Although ­as it is hoped the foregoing chapters may have shown ­the amount of energy and of talent, thrown into the department of French fiction, had from almost the earliest times been remarkably great; although French, if not France, had been the mother of almost all literatures in things fictitious, it can hardly be said that any writer of undeniable genius, entitling him to the first class in the Art of Letters, had shown himself therein.  A hundred chansons de geste and as many romances d’aventures had displayed dispersed talent of a very high kind, and in the best of them, as the present writer has tried to point out, a very “extensive assortment” of the various attractions of the novel had from time to time made its appearance.  But this again had been done “dispersedly,” as the Shakespearean stage-direction has it.  The story is sometimes well told, but the telling is constantly interrupted; the great art of novel-conversation is, as yet, almost unborn; the descriptions, though sometimes very striking, as in the case of those given from Partenopeus ­the fatal revelation of Melior’s charms and the galloping of the maddened palfrey along the seashore, with the dark monster-haunted wood behind and the bright moonlit sea and galley in front ­are more often stock and lifeless; while, above all, the characters are rarely more than sketched, if even that.  The one exception ­the great Arthurian history, as liberated from its Graal-legend swaddling clothes, and its kite-and-crow battles with Saxons and rival knights, but retaining the mystical motive of the Graal-search itself and the adventures of Lancelot and other knights; combining all this into a single story, and storing it with incident for a time, and bringing it to a full and final tragic close by the loves of Lancelot himself and Guinevere ­this great achievement, it has been frankly confessed, is so much muddled and distracted with episode which becomes positive digression, that some have even dismissed its pretensions to be a whole.  Even those who reject this dismissal are not at one as to any single author of the conception, still less of the execution.  The present writer has stated his humble, but ever more and more firm conviction that Chrestien did not do it and could not have done it; others of more note, perhaps of closer acquaintance with MS. sources, but also perhaps not uniting knowledge of the subject with more experience in general literary criticism and in special study of the Novel, will not allow Mapes to have done it.

The Roman de la Rose, beautiful as is its earlier part and ingenious as is (sometimes) its later, is, as a story, of the thinnest kind.  The Roman de Renart is a vast collection of small stories of a special class, and the Fabliaux are almost a vaster collection (if you do not exclude the “waterings out” of Renart) of kinds more general.  There is abundance of amusement and some charm; but nowhere are we much beyond very simple forms of fiction itself.  None of the writers of nouvelles, except Antoine de la Salle, can be said to be a known personality.

There has always been a good deal of controversy about Rabelais, not all of which perhaps can we escape, though it certainly will not be invited, and we have no very extensive knowledge of his life.  But we have some:  and that, as a man of genius, he is superior to any single person named and known in earlier French literature, can hardly be contested by any one who is neither a silly paradoxer nor a mere dullard, nor affected by some extra-literary prejudice ­religious, moral, or whatever it may be.  But perhaps not every one who would admit the greatness of Master Francis as a man of letters, his possession not merely of consummate wit, but of that precious thing, so much rarer in French, actual humour; his wonderful influence on the future word-book and phrase-book of his own language, nay, not every one who would go almost the whole length of the most uncompromising Pantagruelist, and would allow him profound wisdom, high aspirations for humanity, something of a complete world-philosophy ­would at once admit him as a very great novelist.  For my own part I have no hesitation in doing so, and to make the admission good must be the object of this chapter.

It may almost be said that his very excellence in this way has “stood in its own light.”  The readableness of Rabelais is extraordinary.  The present writer, after for years making of him almost an Addison according to Johnson’s prescription, fell, by mere accident and occupation with other matters, into a way of not reading him, except for purposes of mere literary reference, during a long time.  On three different occasions more recently, one ten or a dozen years ago, one six or seven, and the third for the purposes of this very book, he put himself again under the Master, and read him right through.  It is difficult to imagine a severer test, and I am bound to confess (though I am not bound to specify) that in some, though not many, instances I have found famous and once favourite classics fail to stand it.  Not so Master Francis.  I do not think that I ever read him with greater interest than at this last time.  Indeed I doubt whether I have ever felt the catholicon ­the pervading virtue of his book ­quite so strongly as I have in the days preceding that on which I write these words.

