It is not however proper to estimate so frivolously the works of human beings. For you yourself say that the habit maketh not the Monk, that a man may wear a monkish habit who is inwardly nothing like a monk, and that another may be clad in a Spanish cape whose courage has nothing which becomes a Spaniard. That is why you must open this book and scrupulously weigh what is treated within. You will then realize that the medicine it contains is of a very different value from that which its box ever promised: in other words, that the topics treated here are not as frivolous as the title above it proclaimed.
And even granted that you do find, in its literal meaning, plenty of merry topics entirely congruous with its name, you must not be stayed there as by the Sirens’ song but expound the higher meaning of what you had perhaps believed to have been written out of merriness of mind.
Have you ever cracked open any bottles? Dawg! Recall to mind your countenance then. But have you even seen a dog encountering a marrow-bone? It is (as Plato says in Book 2 of The Republic) the most philosophical beast in the world. If you have ever seen one, you were able to notice with what dedication it observes it; with what solicitude it guards it; with what fervour it takes hold of it; with what sagacity it cracks it; with what passion it breaks it open, and with what care it sucks it. What induces it to do so? What does it hope for from its assiduity? What good is it aiming at? Nothing more than a bit of marrow. But the truth is that that bit is more delicious than the ample of all the rest, since marrow is a nutriment elaborated to its natural perfection (as Galen says On the Natural Faculties, Book 3, and On the Use of Parts of the Body, Book II).
Following that example it behoves you to develop a sagacious flair for sniffing and smelling out and appreciating such fair and fatted books, to be swiff: in pursuit and bold in the attack, and then, by careful reading and frequent meditation, to crack open the bone and seek out the substantificial marrow – that is to say, what I mean by such Pythagorean symbols – sure in the hope that you will be made witty and wise by that reading; for you will discover therein a very different savour and a more hidden instruction which will reveal to you the highest hidden truths and the most awesome mysteries touching upon our religion as well as upon matters of state and family life.
Now do you really and truly believe that Homer, when composing the Iliad and the Odyssey, had any thought of the allegories which have been caulked on to him by Plutarch, Heraclides of Pontus, Eustathius or Conutus and which Politian purloined from them? If you do so believe, then you come by neither foot nor hand close to my own opinion, which decrees that they had no more been dreamt of by Homer than the mysteries of the Gospel by Ovid in his Metamorphoses (as a certain Friar Loopy, a filcher of flitches, endeavours to prove, provided that he can chance upon folk as daft as he is: ‘Lids,’ as the saying goes, ‘worthy of their pots’).
Yet even if you do not believe that, what is to stop you doing so with these merry new Chronicles even though I was no more thinking of such things when I wrote them than you were, who were perhaps having a drink just as I was! For in the composing of this lordly book I neither wasted more time, nor spent any other time, than what had been set aside for my bodily sustenance, namely for eating and drinking. That, moreover, is the appropriate time for writing of these high topics and profound teachings, as Homer well knew – he, the paragon of all men of letters – and Ennius, the Father of Latin poetry, as is attested by Horace (even though some clod-hopper said that his verse whiffed more of wine than of midnight oil).
Some tramp said as much of my books: but shit on him!
Ah, the bouquet of wine: how much more smiling, whiling, beguiling it is, how much more paradisiacal and delightful than that of oil! I would glory in it if they said of me that I more on wine than water spent, as much as did Demosthenes when it was said of him that he more on oil than wine did spend. To me it is an honour to be called a jolly fellow, and a glory to be reputed a good companion. With such a name I am made welcome in all good companies of Pantagruelists. Demosthenes was reproved by some grouser because his Orations stank like the apron of some filthy, dirty oil-monger. Expound therefore all my words and deeds in the most perfect of senses; hold in reverence the cheese-shaped brain which feeds you this fine tripe and, insofar as in you lies, keep me ever merry.
So enjoy yourselves my loves happily reading what follows for your bodily comfort and the good of your loins. Listen now, you ass-pizzles. May ulcers give you gammy legs: and remember to drink a toast back to me! And I shall pledge you double quick.
On the Lineage and ancient origins of Gargantua
CHAPTER 1
[Amid the jesting Rabelais (as shown by the addition made at this time to the end of Pantagruel) is smarting at threats of censors over the genealogies of Pantagruel. Again ‘devil’ is juxtaposed to ‘calumniator’.
A few of the themes of Pantagruel are lightly touched on here. The reference to Maître Pathelin’s famous injunction ‘Let us get back to our muttons’ reminds us that Rabelais greatly admired that farce. The scene is set in Rabelais’ own pays of Chinon and Touraine, with some place-names known only to the locals.
Rabelais exploits another adage of Erasmus, I, II, XLIX, ‘Twice and thrice, that which is beautiful’.]
