davis made her to be a central figure who played along with the imposture instead of the unaware victim she was previously thought to be".



Not everyone is happy with this approach, needless to say. Proponents of the traditional school of historiography are loath to go any distance at all beyond the literal historical record. (There's a good account here of a spirited dialogue between traditionalist Robert Finlay and new social historian Natalie Zemon Davis.)

Indeed, in her introduction to The Return of Martin Guerre, Davis explains that when she can't locate a particular personage in the records, she draws on other sources relevant to the time and place in order to describe the world as they saw it and the reactions they might have had. What she offers, she says, is partly her invention, but it's an invention that is very closely circumscribed by the voices of the past.

It certainly makes riveting reading.

As a coda, it's sad to note that Jean de Coras was caught up in the religious troubles of the late 16th century, and was killed. And Montaigne also wrote about the case in 1588. In the context of a reminder of our perennial lack of knowledge, which should make us back off on meting out death sentences ("To kill men, a clear and strong light is required"), he's quite hard on Coras ("I thought it a very bold sentence"). I'm not sure how fair that is, given that Coras didn't have that many options available (prison wasn't one of them, as that was only for detainees awaiting trial, and for debtors), and had an outraged family to deal with.

It's good to hear Montaigne, however (albeit amidst a host of zany comments on lame legs, as is his way), urging clemency, just as Coras urged understanding of the malefactor. Writing in times we would judge as harsh, they still have something to teach us.