Of course Momus may find handles ­he generally can.  “You are suffering from morbid senile relapse into puerile enjoyment of indecency,” he or Mrs. Momus (whom later ages have called Grundy) may be kind enough to say.  “You were a member of the Rabelais Club of pleasant memory, and think it necessary to live up to your earlier profession.”  “You have said this in print before [I have not exactly done so] and are bound to stick to it,” etc. etc. etc., down to that final, “You are a bad critic, and it doesn’t matter what you say,” which certainly, in a sense, does leave nothing to be replied.  But whether this is because the accused is guilty, or because the Court does not call upon him, is a question which one may leave to others.

Laying it down, then, as a point of fact that Rabelais has this curious “holding” quality, whence does he get it?  As everybody ought to know, many good people, admitting the fact, have, as he would himself have said, gone about with lanterns to seek for out-of-the-way reasons and qualities; while some people, not so good, but also accepting the fact in a way, have grasped at the above-mentioned indecency itself for an explanation.  This trick requires little effort to kick it into its native gutter.  The greater proportion of the “Indexable” part of Rabelais is mere nastiness, which is only attractive to a very small minority of persons at any age, while to expert readers it is but a time-deodorised dunghill by the roadside, not beautiful, but negligible.  Of the other part of this kind ­the “naughty” part which is not nasty and may be somewhat nice ­there is, when you come to consider it dispassionately, not really so very much, and it is seldom used in a seductive fashion.  It may tickle, but it does not excite; may create laughter, but never passion or even desire.  Therefore it cannot be this which “holds” any reader but a mere novice or a glutton for garbage.

Less easily dismissible, but, it will seem, not less inadequate is the alleged “key"-interest of the book.  Of course there are some people, and more than a person who wishes to think nobly of humanity might desire to find, who seem never to be tired of identifying Grandgousier, Gargantua, and Pantagruel himself with French kings to whom they bear not the slightest resemblance; of obliging us English by supposing us to be the Macreons (who seem to have been very respectable people, but who inhabit an island singularly unlike England in or anywhere near the time of Rabelais), and so on.  But to a much larger number of persons ­and one dares say to all true Pantagruelists ­these interpretations are either things that the Master himself would have delighted to satirise, and would have satirised unsurpassably, or, at best, mere superfluities and supererogations.  At any rate there is no possibility of finding in them the magic spell ­the “Fastrada’s ring,” which binds youth and age alike to the unique “Alcofribas Nasier.”

One must, it is supposed, increase the dose of respect (though some people, in some cases, find it hard) when considering a further quality or property ­the Riddle-attraction of Rabelais.  This riddle-attraction ­or attractions, for it might be better spoken of in a very large plural ­is of course quite undeniable in itself.  There are as many second intentions in the ordinary sense, apparently obvious in Gargantua and Pantagruel, as there can have been in the scholastic among the dietary of La Quinte, or of any possible Chimaera buzzing at greatest intensity in the extremest vacuum.  On the other hand, some of us are haunted by the consideration, “Was there ever any human being more likely than Francois Rabelais to echo (with the slightest change) the words ascribed to Divinity in that famous piece which is taken, on good external and ultra-internal evidence, to be Swift’s?

I to such block-heads set my wit! I [pose] such fools!  Go‚ go ­you’re bit.”

And there is not wanting, amongst us sceptics, a further section who are quite certain that a not inconsiderable proportion of the book is not allegory at all, but sheer “bamming,” while others again would transfer the hackneyed death-bed saying from author to book, and say that the whole Chronicle is “a great perhaps.”

These things ­or at least elaborate discussions of them ­lie somewhat, though not so far as may at first seem, outside our proper business.  It must, however, once more be evident, from the facts and very nature of the case, that the puzzles, the riddles, the allegories cannot constitute the main and, so to speak, “universal” part of the attraction of the book.  They may be a seasoning to some, a solid cut-and-come-again to others, but certainly not to the majority.  Even in Gulliver ­the Great Book’s almost, perhaps quite, as great descendant ­these attractions, though more universal in appeal and less evasively presented, certainly do not hold any such position.  The fact is that both Rabelais and Swift were consummate tellers of a story, and (especially if you take the Polite Conversation into Swift’s claim) consummate originators of the Novel or larger story, with more than “incidental” attraction itself.  But we are not now busied with Swift.

