“G-a-r-g-a-n-t-u-a-e-t-p-a-n-t-a-g-r-u-e-l.” And underneath all that were the letters “R-a-b-e-l-a-i-s.”
He shook his head. Many years later, in Paris, Frederick Douglass read portions of Rabelais’ Gargantua et Pantagruel. And he vividly recalled the awful sense of dismay which swept over him the first time he held a copy of this masterpiece of French literature in his hands.
They were waiting. He swallowed painfully.
“G’wan, big boy! Read!” Handy was impatient.
“I—I—” Frederick began again. “This—This book—It’s not—the one I meant. I can’t make—This book—” He stopped. John drew nearer.
“Hit’s a book, ain’t it?” He was ready to defend his brother.
“Yes, but—”
“Then read hit!”
Frederick turned several pages. It was no use. He wished the ground would open and swallow him up. He forced his lips to say the words.
“I—can’t!”