No More Learning

Very often he is
a solar myth, and the statement that Rabelais only collected popular
traditions and gave new life to ancient legends is said to be proved by the
large number of megalithic monuments to which is attached the name of
Gargantua. It was, of course, quite right to make a list of these, to draw
up, as it were, a chart of them, but the conclusion is not justified. The
name, instead of being earlier, is really later, and is a witness, not to
the origin, but to the success and rapid popularity of his novel. No one
has ever yet produced a written passage or any ancient testimony to prove
the existence of the name before Rabelais. To place such a tradition on a
sure basis, positive traces must be forthcoming; and they cannot be adduced
even for the most celebrated of these monuments, since he mentions himself
the great menhir near Poitiers, which he christened by the name of
Passelourdin. That there is something in the theory is possible. Perrault
found the subjects of his stories in the tales told by mothers and nurses.
He fixed them finally by writing them down. Floating about vaguely as they
were, he seized them, worked them up, gave them shape, and yet of scarcely
any of them is there to be found before his time a single trace. So we
must resign ourselves to know just as little of what Gargantua and
Pantagruel were before the sixteenth century.

In a book of a contemporary of Rabelais, the Legende de Pierre Faifeu by
the Angevin, Charles de Bourdigne, the first edition of which dates from
1526 and the second 1531--both so rare and so forgotten that the work is
only known since the eighteenth century by the reprint of Custelier--in the
introductory ballad which recommends this book to readers, occur these
lines in the list of popular books which Faifeu would desire to replace:

'Laissez ester Caillette le folastre,
Les quatre filz Aymon vestuz de bleu,
Gargantua qui a cheveux de plastre. '

He has not 'cheveux de plastre' in Rabelais. If the rhyme had not
suggested the phrase--and the exigencies of the strict form of the ballade
and its forced repetitions often imposed an idea which had its whole origin
in the rhyme--we might here see a dramatic trace found nowhere else. The
name of Pantagruel is mentioned too, incidentally, in a Mystery of the
fifteenth century. These are the only references to the names which up
till now have been discovered, and they are, as one sees, of but little
account.

On the other hand, the influence of Aristophanes and of Lucian, his
intimate acquaintance with nearly all the writers of antiquity, Greek as
well as Latin, with whom Rabelais is more permeated even than Montaigne,
were a mine of inspiration. The proof of it is everywhere. Pliny
especially was his encyclopaedia, his constant companion. All he says of
the Pantagruelian herb, though he amply developed it for himself, is taken
from Pliny's chapter on flax. And there is a great deal more of this kind
to be discovered, for Rabelais does not always give it as quotation. On
the other hand, when he writes, 'Such an one says,' it would be difficult
enough to find who is meant, for the 'such an one' is a fictitious writer.
The method is amusing, but it is curious to account of it.

The question of the Chronique Gargantuaine is still undecided. Is it by
Rabelais or by someone else? Both theories are defensible, and can be
supported by good reasons. In the Chronique everything is heavy,
occasionally meaningless, and nearly always insipid. Can the same man have
written the Chronique and Gargantua, replaced a book really commonplace by
a masterpiece, changed the facts and incidents, transformed a heavy icy
pleasantry into a work glowing with wit and life, made it no longer a mass
of laborious trifling and cold-blooded exaggerations but a satire on human
life of the highest genius? Still there are points common to the two.
Besides, Rabelais wrote other things; and it is only in his romance that he
shows literary skill. The conception of it would have entered his mind
first only in a bare and summary fashion. It would have been taken up
again, expanded, developed, metamorphosed. That is possible, and, for my
part, I am of those who, like Brunet and Nodier, are inclined to think that
the Chronique, in spite of its inferiority, is really a first attempt,
condemned as soon as the idea was conceived in another form. As its
earlier date is incontestable, we must conclude that if the Chronique is
not by him, his Gargantua and its continuation would not have existed
without it. This would be a great obligation to stand under to some
unknown author, and in that case it is astonishing that his enemies did not
reproach him during his lifetime with being merely an imitator and a
plagiarist. So there are reasons for and against his authorship of it, and
it would be dangerous to make too bold an assertion.

One fact which is absolutely certain and beyond all controversy, is that
Rabelais owed much to one of his contemporaries, an Italian, to the
Histoire Macaronique of Merlin Coccaie. Its author, Theophilus Folengo,
who was also a monk, was born in 1491, and died only a short time before
Rabelais, in 1544. But his burlesque poem was published in 1517. It was
in Latin verse, written in an elaborately fabricated style. It is not dog
Latin, but Latin ingeniously italianized, or rather Italian, even Mantuan,
latinized. The contrast between the modern form of the word and its Roman
garb produces the most amusing effect. In the original it is sometimes
difficult to read, for Folengo has no objection to using the most
colloquial words and phrases.

The subject is quite different. It is the adventures of Baldo, son of Guy
de Montauban, the very lively history of his youth, his trial, imprisonment
and deliverance, his journey in search of his father, during which he
visits the Planets and Hell. The narration is constantly interrupted by
incidental adventures. Occasionally they are what would be called to-day
very naturalistic, and sometimes they are madly extravagant.

But Fracasso, Baldo's friend, is a giant; another friend, Cingar, who
delivers him, is Panurge exactly, and quite as much given to practical
joking. The women in the senile amour of the old Tognazzo, the judges, and
the poor sergeants, are no more gently dealt with by Folengo than by the
monk of the Iles d'Hyeres. If Dindenaut's name does not occur, there are
the sheep. The tempest is there, and the invocation to all the saints.
Rabelais improves all he borrows, but it is from Folengo he starts. He
does not reproduce the words, but, like the Italian, he revels in drinking
scenes, junkettings, gormandizing, battles, scuffles, wounds and corpses,
magic, witches, speeches, repeated enumerations, lengthiness, and a
solemnly minute precision of impossible dates and numbers. The atmosphere,
the tone, the methods are the same, and to know Rabelais well, you must
know Folengo well too.