Not much serious objection will probably be taken to the place allotted to Master Francis as a tale-teller pure and simple, although it cannot be said that all his innumerable critics and commentators have laid sufficient stress on this.  From the uncomfortable birth of Gargantua to the triumphant recessional scene from the Oracle of the Bottle, proofs are to be found in every book, every chapter almost, and indeed almost every page; and a little more detail may be given on this head later.  But the presentation of Rabelais as a novelist-before-novels may cause more demur, and even suggest the presence of the now hopelessly discredited thing ­paradox itself.  Of course, if anybody requires regular plot as a necessary constituent, only paradox could contend for that.  It has been contended ­and rightly enough ­that in the general scheme and the two (or if you take in Grandgousier, three) generations of histories of the good giants, Rabelais is doing nothing more than parody ­is, indeed, doing little more than simply follow the traditions of Romance ­Amiles and Jourdains, Guy and Rembrun, and many others.  But some of us regard plot as at best a full-dress garment, at the absence of which the good-natured God or Muse of fiction is quite willing to wink.  Character, if seldom elaborately presented, except in the case of Panurge, is showered, in scraps and sketches, all over the book, and description and dialogue abound.

But it is not on such beggarly special pleading as this that the claim shall be founded.  It must rest on the unceasing, or practically unceasing, impetus of story-interest which carries the reader through.  A remarkably useful contrast-parallel in this respect, may be found in that strange book, the Moyen de Parvenir.  I am of those who think that it had something to do with Rabelais, that there is some of his stuff in it, even that he may have actually planned something like it.  But the “make-up” is not more inferior in merit to that of Gargantua and Pantagruel than it is different in kind.  The Moyen de Parvenir is full of separate stories of the fabliau kind, often amusing and well told, though exceedingly gross as a rule.  These stories are “set” in a framework of promiscuous conversation, in which a large number of great real persons, ancient and modern, and a smaller one of invented characters, or rather names, take part.  Most of this, though not quite all, is mere fatrasie, if not even mere jargon:  and though there are glimmerings of something more than sense, they are, with evident deliberation, enveloped in clouds of nonsense.  The thing is not a whole at all, and the stories have as little to do with each other or with any general drift as if they were professedly ­what they are practically ­a bundle of fabliaux or nouvelles.  As always happens in such cases ­and as the author, whether he was Beroalde or another, whether or not he worked on a canvas greater than he could fill, or tried to patch together things too good for him, no doubt intended ­attempts have been made to interpret the puzzle here also; but they are quite obviously vain.

Such a sentence, however, cannot be pronounced in any such degree or measure on the similar attempts in the case of Gargantua and Pantagruel; for a reason which some readers may find unexpected.  The unbroken vigour ­unbroken even by the obstacles which it throws in its own way, like the Catalogue of the Library of Saint-Victor and the burlesque lists of adjectives, etc., which fill up whole chapters ­with which the story or string of stories is carried on, may naturally suggest that there is a story or at least a theme.  It is a sort of quaint alteration or catachresis of Possunt quia posse videntur.  There must be a general theme, because the writer is so obviously able to handle any theme he chooses.  It may be wiser ­it certainly seems so to the present writer ­to disbelieve in anything but occasional sallies ­episodes, as it were, or even digressions ­of political, religious, moral, social and other satire.  It is, on the other hand, a most important thing to admit the undoubted presence ­now and then, and not unfrequently ­of a deliberate dropping of the satiric and burlesque mask.  This supplies the presentation of the serious, kindly, and human personality of the three princes (Grandgousier, Gargantua, and Pantagruel); this the schemes of education (giving so large a proportion of the small bulk of not-nonsense written on that matter).  Above all, this permits, to one taste at least, the exquisite last Book, presentation of La Quinte and the fresh roses in her hand, the originality of which, not only in the whole book in one sense, but in the particular Book in the other, is, to that taste, and such argumentative powers as accompany it, an almost absolute proof of that Book’s genuineness.  For if it had been by another who, unlike Rabelais, had a special tendency towards such graceful imagination, he could hardly have refrained from showing this elsewhere in this long book.