To learn of the ancient lineage from which Gargantua descended to us I refer you to the Great Pantagrueline Chronicle. In it you will hear more fully of how the giants were born into our world and how Gargantua, the father of Pantagruel, sprang from them in a direct line, so you will not be put out if I do not go into it at present – despite its being such that the more it is rehearsed the more it would please your Lordships, for which you have the authority of [Plato in the Philebus and Gorgias and] Horace, who states that there are some matters, including these [no doubt] which are the more delightful the more they are retold. Would to God that every man could trace his own ancestry as certainly from Noah’s Ark down to this our age! I think that many today are emperors, kings, dukes, princes and popes on this earth who are descended from pardon-mongers or hodmen in vineyards, just as there are on the contrary many beggars in workhouses (wretched and needy) who are descended by blood and lineage from great kings and emperors, given the remarkable transfer of kingdoms and empires:
– from the Assyrians to the Medes;
– the Medes to the Macedonians;
– The Macedonians to the Romans;
– the Romans to the Greeks;
– and the Greeks to the French.
And to enable you to understand me who am talking to you now, I think that I’m descended from some rich king or prince of former times, for never have I seen a man with a greater passion than I have for being rich and a king so as to live in great style, never working, [never ever worrying] and enriching my friends and all good and scholarly folk.
But what comforts me is the thought that I shall be greater far in the next world than I could ever wish to be now. You too should comfort your sorrows with such a thought (or a better one) and if possible drink some cool wine.
But getting back to our muttons: I tell you that by a sovereign gift of God the ancient genealogy of Gargantua has been preserved for us more fully than any other – I am not talking of God, for it does not fall to me to do so, and the devils, that is the [calumniators and] black-beetles, object to it too.
Gargantua’s genealogy was uncovered by Jean Audeau in a meadow near the Arceau-Galeau below the farm called L’Olive in the direction of Narsay. The diggers were cleaning out ditches with their pick-axes when they struck a huge brass tomb. It was immeasurably long: they never found the end of it because it plunged too deep below the sluice-gates at Vienne. On opening it up at one particular place (which bore on top the sign of a goblet, around which was written in the Etruscan script, HERE ONE DRINKS) they found nine flagons arranged as ninepins are in Gascony. The one in the middle was placed on top of a great, grand, gross, grey, pretty little mouldy booklet with an odour more pungent than that of roses (albeit far less pleasant).
The genealogy, written in chancery script, was found inside it, not on paper, not on parchment, not on wax, but on elm-tree bark; the letters were so faded with age that you could hardly make out three in a row. I (though unworthy) was called in; with copious help from spectacles and by practising that art of reading indistinct writing taught by Aristotle, I transcribed it, as you may see by dint of pantagruelizing (that is to say, by being willing to have a drink and by reading the horrific deeds of Pantagruel).
That booklet ended with a little treatise bearing the title Antidoted Bubbles. The beginning of it had been gnawed away by rats and cockroaches – or (so that I may not lie) perhaps by other destructive creatures.
What remains I have appended here out of veneration for Antiquity.
The Antidoted Bubbles discovered within a monument from Antiquity
CHAPTER 2
[An enigma in the spirit of the satirical poems called coq-à-l’âne; such sense as there is is hidden amidst a jumble of nonsense. Odd bits of fairly evident anti-papalist satire leave the rest of the poem still unexplained – if explanation there be. Is there satire of the Sorbonne and of the Emperor Charles V? The enigma remains tantalizing: there is a clear scriptural reference to God, who names himself I AM THAT I AM at the burning bush (Exodus 3:14).
In the only substantive change Rabelais made to this poem amis (friends) became facquins (porters) – a term often used derogatively.
The opening lines are shown eaten away.]
# ¡ ± , ≥ arrived the Cimbrian conqueror,
Δ • ¿ : > ing through air for fear of all that dew,
=. + ≠ e arrives, the tubs can take no more
/ · “ ÷ resh butter pouring down like stew.
≈ ‡ bespattered grandma in full view:
She cried aloud: ‘Herren. Fish him right out!
His beard cow-patted is as if by glue;
Or hold him a ladder, better ’tis than nowt.’
To lick his slipper some said was true bliss,
Better indeed than pardoners to pay;
But an affected rascal came amiss
Up from that dip where roaches swim and play,
And said, ‘My Lords, for God’s sake, your hands stay!
The eel is in that booth quite unrevealed.
There you shall find, if you would look that way,
Deep in his amice a great fault concealed.’
He was about that Chapter to intone
But found, within, the horns of a young cow.
‘My mitre’s depth,’ he said, ‘is cold as stone.
It chills my freezing brain, I know not how.’
With turnips’ reek they warm his icy brow:
He’d stay at home quite happily and glad
If they should find new harnesses somehow
For all those folk whose brains have turned quite mad.
They bandied words of Patrick’s Hole afar,
Gibraltar too and holes of many kinds:
Could they be cured and end up with a scar,
Without producing coughs and throaty winds
Which all found unbecoming in their minds,
Seeing at every breath how they did yawn?
If all were tight restrained by cord which binds
They could be hostages to trade or pawn.
By that decree the raven lost its hide
Through Hercules who out of Libya came.
‘What!’ Minos said, ‘Have I been thrust aside,
Apart from me all summoned to the game?
And yet they want me willing all the same
Of frog and oysters to provide a ration!
They’ll never get me (in the devil’s name!)