Detailed proof of this would be too lengthy a matter; one would have to
quote too many passages, but on this question of sources nothing is more
interesting than a perusal of the Opus Macaronicorum. It was translated
into French only in 1606--Paris, Gilley Robinot. This translation of
course cannot reproduce all the many amusing forms of words, but it is
useful, nevertheless, in showing more clearly the points of resemblance
between the two works,--how far in form, ideas, details, and phrases
Rabelais was permeated by Folengo. The anonymous translator saw this quite
well, and said so in his title, 'Histoire macaronique de Merlin Coccaie,
prototype of Rabelais. ' It is nothing but the truth, and Rabelais, who
does not hide it from himself, on more than one occasion mentions the name
of Merlin Coccaie.

Besides, Rabelais was fed on the Italians of his time as on the Greeks and
Romans. Panurge, who owes much to Cingar, is also not free from
obligations to the miscreant Margutte in the Morgante Maggiore of Pulci.
Had Rabelais in his mind the tale from the Florentine Chronicles, how in
the Savonarola riots, when the Piagnoni and the Arrabiati came to blows in
the church of the Dominican convent of San-Marco, Fra Pietro in the scuffle
broke the heads of the assailants with the bronze crucifix he had taken
from the altar? A well-handled cross could so readily be used as a weapon,
that probably it has served as such more than once, and other and even
quite modern instances might be quoted.

But other Italian sources are absolutely certain. There are few more
wonderful chapters in Rabelais than the one about the drinkers. It is not
a dialogue: those short exclamations exploding from every side, all
referring to the same thing, never repeating themselves, and yet always
varying the same theme. At the end of the Novelle of Gentile Sermini of
Siena, there is a chapter called Il Giuoco della pugna, the Game of Battle.
Here are the first lines of it: 'Apre, apre, apre. Chi gioca, chi gioca
--uh, uh! --A Porrione, a Porrione. --Viela, viela; date a ognuno. --Alle
mantella, alle mantella. --Oltre di corsa; non vi fermate. --Voltate qui;
ecco costoro; fate veli innanzi. --Viela, viela; date costi. --Chi la fa?
Io--Ed io. --Dagli; ah, ah, buona fu. --Or cosi; alla mascella, al fianco.
--Dagli basso; di punta, di punta. --Ah, ah, buon gioco, buon gioco. '

And thus it goes on with fire and animation for pages. Rabelais probably
translated or directly imitated it. He changed the scene; there was no
giuooco della pugna in France. He transferred to a drinking-bout this
clatter of exclamations which go off by themselves, which cross each other
and get no answer. He made a wonderful thing of it. But though he did not
copy Sermini, yet Sermini's work provided him with the form of the subject,
and was the theme for Rabelais' marvellous variations.

Who does not remember the fantastic quarrel of the cook with the poor devil
who had flavoured his dry bread with the smoke of the roast, and the
judgment of Seyny John, truly worthy of Solomon? It comes from the Cento
Novelle Antiche, rewritten from tales older than Boccaccio, and moreover of
an extreme brevity and dryness. They are only the framework, the notes,
the skeleton of tales. The subject is often wonderful, but nothing is made
of it: it is left unshaped. Rabelais wrote a version of one, the ninth.
The scene takes place, not at Paris, but at Alexandria in Egypt among the
Saracens, and the cook is called Fabrac. But the surprise at the end, the
sagacious judgment by which the sound of a piece of money was made the
price of the smoke, is the same. Now the first dated edition of the Cento
Novelle (which were frequently reprinted) appeared at Bologna in 1525, and
it is certain that Rabelais had read the tales. And there would be much
else of the same kind to learn if we knew Rabelais' library.

A still stranger fact of this sort may be given to show how nothing came
amiss to him. He must have known, and even copied the Latin Chronicle of
the Counts of Anjou. It is accepted, and rightly so, as an historical
document, but that is no reason for thinking that the truth may not have
been manipulated and adorned. The Counts of Anjou were not saints. They
were proud, quarrelsome, violent, rapacious, and extravagant, as greedy as
they were charitable to the Church, treacherous and cruel. Yet their
anonymous panegyrist has made them patterns of all the virtues. In reality
it is both a history and in some sort a romance; especially is it a
collection of examples worthy of being followed, in the style of the
Cyropaedia, our Juvenal of the fifteenth century, and a little like
Fenelon's Telemaque. Now in it there occurs the address of one of the
counts to those who rebelled against him and who were at his mercy.
Rabelais must have known it, for he has copied it, or rather, literally
translated whole lines of it in the wonderful speech of Gargantua to the
vanquished. His contemporaries, who approved of his borrowing from
antiquity, could not detect this one, because the book was not printed till
much later. But Rabelais lived in Maine. In Anjou, which often figures
among the localities he names, he must have met with and read the
Chronicles of the Counts in manuscript, probably in some monastery library,
whether at Fontenay-le-Comte or elsewhere it matters little. There is not
only a likeness in the ideas and tone, but in the words too, which cannot
be a mere matter of chance. He must have known the Chronicles of the
Counts of Anjou, and they inspired one of his finest pages. One sees,
therefore, how varied were the sources whence he drew, and how many of them
must probably always escape us.

When, as has been done for Moliere, a critical bibliography of the works
relating to Rabelais is drawn up--which, by the bye, will entail a very
great amount of labour--the easiest part will certainly be the bibliography
of the old editions. That is the section that has been most satisfactorily
and most completely worked out. M. Brunet said the last word on the
subject in his Researches in 1852, and in the important article in the
fifth edition of his Manuel du Libraire (iv. , 1863, pp. 1037-1071).

The facts about the fifth book cannot be summed up briefly. It was printed
as a whole at first, without the name of the place, in 1564, and next year
at Lyons by Jean Martin. It has given, and even still gives rise to two
contradictory opinions. Is it Rabelais' or not?