But however this may be, it is certain that a critical reader, especially when he has reason to be startled by the external, if not actually extrinsic, oddities of and excesses of the book, will be justified in allowing ­it may almost be said that he is likely to allow ­the extraordinary volume of concatenated fictitious interest in the whole book or books.  The usual and obvious “catenations” are indeed almost ostentatiously wanting.  The absence of any real plot has been sufficiently commented on, with the temptations conferred by it to substitute a fancied unity of purpose.  The birth, and what we may call the two educations, of Gargantua; the repetition, with sufficient differences, of the same plan in the opening of Pantagruel; the appearance of Panurge and the campaign against the Dipsodes; the great marriage debate; and the voyage to the Oracle of the Bottle, are connected merely in “chronicle” fashion.  The character-links are hardly stronger, for though Friar John does play a more or less important part from almost the beginning to quite the end, Panurge, the most important and remarkable single figure, does not appear for a considerable time, and the rest are shadows.  The scene is only in one or two chapters nominally placed in Nowhere; but as a whole it is Nowhere Else, or rather a bewildering mixture of topical assignments in a very small part of France, and allegorical or fantastic descriptions of a multitude of Utopias.  And yet, once more, it is a whole story.  As you read it you almost forget what lies behind, you quite forget the breaches of continuity, and press on to what is before, almost as eagerly, if not quite in the same fashion, as if the incidents and the figures were not less exciting than those of Vingt Ans Âpres.  Let us hope it may not be excessive to expend a few pages on a sketch of this strange story that is no story, with, it may be, some fragments of translation or paraphrase (for, as even his greatest translator, Urquhart, found, a certain amount of his own Fay ce que voudras is necessary with Rabelais) here and there.

Master Francis does not exactly plunge into the middle of things; but he spends comparatively little time on the preliminaries of the ironical Prologue to the “very illustrious drinkers,” on the traditionally necessary but equally ironical genealogy of the hero, on the elaborate verse amphigouri of the Fanfreluches Antidotees, and on the mock scientific discussion of extraordinarily prolonged periods of pregnancy.  Without these, however, he will not come to the stupendous banquet of tripe (properly washed down, and followed by pleasant revel on the “echoing green”) which determined the advent of Gargantua into the world, which enabled Grandgousier, more fortunate than his son on a future occasion, to display his amiability as a husband and a father unchecked by any great sorrow, and which was, as it were, crowned and sealed by that son’s first utterance ­no miserable and ordinary infant’s wail, but the stentorian barytone “A boire!” which rings through the book till it passes in the sharper, but not less delectable treble of “Trinq!” And then comes a brief piece, not narrative, but as characteristic perhaps of what we may call the ironical moral of the narrative as any ­a grave remonstrance with those who will not believe in ceste estrange nativité.

I doubt me ye believe not this strange birth assuredly.  If ye disbelieve, I care not; but a respectable man ­a man of good sense ­always believes what people tell him and what he finds written.  Does not Solomon say (Prov. xiv.), “The innocent [simple] believeth every word” etc.?  And St. Paul (1 Cor. xiii.), “Charity believeth all things”?  Why should you not believe it?  “Because,” says you, “there is no probability in it.”  I tell you that for this very and only reason you ought to believe with a perfect faith.  For the Sorbonists say that faith is the evidence of things of no probability. Is it against our law or our faith? against reason? against the Sacred Scriptures? For my part I can find nothing written in the Holy Bible which is contrary thereto.  But if the Will of God had been so, would you say that He could not have done it?  Oh for grace’ sake do not make a mess of your wits in such vain thoughts.  For I tell you that nothing is impossible with God.

And Divinity being done with, the Classics and pure fantasy are drawn upon; the incredulous being finally knocked down by a citation from Pliny, and a polite request not to bother any more.

This is, of course, the kind of passage which has been brought against Rabelais, as similar ones have been brought against Swift, to justify charges of impiety.  But, again, it is not necessary to bother (tabuster) about that.  Any one who cannot see that it is the foolish use of reverend things and not the things themselves that the satire hits, is hardly worth argument.  But there is no doubt that this sort of mortar, framework, menstruum, canvas, or whatever way it may be best metaphored, helps the apparent continuity of the work marvellously, leaving, as it were, no rough edges or ill-mended joints.  It is, to use an admirable phrase of Mr. Balfour’s about a greater matter, “the logical glue which holds together and makes intelligible the multiplicity” of the narrative units, or perhaps instead of “intelligible” one should here say “appreciable.”