On distaff-vending to shower my compassion.’
Q.B. comes limping, all to check and mate;
Conducted safe, through sparrow-priests goes by;
The Siever, cousin to the Cyclops great,
Killed them. All wipe their noses and all sigh.
Within those fields few new-born buggers lie
Who were not diddled near the tanners’ mill.
Come running all! War trumpets sound on high.
As ne’er before, rewards will come at will.
The eagle, the sole bird that Jove doth own,
Decided soon to back the worser side;
But seeing each in anger ‘gainst his own.
Feared they’d raze low the empire in its pride.
Better by far to rush the heavens wide
And steal their fire, where herrings soused are sold,
Than th’ air serene, against which many side,
To enthral in massoretic legal mould.
All was agreed, sharp pointed, in the raw,
’Spite quarrelsome Até with the heron-thigh,
Who squatted when she Penthesilea saw
Peddling, old crone, her cress to passers-by.
‘Old coalman’s wife!’ to sneer they all did vie,
‘You never venture should upon this way;
You stole that Roman banner from on high
Forged from stretched parchment as some men do say.’
Were’t not for Juno ‘neath the heavenly arc
Snaring her birds, helped by her hornèd coot,
Their blows against her would have left their mark
And ruffled her – at every point to boot.
It was agreed that her maw for its loot
Two eggs should have from Proserpine’s own lay;
And should the ‘flu in her ever take root
Bind her they would on hillsides decked with may.
Seven months then passed – take off a score plus two;
He who destroyed Carthage in days of yore
Set himself down politely ‘twixt them, too,
Seeking his heritage but nothing more,
(Or else fair shares as settled by the law
Of cobblers true who stitch for stitch assign)
Dollops of soup distributing for the maw
Of those friends who that legal deed did sign.
The time shall be, marked by a Turkish bow
And spindles five and three pots on their bum,
When to a king’s back none courtesy will show:
Poxy, he has a hermit now become.
How pitiful! A hypocrite you’ve won!
For her shall you engulf your acres wide?
Cease. Imitate not this play which now is done;
Withdraw and with the Serpent’s brother bide.
That year once past, then peacefully shall reign
I AM, with those beloved as His own.
Nor blast nor slight shall govern to men’s bane,
Nor good will, unrewarded, stand alone,
But Joy, long promised once for times to come,
To folk in Heaven, will draw into her belfry.
Then the stud-farms, amazèd once, will gain
Their triumphs true in a right royal palfrey.
And it will last, that age of sleight-of-hand,
Until the day when Mars in chains is bound.
Then one will come outstripping all the band,
Beautiful, gracious, none fairer to be found;
Lift up your hearts. Stand ye the feast around,
My faithful folk. For he has passèd o’er,
Ne’er to return, whatever goods abound:
Time past shall be regretted as no more.
At last, he shall be lodged (of wax once made)
In the hinge of the Manikin who strikes the bell.
That title ‘Cyre!’ shall never more be said
To him who holds the cauldron as men tell.
Alas! Who could his sword arrest would quell
And clean away bad cauli-headed uses,
With packing-cord could truss up firm and well
And tie up tight the factory of abuses.
How Gargantua was carried for eleven months in his mother’s womb
CHAPTER 3
[The maximum duration of
a pregnancy was much discussed. All knew what the usual length is, but what is the maximum? Matters of legitimacy and inheritance depended on it. Greek and Latin authors assume that a pregnancy lasts ten months (lunar months, no doubt). Many doctors followed Aristotle, Hippocrates, Varro and Hadrian, who talk of eleven months and more. In the Renaissance, books of Roman Law were so glossed by scholars that the ten months attributed to gestation in Roman Law were clearly and firmly expanded to eleven. On the greatest legal authority, a child born after an eleven-month pregnancy was legitimate. Rabelais’ friend André Tiraqueau treats the crux in a conciliatory manner in an austere and learned legal study of 1535. Tiraqueau’s compromise is eleven months, meaning ten months plus a few days. Rabelais knew the work, perhaps before it was printed. The way in which Rabelais refers to individual laws by abbreviated title, book, paragraph, etc. was long the normal one. His abbreviations have been expanded to make them pronounceable.
Page A8 is missing from the only surviving copy of the original edition of Gargantua. The corresponding page in the second edition (‘35) probably retains the original text word for word and is adopted here.]
In his day Grandgousier was a jolly good fellow who loved to drink neat as well as any man then in the world. And he enjoyed eating salty things. To that end he normally kept an ample store of Westphalian and Bayonne hams, plenty of smoked tongue, an abundance of eels in season, beef cured in salt and mustard, supplies of mullet-caviar, a provision of sausages – though never those from Bologna, for he redoubted the ‘poisoned morsels’ of Lombardy – but always from Bigorre, Longaulnay, La Brène and Rouergue.
In his maturity he wedded Gargamelle, the daughter of the King of the Parpaillons, a fine filly with a goodly mug, and they so often played the two-backed beast together, happily stroking their bacon, that she became big of a fine son whom she bore up to the eleventh month.
Gargantua and Pantagruel Page 23