First of all, if he had left it complete, would sixteen years have gone by
before it was printed? Then, does it bear evident marks of his
workmanship? Is the hand of the master visible throughout? Antoine Du
Verdier in the 1605 edition of his Prosopographie writes: '(Rabelais')
misfortune has been that everybody has wished to "pantagruelize! " and
several books have appeared under his name, and have been added to his
works, which are not by him, as, for instance, l'Ile Sonnante, written by a
certain scholar of Valence and others. '

The scholar of Valence might be Guillaume des Autels, to whom with more
certainty can be ascribed the authorship of a dull imitation of Rabelais,
the History of Fanfreluche and Gaudichon, published in 1578, which, to say
the least of it, is very much inferior to the fifth book.

Louis Guyon, in his Diverses Lecons, is still more positive: 'As to the
last book which has been included in his works, entitled l'Ile Sonnante,
the object of which seems to be to find fault with and laugh at the members
and the authorities of the Catholic Church, I protest that he did not
compose it, for it was written long after his death. I was at Paris when
it was written, and I know quite well who was its author; he was not a
doctor. ' That is very emphatic, and it is impossible to ignore it.

Yet everyone must recognize that there is a great deal of Rabelais in the
fifth book. He must have planned it and begun it. Remembering that in
1548 he had published, not as an experiment, but rather as a bait and as an
announcement, the first eleven chapters of the fourth book, we may conclude
that the first sixteen chapters of the fifth book published by themselves
nine years after his death, in 1562, represent the remainder of his
definitely finished work. This is the more certain because these first
chapters, which contain the Apologue of the Horse and the Ass and the
terrible Furred Law-cats, are markedly better than what follows them. They
are not the only ones where the master's hand may be traced, but they are
the only ones where no other hand could possibly have interfered.

In the remainder the sentiment is distinctly Protestant. Rabelais was much
struck by the vices of the clergy and did not spare them. Whether we are
unable to forgive his criticisms because they were conceived in a spirit of
raillery, or whether, on the other hand, we feel admiration for him on this
point, yet Rabelais was not in the least a sectary. If he strongly desired
a moral reform, indirectly pointing out the need of it in his mocking
fashion, he was not favourable to a political reform. Those who would make
of him a Protestant altogether forget that the Protestants of his time were
not for him, but against him. Henri Estienne, for instance, Ramus,
Theodore de Beze, and especially Calvin, should know how he was to be
regarded. Rabelais belonged to what may be called the early reformation,
to that band of honest men in the beginning of the sixteenth century,
precursors of the later one perhaps, but, like Erasmus, between the two
extremes. He was neither Lutheran nor Calvinist, neither German nor
Genevese, and it is quite natural that his work was not reprinted in
Switzerland, which would certainly have happened had the Protestants looked
on him as one of themselves.

That Rabelais collected the materials for the fifth book, had begun it, and
got on some way, there can be no doubt: the excellence of a large number
of passages prove it, but--taken as a whole--the fifth book has not the
value, the verve, and the variety of the others. The style is quite
different, less rich, briefer, less elaborate, drier, in parts even
wearisome. In the first four books Rabelais seldom repeats himself. The
fifth book contains from the point of view of the vocabulary really the
least novelty. On the contrary, it is full of words and expressions
already met with, which is very natural in an imitation, in a copy, forced
to keep to a similar tone, and to show by such reminders and likenesses
that it is really by the same pen. A very striking point is the profound
difference in the use of anatomical terms. In the other books they are
most frequently used in a humorous sense, and nonsensically, with a quite
other meaning than their own; in the fifth they are applied correctly. It
was necessary to include such terms to keep up the practice, but the writer
has not thought of using them to add to the comic effect: one cannot
always think of everything. Trouble has been taken, of course, to include
enumerations, but there are much fewer fabricated and fantastic words. In
short, the hand of the maker is far from showing the same suppleness and
strength.

A eulogistic quatrain is signed Nature quite, which, it is generally
agreed, is an anagram of Jean Turquet. Did the adapter of the fifth book
sign his work in this indirect fashion? He might be of the Genevese family
to whom Louis Turquet and his son Theodore belonged, both well-known, and
both strong Protestants. The obscurity relating to this matter is far from
being cleared up, and perhaps never will be.

It fell to my lot--here, unfortunately, I am forced to speak of a personal
matter--to print for the first time the manuscript of the fifth book. At
first it was hoped it might be in Rabelais' own hand; afterwards that it
might be at least a copy of his unfinished work. The task was a difficult
one, for the writing, extremely flowing and rapid, is execrable, and most
difficult to decipher and to transcribe accurately. Besides, it often
happens in the sixteenth and the end of the fifteenth century, that
manuscripts are much less correct than the printed versions, even when they
have not been copied by clumsy and ignorant hands. In this case, it is the
writing of a clerk executed as quickly as possible. The farther it goes
the more incorrect it becomes, as if the writer were in haste to finish.

What is really the origin of it? It has less the appearance of notes or
fragments prepared by Rabelais than of a first attempt at revision. It is
not an author's rough draft; still less is it his manuscript. If I had not
printed this enigmatical text with scrupulous and painful fidelity, I would
do it now. It was necessary to do it so as to clear the way. But as the
thing is done, and accessible to those who may be interested, and who wish
to critically examine it, there is no further need of reprinting it. All
the editions of Rabelais continue, and rightly, to reproduce the edition of
1564. It is not the real Rabelais, but however open to criticism it may
be, it was under that form that the fifth book appeared in the sixteenth
century, under that form it was accepted. Consequently it is convenient
and even necessary to follow and keep to the original edition.

The first sixteen chapters may, and really must be, the text of Rabelais,
in the final form as left by him, and found after his death; the framework,
and a number of the passages in the continuation, the best ones, of course,
are his, but have been patched up and tampered with. Nothing can have been
suppressed of what existed; it was evidently thought that everything should
be admitted with the final revision; but the tone was changed, additions
were made, and 'improvements. ' Adapters are always strangely vain.