Sometimes the “glue” of ironic comment rather saturates these units of narrative than surrounds or interjoins them, and this is the case with what follows.  The infantine peculiarities of Gargantua; his dress and the mystery of its blue and white colours (the blue of heaven and the white of the joy of earth); how his governesses and he played together; what smart answers he made; how he became early both a poet and an experimental philosopher ­all this is recounted with a marvellous mixture of wisdom and burlesque, though sometimes, no doubt, with rather too much of haut gout seasoning.  Then comes the, in Renaissance books, inevitable “Education” section, and it has been already noted briefly how different this is from most of its group (the corresponding part of Euphues may be suggested for comparison).  Even Rabelais does not escape the main danger ­he neglects a little to listen to the wisest voice, “Can’t you let him alone?” But the contrasts in the case of Gargantua, the general tenor (that good prince profiting by his own experience for his son’s benefit) in that of Pantagruel, are not too “improving,” and are made by their historian’s “own sauce” exceedingly piquant.  Much as has been written on the subject, it is not easy to be quite certain how far the “Old” Learning was fairly treated by the “New.”  Rabelais and Erasmus and the authors of the Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum are such a tremendous overmatch for any one on the other side, that the most judicial as well as judicious of critics must be rather puzzled as to the real merits of the case.  But luckily there is no need to decide.  Enjoyment, not decision, is the point, and there is no difficulty in that.  How Gargantua was transferred from the learned but somewhat, as the vulgar would say, “stick-in-the-mud” tutorship of Master Thubal Holofernes, who spent eighteen years in reading De Modis Significandi with his pupil, and Master Jobelin Bride, who has “become a name” ­not exactly of honour; how he was transferred to the less antiquated guidance of Ponocrates, and set out for Paris on the famous dappled mare, whose exploits in field and town were so alarming, and who had the bells of Notre Dame hung round her neck, till they were replaced rather after than because of the remonstrance of Master Janotus de Bragmardo; how for a time, and under Sorbonic direction, he wasted that time in short and useless study, with long intervals of card-playing, sleeping, etc. etc., and of course a great deal of eating and drinking, “not as he ought and as he ought not” ­all this leads up to the moment when the sage Ponocrates takes him again in hand, and institutes a strenuous drill in manners, studies, manly exercises, and the like, ending with one of those extraordinary flashes of perfect style and noble meaning which it pleases Rabelais to emit from what some call his “dunghill” and others his “marine-store.”

Also they prayed to God the Creator, adoring Him, and solemnly repledging to Him their faith, and glorifying Him for His boundless goodness; while, giving Him thanks for all time past, they commended themselves to His divine mercy for all the future.  This done, they turned to their rest.

It is only after this serious training that the first important division of what may be called the action begins ­the “War of the Cakes,” in which certain outrageous bakers, subjects of King Picrochole of Lerne, first refuse the custom of the good Grandgousier’s shepherds, and then violently assault them, the incident being turned by the choleric monarch into a casus belli against the peaceful one.  Invasion, the early triumph of the aggressor, the triumphant appearance of the invincible Friar John, and the complete turning of the tables by the advent of Gargantua and his terrible mare, follow each other in rapid and brilliant telling, and perhaps no parts of the book are better known.  The extraordinary felicity with which Rabelaisian irony ­here kept in quieter but intenser activity than almost anywhere else ­seizes and renders the common causes, excuses, manners, etc., of war can never have escaped competent readers; but it must have struck more persons of late than perhaps at any former time.  It would be impertinent to particularise largely; but if the famous adaptation and amplification of the old Pyrrhus story in the counsel of Spadassin and Merdaille to Picrochole were printed in small type as the centre of a fathom-square sheet, the whole margin could be more than filled with extracts, from German books and newspapers, of advice to Kaiser Wilhelm II.  Nor is there anything, in literature touching history, where irony has bitten more deeply and lastingly into Life and Time than the brief record of Picrochole’s latter days after his downfall.

He was informed by an old hag that his kingdom would be restored to him at the coming of the Cocqsigrues:  since then it is not certainly known what has become of him.  However, I have been told that he now works for his poor living at Lyons, and is as choleric as ever.  And always he bemoans himself to strangers about the Cocqsigrues ­yet with a certain hope, according to the old woman’s prophecy, that at their coming he will be reinstated in his kingdom.

Edward FitzGerald would have called this “terrible”; and perhaps it is.

