GARGANTUA
FRANÇOIS RABELAIS
Coleridge classed Rabelais among the greatest creative minds of the world, with Shakespeare, Dante, Cervantes, etc. Not many will be found to-day who will agree with such an estimate. Rabelais himself would perhaps laugh at it as heartily as he laughed at the vices and foibles of his time.
“Gargantua,” a burlesque romance, is the biography of a good-natured giant of that name, the son of King Grangousier, who is born in a remarkable manner out of the left ear of Gargamelle, his mother. The author expresses a doubt whether his readers will thoroughly believe the truth of this strange nativity, but says that it is not impossible with God, and that there is nothing in the Bible against it. He cites the examples of other prodigies and declares that he is not so impudent a liar as Pliny was in treating of strange births. Then follow many absurd and farcical descriptions of the conduct and apparel of the infant giant, his colors and liveries, his wooden horses, and the silly instruction given to him by foolish sophisters. In Paris he steals the bells of Notre Dame to adorn the neck of the hideous great mare upon whose back he has travelled thither, and Master Janotus is sent to him to pronounce a great oration, imploring the return of the bells. This nonsensical speech is a laughable potpourri of French, Latin, and gibberish. The bells are returned, and now Gargantua submits himself to the government of his new tutor, Ponocrates, who establishes a novel system of instruction for his big pupil.
The book gives a detailed description of the ingenious division of time made by this wise preceptor, so that every moment of the day might be devoted to the acquisition of some useful branch of knowledge.
A strife arises between the shepherds of the country and some cake-bakers of the neighboring kingdom of Lerne. The cake-bakers, being worsted, complain to Picrochole, their king, who collects an army and invades the country of Grangousier, pillaging and ravaging everywhere. But when the invaders come to steal the grapes of the convent of Seville, the stout Friar John with his “staff of the cross” lays about him energetically dealing death and destruction on every side. Picrochole storms the rock and castle of Clermond, and news is brought to Grangousier of the invasion. The good old king at first tries to conciliate his neighbor, and sends him a great abundance of cakes and other gifts, but the choleric Picrochole will not retire, though he keeps everything that is sent to him. The Duke of Smalltrash, the Earl of Swashbuckler, and Captain Durtaille persuade him that he is about to conquer the world, and there is a long burlesque catalogue of all the countries they are to subdue, after which they will return, sit down, rest and be merry. But the wise Echephron, another of the king’s counsellors, tells him that it will be more prudent to take their rest and enjoyment at once and not wait till they have conquered the world. Meanwhile Gargantua is sent forth against Picrochole. The enemy’s artillery has so little power against him that he combs the cannonballs out of his hair. Among other episodes, he unwittingly eats up six pilgrims in a salad, but one of them strikes the nerve of a hollow tooth in his mouth, upon which he takes them all out again. They escape, and then one of them shows the others how their adventure had been foretold by the Prophet David in the Psalms.
There is much droll conversation at a feast given by Gargantua to Friar John. The stout friar has many adventures, and plays an important part in the attack upon Picrochole’s army, when the poor choleric king flees in disguise and at last becomes a porter at Lyons. Here he is as testy and pettish as ever, and hopes for the fulfillment of a prophecy that he should be restored to his kingdom “at the coming of the Cocklicranes,” who it seems could never come at all.
Gargantua proclaims amnesty to the vanquished, the spoil is divided and Friar John rewarded by the establishment of the Abbey of Theleme, which is filled with all beautiful things and inhabited by fair knights and ladies who keep no hours nor vigils, take no vows, but enjoy the delights of liberty under the rule, “Do what thou wilt,” spurred by their own instincts to virtuous actions and with no temptation to transgress the laws.
In a very attractive prologue to this strange medley, the author sets our curiosity agog with the simile of a philosophical dog and a marrow bone, telling his readers to break the bone and suck out the allegorical sense “or the things proposed to be signified by these Pythagorical symbols.” So the world has been trying very hard ever since to guess whether Gargantua was Francis I of France or Henry d’Albret of Navarre; whether Friar John was Cardinal Chatillon or Martin Luther, or both together; whether Picrochole was Charles V or someone else; whether the cake-bakers were Popish priests or anyone in particular; and so on to the end of a very long chapter. Certainly the personages described in this burlesque had to be obscurely drawn in order to protect the author from the dungeon or the stake. In one place Rabelais intimates that he did not mean anything at all by his absurdities. “When I did dictate them I thought thereon no more than you who possibly were drinking the whilst I was. For in the composing of this very lordly book I never lost nor bestowed any more nor any other time than what was appointed to serve me for taking my bodily refection, that is, whilst I was eating and drinking.” And indeed “Gargantua” is a work that, like the verses of Ennius to which he alludes, smells much more of the wine than the oil; for, with all its drollery, and occasional wisdom, there are chapters which seem little less than the products of inebriety. Moreover, the work is defaced, especially the earlier part of it, by a mass of obscenity which is not to be excused either by the manners of the time nor by the exigencies of the story.
DON QUIXOTE
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES
Among works of prose fiction “Don Quixote” has undoubtedly the most universal reputation. Mr. Henry Edward Watts, the latest and best translator, considers it “the finest book,” and Justin McCarthy, the recent editor of Shelton’s version, calls it “the noblest novel” in the world. Probably this would be the verdict of a majority of the best literary critics.