In the seventeenth century, the French printing-press, save for an edition
issued at Troyes in 1613, gave up publishing Rabelais, and the work passed
to foreign countries. Jean Fuet reprinted him at Antwerp in 1602. After
the Amsterdam edition of 1659, where for the first time appears 'The
Alphabet of the French Author,' comes the Elzevire edition of 1663. The
type, an imitation of what made the reputation of the little volumes of the
Gryphes of Lyons, is charming, the printing is perfect, and the paper,
which is French--the development of paper-making in Holland and England did
not take place till after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes--is
excellent. They are pretty volumes to the eye, but, as in all the reprints
of the seventeenth century, the text is full of faults and most
untrustworthy.

France, through a representative in a foreign land, however, comes into
line again in the beginning of the eighteenth century, and in a really
serious fashion, thanks to the very considerable learning of a French
refugee, Jacob Le Duchat, who died in 1748. He had a most thorough
knowledge of the French prose-writers of the sixteenth century, and he made
them accessible by his editions of the Quinze Joies du Mariage, of Henri
Estienne, of Agrippa d'Aubigne, of L'Etoile, and of the Satyre Menippee.
In 1711 he published an edition of Rabelais at Amsterdam, through Henry
Bordesius, in five duodecimo volumes. The reprint in quarto which he
issued in 1741, seven years before his death, is, with its engravings by
Bernard Picot, a fine library edition. Le Duchat's is the first of the
critical editions. It takes account of differences in the texts, and
begins to point out the variations. His very numerous notes are
remarkable, and are still worthy of most serious consideration. He was the
first to offer useful elucidations, and these have been repeated after him,
and with good reason will continue to be so. The Abbe de Massy's edition
of 1752, also an Amsterdam production, has made use of Le Duchat's but does
not take its place. Finally, at the end of the century, Cazin printed
Rabelais in his little volume, in 1782, and Bartiers issued two editions
(of no importance) at Paris in 1782 and 1798. Fortunately the nineteenth
century has occupied itself with the great 'Satyrique' in a more competent
and useful fashion.

In 1820 L'Aulnaye published through Desoer his three little volumes,
printed in exquisite style, and which have other merits besides. His
volume of annotations, in which, that nothing might be lost of his own
notes, he has included many things not directly relating to Rabelais, is
full of observations and curious remarks which are very useful additions to
Le Duchat. One fault to be found with him is his further complication of
the spelling. This he did in accordance with a principle that the words
should be referred to their real etymology. Learned though he was,
Rabelais had little care to be so etymological, and it is not his theories
but those of the modern scholar that have been ventilated.

Somewhat later, from 1823 to 1826, Esmangart and Johanneau issued a
variorum edition in nine volumes, in which the text is often encumbered by
notes which are really too numerous, and, above all, too long. The work
was an enormous one, but the best part of it is Le Duchat's, and what is
not his is too often absolutely hypothetical and beside the truth. Le
Duchat had already given too much importance to the false historical
explanation. Here it is constantly coming in, and it rests on no evidence.
In reality, there is no need of the key to Rabelais by which to discover
the meaning of subtle allusions.
He is neither so complicated nor so full
of riddles. We know how he has scattered the names of contemporaries about
his work, sometimes of friends, sometimes of enemies, and without
disguising them under any mask. He is no more Panurge than Louis XII. is
Gargantua or Francis I. Pantagruel. Rabelais says what he wants, all he
wants, and in the way he wants. There are no mysteries below the surface,
and it is a waste of time to look for knots in a bulrush. All the
historical explanations are purely imaginary, utterly without proof, and
should the more emphatically be looked on as baseless and dismissed. They
are radically false, and therefore both worthless and harmful.

In 1840 there appeared in the Bibliotheque Charpentier the Rabelais in a
single duodecimo volume, begun by Charles Labiche, and, after his death,
completed by M. Paul Lacroix, whose share is the larger. The text is that
of L'Aulnaye; the short footnotes, with all their brevity, contain useful
explanations of difficult words. Amongst the editions of Rabelais this is
one of the most important, because it brought him many readers and
admirers. No other has made him so well and so widely known as this
portable volume, which has been constantly reprinted. No other has been so
widely circulated, and the sale still goes on. It was, and must still be
looked on as a most serviceable edition.

The edition published by Didot in 1857 has an altogether special character.
In the biographical notice M. Rathery for the first time treated as they
deserve the foolish prejudices which have made Rabelais misunderstood, and
M. Burgaud des Marets set the text on a quite new base. Having proved,
what of course is very evident, that in the original editions the spelling,
and the language too, were of the simplest and clearest, and were not
bristling with the nonsensical and superfluous consonants which have given
rise to the idea that Rabelais is difficult to read, he took the trouble
first of all to note the spelling of each word. Whenever in a single
instance he found it in accordance with modern spelling, he made it the
same throughout. The task was a hard one, and Rabelais certainly gained in
clearness, but over-zeal is often fatal to a reform. In respect to its
precision and the value of its notes, which are short and very judicious,
Burgaud des Marets' edition is valuable, and is amongst those which should
be known and taken into account.

Since Le Duchat all the editions have a common fault. They are not exactly
guilty of fabricating, but they set up an artificial text in the sense
that, in order to lose as little as possible, they have collected and
united what originally were variations--the revisions, in short, of the
original editions. Guided by the wise counsels given by Brunet in 1852 in
his Researches on the old editions of Rabelais, Pierre Jannet published the
first three books in 1858; then, when the publication of the Bibliotheque
Elzevirienne was discontinued, he took up the work again and finished the
edition in Picard's blue library, in little volumes, each book quite
distinct. It was M. Jannet who in our days first restored the pure and
exact text of Rabelais, not only without retouching it, but without making
additions or insertions, or juxtaposition of things that were not formerly
found together. For each of the books he has followed the last edition
issued by Rabelais, and all the earlier differences he gives as variations.
It is astonishing that a thing so simple and so fitting should not have
been done before, and the result is that this absolutely exact fidelity has
restored a lucidity which was not wanting in Rabelais's time, but which had
since been obscured. All who have come after Jannet have followed in his
path, and there is no reason for straying from it.