But there is much more humour than terror in the rest, and sometimes there are qualities different from either.  The rescue of the sacred precincts of the Abbey of Seuille from the invaders by that glorious monk (a personage at no great remove from our own Friar Tuck, to the later portraits of whom he has lent some of his own traits) pleases the soul well, as do the feats of Gymnast against Tripet, and the fate of the unlucky Touquedillon, and the escalade of La Roche Clermande, and (a little less perhaps) the pure burlesque of the eating of the pilgrims, and the combing out of the cannon balls, and the contrasted sweet reasonableness of the amiable though not at all cowardly Grandgousier.  But the advice of the Evil Counsellors to Picrochole is still perhaps the pearl: 

Then there appeared before Picrochole the Duke of Mennail, Count Spadassin, and Captain Merdaille, and said to him, “Sire, this day we make you the most happy and chivalrous prince that ever has been since the death of Alexander of Macedon.”  “Be covered, be covered,” said Picrochole.  “Gramercy, sire”, said they, “but we know our duty.  The means are as follows.  You will leave here in garrison some captain with a small band of men to hold the place, which seems to us pretty strong, both by nature and by the fortifications you have contrived.  You will, as you know well, divide your army in half.  One half will fall upon this fellow Grandgousier and his people, and easily discomfit him at the first assault.  There we shall gain money in heaps, for the rascal has plenty. (Rascal we call him, because a really noble prince never has a penny.  To hoard is the mark of a rascal.)

“The other part will meanwhile draw towards Aunis, Saintonge, Angoumois, and Gascony, as well as Périgord, Medoc, and Elanes.  Without any resistance they will take towns, castles, and fortresses.  At Bayonne, at St. Jean de Luz, and at Fontarabia you will seize all the ships, and coasting towards Galicia and Portugal, will plunder all the seaside places as far as Lisbon, where you will be reinforced with all the supplies necessary to a conqueror:  Corbleu! Spain will surrender, for they are all poltroons.  You will pass the Straits of Seville, and will there erect two columns more magnificent than those of Hercules for the perpetual memory of your name.  And that Strait shall thenceforward be named the Sea of Picrochole.

“When that sea has been passed, lo! comes Barbarossa to surrender as your slave.”  “I,” said Picrochole, “will extend mercy to him.”  “Very well,” said they, “on condition that he is baptized.  And then you will assault the kingdoms of Tunis, of Hippo, of Argier, of Bona, of Corona ­to cut it short, all Barbary.  Going further, you will keep in your hands Majorca, Minorca, Sardinia, Corsica, and the other islands of the Ligurian and Balearic sea.  Coasting to the left you will dominate all Narbonese Gaul, Provence, the Allobroges, Genoa, Florence, Lucca, and, begad!  Rome.  Poor master Pope is already dying for fear of you.”  “I will never kiss his slipper,” said Picrochole.

“Italy being taken, behold Naples, Calabria, Apulia, and Sicily all at your mercy, and Malta into the bargain.  I should like to see those funny knights, formerly of Rhodes, resist you! if it were only to examine their water.”  “I should like,” said Picrochole, “to go to Loretto.”  “No, no,” said they, “that will be on the way back.  Thence we shall take Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, and the Cyclades, and make a set at Morea.  We shall get it at once.  By St. Treignan, God keep Jerusalem! for the soldan is nothing in power to you.”  “Shall I,” said he, “then rebuild the Temple of Solomon?” “Not yet,” said they, “wait a little.  Be not so hasty in your enterprises.”

And so with the most meticulous exactness (Rabelais’ geography is irreproachable, and he carefully avoids the cheap expedient of making Spadassin and Merdaille blunder) and the sagest citations of Festina lente, they take him through Asia Minor to the Euphrates and Arabia, while the other army (that which has annihilated Grandgousier) comes round by the northern route, sweeping all Europe from Brittany and the British Isles to Constantinople, where the great rendezvous is made and the universal empire established, Picrochole graciously giving his advisers Syria and Palestine as their fiefs.

“Pretty much like our own days,” said Mr. Rigmarole.  Have we not heard something very like this lately, as “Berlin to Baghdad,” if not “Calais to Calcutta”?  And even if we had not, would not the sense and the satire of it be delectable?  A great deal has been left out:  the chapter is, for Rabelais, rather a long one.  The momentary doubt of the usually undoubting Picrochole as to what they shall drink in the desert, allayed at once by a beautiful scheme of commissariat camels and elephants, which would have done credit to the most modern A.S.C., is very capital.  There is, indeed, an unpleasant Echephron who points the old moral of Cineas to Pyrrhus himself.  But Picrochole rebuffs him with the invaluable Passons oultre, and closes the discussion by anticipating Henri Quatre (who, no doubt, learnt the phrase from him), crying, “Qui m’aime, si me suive!” and ordering all haste in the war.