FRANCIS RABELAIS.


THE FIRST BOOK.


To the Honoured, Noble Translator of Rabelais.

Rabelais, whose wit prodigiously was made,
All men, professions, actions to invade,
With so much furious vigour, as if it
Had lived o'er each of them, and each had quit,
Yet with such happy sleight and careless skill,
As, like the serpent, doth with laughter kill,
So that although his noble leaves appear
Antic and Gottish, and dull souls forbear
To turn them o'er, lest they should only find
Nothing but savage monsters of a mind,--
No shapen beauteous thoughts; yet when the wise
Seriously strip him of his wild disguise,
Melt down his dross, refine his massy ore,
And polish that which seem'd rough-cast before,
Search his deep sense, unveil his hidden mirth,
And make that fiery which before seem'd earth
(Conquering those things of highest consequence,
What's difficult of language or of sense),
He will appear some noble table writ
In the old Egyptian hieroglyphic wit;
Where, though you monsters and grotescoes see,
You meet all mysteries of philosophy.
For he was wise and sovereignly bred
To know what mankind is, how 't may be led:
He stoop'd unto them, like that wise man, who
Rid on a stick, when 's children would do so.
For we are easy sullen things, and must
Be laugh'd aright, and cheated into trust;
Whilst a black piece of phlegm, that lays about
Dull menaces, and terrifies the rout,
And cajoles it, with all its peevish strength
Piteously stretch'd and botch'd up into length,
Whilst the tired rabble sleepily obey
Such opiate talk, and snore away the day,
By all his noise as much their minds relieves,
As caterwauling of wild cats frights thieves.
But Rabelais was another thing, a man
Made up of all that art and nature can
Form from a fiery genius,--he was one
Whose soul so universally was thrown
Through all the arts of life, who understood
Each stratagem by which we stray from good;
So that he best might solid virtue teach,
As some 'gainst sins of their own bosoms preach:
He from wise choice did the true means prefer,
In the fool's coat acting th' philosopher.
Thus hoary Aesop's beasts did mildly tame
Fierce man, and moralize him into shame;
Thus brave romances, while they seem to lay
Great trains of lust, platonic love display;
Thus would old Sparta, if a seldom chance
Show'd a drunk slave, teach children temperance;
Thus did the later poets nobly bring
The scene to height, making the fool the king.
And, noble sir, you vigorously have trod
In this hard path, unknown, un-understood
By its own countrymen, 'tis you appear
Our full enjoyment which was our despair,
Scattering his mists, cheering his cynic frowns
(For radiant brightness now dark Rabelais crowns),
Leaving your brave heroic cares, which must
Make better mankind and embalm your dust,
So undeceiving us, that now we see
All wit in Gascon and in Cromarty,
Besides that Rabelais is convey'd to us,
And that our Scotland is not barbarous.

J. De la Salle.



Rablophila.

The First Decade.

The Commendation.

Musa! canas nostrorum in testimonium Amorum,
Et Gargantueas perpetuato faces,
Utque homini tali resultet nobilis Eccho:
Quicquid Fama canit, Pantagruelis erit.

The Argument.

Here I intend mysteriously to sing
With a pen pluck'd from Fame's own wing,
Of Gargantua that learn'd breech-wiping king.

Decade the First.

I.

Help me, propitious stars; a mighty blaze
Benumbs me! I must sound the praise
Of him hath turn'd this crabbed work in such heroic phrase.

II.

What wit would not court martyrdom to hold
Upon his head a laurel of gold,
Where for each rich conceit a Pumpion-pearl is told:

III.

And such a one is this, art's masterpiece,
A thing ne'er equall'd by old Greece:
A thing ne'er match'd as yet, a real Golden Fleece.

IV.

Vice is a soldier fights against mankind;
Which you may look but never find:
For 'tis an envious thing, with cunning interlined.

V.

And thus he rails at drinking all before 'em,
And for lewd women does be-whore 'em,
And brings their painted faces and black patches to th' quorum.

VI.

To drink he was a furious enemy
Contented with a six-penny--
(with diamond hatband, silver spurs, six horses. ) pie--

VII.

And for tobacco's pate-rotunding smoke,
Much had he said, and much more spoke,
But 'twas not then found out, so the design was broke.

VIII.

Muse! Fancy! Faith! come now arise aloud,
Assembled in a blue-vein'd cloud,
And this tall infant in angelic arms now shroud.

IX.

To praise it further I would now begin
Were 't now a thoroughfare and inn,
It harbours vice, though 't be to catch it in a gin.

X.

Therefore, my Muse, draw up thy flowing sail,
And acclamate a gentle hail
With all thy art and metaphors, which must prevail.

Jam prima Oceani pars est praeterita nostri.
Imparibus restat danda secunda modis.
Quam si praestiterit mentem Daemon malus addam,
Cum sapiens totus prodierit Rabelais.

Malevolus.



(Reader, the Errata, which in this book are not a few, are casually lost;
and therefore the Translator, not having leisure to collect them again,
craves thy pardon for such as thou may'st meet with. )



The Author's Prologue to the First Book.

Most noble and illustrious drinkers, and you thrice precious pockified
blades (for to you, and none else, do I dedicate my writings), Alcibiades,
in that dialogue of Plato's, which is entitled The Banquet, whilst he was
setting forth the praises of his schoolmaster Socrates (without all
question the prince of philosophers), amongst other discourses to that
purpose, said that he resembled the Silenes. Silenes of old were little
boxes, like those we now may see in the shops of apothecaries, painted on
the outside with wanton toyish figures, as harpies, satyrs, bridled geese,
horned hares, saddled ducks, flying goats, thiller harts, and other
such-like counterfeited pictures at discretion, to excite people unto
laughter, as Silenus himself, who was the foster-father of good Bacchus, was
wont to do; but within those capricious caskets were carefully preserved and
kept many rich jewels and fine drugs, such as balm, ambergris, amomon, musk,
civet, with several kinds of precious stones, and other things of great
price. Just such another thing was Socrates. For to have eyed his outside,
and esteemed of him by his exterior appearance, you would not have given the
peel of an onion for him, so deformed he was in body, and ridiculous in his
gesture. He had a sharp pointed nose, with the look of a bull, and
countenance of a fool: he was in his carriage simple, boorish in his
apparel, in fortune poor, unhappy in his wives, unfit for all offices in the
commonwealth, always laughing, tippling, and merrily carousing to everyone,
with continual gibes and jeers, the better by those means to conceal his
divine knowledge. Now, opening this box you would have found within it a
heavenly and inestimable drug, a more than human understanding, an admirable
virtue, matchless learning, invincible courage, unimitable sobriety, certain
contentment of mind, perfect assurance, and an incredible misregard of all
that for which men commonly do so much watch, run, sail, fight, travel, toil
and turmoil themselves.

Whereunto (in your opinion) doth this little flourish of a preamble tend?
For so much as you, my good disciples, and some other jolly fools of ease
and leisure, reading the pleasant titles of some books of our invention, as
Gargantua, Pantagruel, Whippot (Fessepinte. ), the Dignity of Codpieces, of
Pease and Bacon with a Commentary, &c. , are too ready to judge that there
is nothing in them but jests, mockeries, lascivious discourse, and
recreative lies; because the outside (which is the title) is usually,
without any farther inquiry, entertained with scoffing and derision. But
truly it is very unbeseeming to make so slight account of the works of men,
seeing yourselves avouch that it is not the habit makes the monk, many
being monasterially accoutred, who inwardly are nothing less than monachal,
and that there are of those that wear Spanish capes, who have but little of
the valour of Spaniards in them. Therefore is it, that you must open the
book, and seriously consider of the matter treated in it. Then shall you
find that it containeth things of far higher value than the box did
promise; that is to say, that the subject thereof is not so foolish as by
the title at the first sight it would appear to be.

And put the case, that in the literal sense you meet with purposes merry
and solacious enough, and consequently very correspondent to their
inscriptions, yet must not you stop there as at the melody of the charming
syrens, but endeavour to interpret that in a sublimer sense which possibly
you intended to have spoken in the jollity of your heart. Did you ever
pick the lock of a cupboard to steal a bottle of wine out of it? Tell me
truly, and, if you did, call to mind the countenance which then you had.
Or, did you ever see a dog with a marrowbone in his mouth,--the beast of
all other, says Plato, lib. 2, de Republica, the most philosophical? If
you have seen him, you might have remarked with what devotion and
circumspectness he wards and watcheth it: with what care he keeps it: how
fervently he holds it: how prudently he gobbets it: with what affection
he breaks it: and with what diligence he sucks it. To what end all this?
What moveth him to take all these pains? What are the hopes of his labour?
What doth he expect to reap thereby? Nothing but a little marrow. True it
is, that this little is more savoury and delicious than the great
quantities of other sorts of meat, because the marrow (as Galen testifieth,
5. facult. nat. & 11. de usu partium) is a nourishment most perfectly
elaboured by nature.

In imitation of this dog, it becomes you to be wise, to smell, feel and
have in estimation these fair goodly books, stuffed with high conceptions,
which, though seemingly easy in the pursuit, are in the cope and encounter
somewhat difficult. And then, like him, you must, by a sedulous lecture,
and frequent meditation, break the bone, and suck out the marrow,--that is,
my allegorical sense, or the things I to myself propose to be signified by
these Pythagorical symbols, with assured hope, that in so doing you will at
last attain to be both well-advised and valiant by the reading of them:
for in the perusal of this treatise you shall find another kind of taste,
and a doctrine of a more profound and abstruse consideration, which will
disclose unto you the most glorious sacraments and dreadful mysteries, as
well in what concerneth your religion, as matters of the public state, and
life economical.

Do you believe, upon your conscience, that Homer, whilst he was a-couching
his Iliads and Odysses, had any thought upon those allegories, which
Plutarch, Heraclides Ponticus, Eustathius, Cornutus squeezed out of him,
and which Politian filched again from them? If you trust it, with neither
hand nor foot do you come near to my opinion, which judgeth them to have
been as little dreamed of by Homer, as the Gospel sacraments were by Ovid
in his Metamorphoses, though a certain gulligut friar (Frere Lubin
croquelardon. ) and true bacon-picker would have undertaken to prove it, if
perhaps he had met with as very fools as himself, (and as the proverb says)
a lid worthy of such a kettle.

If you give no credit thereto, why do not you the same in these jovial new
chronicles of mine? Albeit when I did dictate them, I thought upon no more
than you, who possibly were drinking the whilst as I was. For in the
composing of this lordly book, I never lost nor bestowed any more, nor any
other time than what was appointed to serve me for taking of my bodily
refection, that is, whilst I was eating and drinking. And indeed that is
the fittest and most proper hour wherein to write these high matters and
deep sciences: as Homer knew very well, the paragon of all philologues,
and Ennius, the father of the Latin poets, as Horace calls him, although a
certain sneaking jobernol alleged that his verses smelled more of the wine
than oil.

So saith a turlupin or a new start-up grub of my books, but a turd for him.
The fragrant odour of the wine, O how much more dainty, pleasant, laughing
(Riant, priant, friant. ), celestial and delicious it is, than that smell of
oil! And I will glory as much when it is said of me, that I have spent
more on wine than oil, as did Demosthenes, when it was told him, that his
expense on oil was greater than on wine. I truly hold it for an honour and
praise to be called and reputed a Frolic Gualter and a Robin Goodfellow;
for under this name am I welcome in all choice companies of Pantagruelists.
It was upbraided to Demosthenes by an envious surly knave, that his
Orations did smell like the sarpler or wrapper of a foul and filthy
oil-vessel. For this cause interpret you all my deeds and sayings in the
perfectest sense; reverence the cheese-like brain that feeds you with these
fair billevezees and trifling jollities, and do what lies in you to keep me
always merry. Be frolic now, my lads, cheer up your hearts, and joyfully
read the rest, with all the ease of your body and profit of your reins.
But hearken, joltheads, you viedazes, or dickens take ye, remember to drink
a health to me for the like favour again, and I will pledge you instantly,
Tout ares-metys.



Rabelais to the Reader.

Good friends, my Readers, who peruse this Book,
Be not offended, whilst on it you look:
Denude yourselves of all depraved affection,
For it contains no badness, nor infection:
'Tis true that it brings forth to you no birth
Of any value, but in point of mirth;
Thinking therefore how sorrow might your mind
Consume, I could no apter subject find;
One inch of joy surmounts of grief a span;
Because to laugh is proper to the man.



Chapter 1. I.

Of the Genealogy and Antiquity of Gargantua.

I must refer you to the great chronicle of Pantagruel for the knowledge of
that genealogy and antiquity of race by which Gargantua is come unto us.
In it you may understand more at large how the giants were born in this
world, and how from them by a direct line issued Gargantua, the father of
Pantagruel: and do not take it ill, if for this time I pass by it,
although the subject be such, that the oftener it were remembered, the more
it would please your worshipful Seniorias; according to which you have the
authority of Plato in Philebo and Gorgias; and of Flaccus, who says that
there are some kinds of purposes (such as these are without doubt), which,
the frequentlier they be repeated, still prove the more delectable.

Would to God everyone had as certain knowledge of his genealogy since the
time of the ark of Noah until this age. I think many are at this day
emperors, kings, dukes, princes, and popes on the earth, whose extraction
is from some porters and pardon-pedlars; as, on the contrary, many are now
poor wandering beggars, wretched and miserable, who are descended of the
blood and lineage of great kings and emperors, occasioned, as I conceive
it, by the transport and revolution of kingdoms and empires, from the
Assyrians to the Medes, from the Medes to the Persians, from the Persians
to the Macedonians, from the Macedonians to the Romans, from the Romans to
the Greeks, from the Greeks to the French.

And to give you some hint concerning myself, who speaks unto you, I cannot
think but I am come of the race of some rich king or prince in former
times; for never yet saw you any man that had a greater desire to be a
king, and to be rich, than I have, and that only that I may make good
cheer, do nothing, nor care for anything, and plentifully enrich my
friends, and all honest and learned men. But herein do I comfort myself,
that in the other world I shall be so, yea and greater too than at this
present I dare wish. As for you, with the same or a better conceit
consolate yourselves in your distresses, and drink fresh if you can come by
it.

To return to our wethers, I say that by the sovereign gift of heaven, the
antiquity and genealogy of Gargantua hath been reserved for our use more
full and perfect than any other except that of the Messias, whereof I mean
not to speak; for it belongs not unto my purpose, and the devils, that is
to say, the false accusers and dissembled gospellers, will therein oppose
me. This genealogy was found by John Andrew in a meadow, which he had near
the pole-arch, under the olive-tree, as you go to Narsay: where, as he was
making cast up some ditches, the diggers with their mattocks struck against
a great brazen tomb, and unmeasurably long, for they could never find the
end thereof, by reason that it entered too far within the sluices of
Vienne. Opening this tomb in a certain place thereof, sealed on the top
with the mark of a goblet, about which was written in Etrurian letters Hic
Bibitur, they found nine flagons set in such order as they use to rank
their kyles in Gascony, of which that which was placed in the middle had
under it a big, fat, great, grey, pretty, small, mouldy, little pamphlet,
smelling stronger, but no better than roses. In that book the said
genealogy was found written all at length, in a chancery hand, not in
paper, not in parchment, nor in wax, but in the bark of an elm-tree, yet so
worn with the long tract of time, that hardly could three letters together
be there perfectly discerned.

I (though unworthy) was sent for thither, and with much help of those
spectacles, whereby the art of reading dim writings, and letters that do
not clearly appear to the sight, is practised, as Aristotle teacheth it,
did translate the book as you may see in your Pantagruelizing, that is to
say, in drinking stiffly to your own heart's desire, and reading the
dreadful and horrific acts of Pantagruel. At the end of the book there was
a little treatise entitled the Antidoted Fanfreluches, or a Galimatia of
extravagant conceits. The rats and moths, or (that I may not lie) other
wicked beasts, had nibbled off the beginning: the rest I have hereto
subjoined, for the reverence I bear to antiquity.



Chapter 1. II.

The Antidoted Fanfreluches: or, a Galimatia of extravagant Conceits found
in an ancient Monument.

No sooner did the Cymbrians' overcomer
Pass through the air to shun the dew of summer,
But at his coming straight great tubs were fill'd,
With pure fresh butter down in showers distill'd:
Wherewith when water'd was his grandam, Hey,
Aloud he cried, Fish it, sir, I pray y';
Because his beard is almost all beray'd;
Or, that he would hold to 'm a scale, he pray'd.

To lick his slipper, some told was much better,
Than to gain pardons, and the merit greater.
In th' interim a crafty chuff approaches,
From the depth issued, where they fish for roaches;
Who said, Good sirs, some of them let us save,
The eel is here, and in this hollow cave
You'll find, if that our looks on it demur,
A great waste in the bottom of his fur.

To read this chapter when he did begin,
Nothing but a calf's horns were found therein;
I feel, quoth he, the mitre which doth hold
My head so chill, it makes my brains take cold.
Being with the perfume of a turnip warm'd,
To stay by chimney hearths himself he arm'd,
Provided that a new thill-horse they made
Of every person of a hair-brain'd head.

They talked of the bunghole of Saint Knowles,
Of Gilbathar and thousand other holes,
If they might be reduced t' a scarry stuff,
Such as might not be subject to the cough:
Since ev'ry man unseemly did it find,
To see them gaping thus at ev'ry wind:
For, if perhaps they handsomely were closed,
For pledges they to men might be exposed.

In this arrest by Hercules the raven
Was flayed at her (his) return from Lybia haven.
Why am not I, said Minos, there invited?
Unless it be myself, not one's omitted:
And then it is their mind, I do no more
Of frogs and oysters send them any store:
In case they spare my life and prove but civil,
I give their sale of distaffs to the devil.

To quell him comes Q. B. , who limping frets
At the safe pass of tricksy crackarets:
The boulter, the grand Cyclops' cousin, those
Did massacre, whilst each one wiped his nose:
Few ingles in this fallow ground are bred,
But on a tanner's mill are winnowed.
Run thither all of you, th' alarms sound clear,
You shall have more than you had the last year.

Short while thereafter was the bird of Jove
Resolved to speak, though dismal it should prove;
Yet was afraid, when he saw them in ire,
They should o'erthrow quite flat down dead th' empire.
He rather choosed the fire from heaven to steal,
To boats where were red herrings put to sale;
Than to be calm 'gainst those, who strive to brave us,
And to the Massorets' fond words enslave us.

All this at last concluded gallantly,
In spite of Ate and her hern-like thigh,
Who, sitting, saw Penthesilea ta'en,
In her old age, for a cress-selling quean.
Each one cried out, Thou filthy collier toad,
Doth it become thee to be found abroad?
Thou hast the Roman standard filch'd away,
Which they in rags of parchment did display.

Juno was born, who, under the rainbow,
Was a-bird-catching with her duck below:
When her with such a grievous trick they plied
That she had almost been bethwacked by it.
The bargain was, that, of that throatful, she
Should of Proserpina have two eggs free;
And if that she thereafter should be found,
She to a hawthorn hill should be fast bound.

Seven months thereafter, lacking twenty-two,
He, that of old did Carthage town undo,
Did bravely midst them all himself advance,
Requiring of them his inheritance;
Although they justly made up the division,
According to the shoe-welt-law's decision,
By distributing store of brews and beef
To these poor fellows that did pen the brief.

But th' year will come, sign of a Turkish bow,
Five spindles yarn'd, and three pot-bottoms too,
Wherein of a discourteous king the dock
Shall pepper'd be under an hermit's frock.
Ah! that for one she hypocrite you must
Permit so many acres to be lost!
Cease, cease, this vizard may become another,
Withdraw yourselves unto the serpent's brother.

'Tis in times past, that he who is shall reign
With his good friends in peace now and again.
No rash nor heady prince shall then rule crave,
Each good will its arbitrement shall have;
And the joy, promised of old as doom
To the heaven's guests, shall in its beacon come.
Then shall the breeding mares, that benumb'd were,
Like royal palfreys ride triumphant there.

And this continue shall from time to time,
Till Mars be fetter'd for an unknown crime;
Then shall one come, who others will surpass,
Delightful, pleasing, matchless, full of grace.
Cheer up your hearts, approach to this repast,
All trusty friends of mine; for he's deceased,
Who would not for a world return again,
So highly shall time past be cried up then.

He who was made of wax shall lodge each member
Close by the hinges of a block of timber.
We then no more shall Master, master, whoot,
The swagger, who th' alarum bell holds out;
Could one seize on the dagger which he bears,
Heads would be free from tingling in the ears,
To baffle the whole storehouse of abuses.
The thus farewell Apollo and the Muses.



Chapter 1. III.

How Gargantua was carried eleven months in his mother's belly.

Grangousier was a good fellow in his time, and notable jester; he loved to
drink neat, as much as any man that then was in the world, and would
willingly eat salt meat. To this intent he was ordinarily well furnished
with gammons of bacon, both of Westphalia, Mayence and Bayonne, with store
of dried neat's tongues, plenty of links, chitterlings and puddings in
their season; together with salt beef and mustard, a good deal of hard roes
of powdered mullet called botargos, great provision of sausages, not of
Bolonia (for he feared the Lombard Boccone), but of Bigorre, Longaulnay,
Brene, and Rouargue. In the vigour of his age he married Gargamelle,
daughter to the King of the Parpaillons, a jolly pug, and well-mouthed
wench. These two did oftentimes do the two-backed beast together, joyfully
rubbing and frotting their bacon 'gainst one another, in so far, that at
last she became great with child of a fair son, and went with him unto the
eleventh month; for so long, yea longer, may a woman carry her great belly,
especially when it is some masterpiece of nature, and a person
predestinated to the performance, in his due time, of great exploits. As
Homer says, that the child, which Neptune begot upon the nymph, was born a
whole year after the conception, that is, in the twelfth month. For, as
Aulus Gellius saith, lib. 3, this long time was suitable to the majesty of
Neptune, that in it the child might receive his perfect form. For the like
reason Jupiter made the night, wherein he lay with Alcmena, last
forty-eight hours, a shorter time not being sufficient for the forging of
Hercules, who cleansed the world of the monsters and tyrants wherewith it
was suppressed. My masters, the ancient Pantagruelists, have confirmed
that which I say, and withal declared it to be not only possible, but also
maintained the lawful birth and legitimation of the infant born of a woman
in the eleventh month after the decease of her husband. Hypocrates, lib.
de alimento. Plinius, lib. 7, cap. 5. Plautus, in his Cistelleria.
Marcus Varro, in his satire inscribed The Testament, alleging to this
purpose the authority of Aristotle.