It is possible that, here or earlier, the not-quite-so-gentle-as-he-is-traditionally-called reader may ejaculate, “This is all true enough; but it is all very well known, and does not need recapitulation.”  Is this quite so certain?  No doubt at one time Englishmen did know their Rabelais well.  Southey did, for instance, and so, according to the historian of Barsetshire, did, in the next generation, Archdeacon Grantly.  More recently my late friend Sir Walter Besant spent a great deal of pains on Master Francis, and mainly owing to his efforts there existed for some years a Rabelais Club (already referred to), which left some pleasant memories.  But is it quite so certain that the average educated Englishman can at once distinguish Eudemon from Epistemon, give a correct list of the various answers to Panurge’s enquiries as to the probable results of his marriage, relate what happened when (as glanced at above and returned to later) nous passasmes oultre, and say what the adorable Quintessence admitted to her dainty lips besides second intentions?  I doubt it very much.  Even special students of the Great Book, as in other cases, have too often allowed themselves to be distracted from the pure enjoyment of it by idle questions of the kinds above mentioned and others ­questions of dates and names and places, of origins and borrowings and imitations ­questions the sole justification of which, from the genuine Pantagruelian point of view, is that their utter dryness inevitably suggests the cries ­the Morning Hymn and the Evening Voluntary of the book itself ­A boire! and Trinq.

But, even were this not so, a person who has undertaken, wisely or unwisely, to write the history of the French Novel is surely entitled to lay some stress on what seems to him the importance of this its first eminent example.  At any rate he proposes not to passer oultre, but to stick to the line struck out, and exhibit, in reasonable detail, the varieties of novel-matter and manner contained in the book.

The conclusion of Gargantua ­after the victor has addressed a concio to the vanquished, has mildly punished the originators of the trouble or those he could catch (Spadassin and Merdaille having run away “six hours before the battle”) by setting them to work at his newly established printing-press, and has distributed gifts and estates to his followers ­may be one of the best known parts of the whole book, but is not of the most strictly novel character, though it has suggested at least one whole novel and parts or passages of others.  The “Abbey of Thelema” ­the home of the order of Fay ce que vouldras ­is, if not a devout, a grandiose imagination, and it gives occasion for some admirable writing.  But it is one of the purest exercises of “purpose,” and one of the least furnished with incident or character, to be found in Rabelais.  In order to introduce it, he may even be thought guilty of what is extremely rare with him, a fault of “keeping.”  He avoids this fault surprisingly in the contrasted burlesque and serious chronicles of Grandgousier and Gargantua himself, as well as in the expanded contrast of Pantagruel and Panurge.  Yet the heartiest admirer of “Friar John of the Funnels” (or “Collops,” for there is a schism on this point) may fail to see in him a suitable or even a possible Head for an assemblage of gallant gentlemen and stately ladies (both groups being also accomplished scholars) like the Thelemites.  But Rabelais, like Shakespeare, had small care for small objections.  He wanted to sketch a Paradise of Anti-Monkery, and for this he wanted an Anti-Abbot.  Friar John was the handiest person, and he took him.  But it is worth noting that the Abbot of Thelema never afterwards appears as such, or in the slightest relation to this miniature but most curious and interesting example of the Renaissance fancy for imaginary countries, cities, institutions, with its splendours of architecture and decoration, its luxurious but not loose living, its gallantry and its learning, its gorgeous dress, its polished manners (the Abbot must have had some trouble to learn them), and its “inscriptions and enigmas” in verse which is not quite so happy as the prose.  One would not cut it out of the book for anything, and parallels to it (not merely of the kind above referred to) have found and may find place in other books of fiction.  But it is only a sort of chantry, in the Court of the Gentiles too, of the mighty Temple of the Novel.

What it was exactly that made Rabelais “double,” as it were, on Gargantua in the early books of Pantagruel it would probably be idle to enquire.  His deliberate mention in the Prologue of some of the most famous romances (with certain others vainly to be sought now or at any time) might of course most easily be a mere red herring.  It may be, that as Gargantua was not entirely of his own creation, he determined to “begin at the beginning” in his original composition.  But it matters little or nothing.  We have, once more, a burlesque genealogy with known persons ­Nimrod, Goliath, Polyphemus, etc. etc. ­entangled in a chain of imaginaries, one of the latter, Hurtaly, forming the subject of a solemn discussion of the question why he is not received among the crew of the Ark.  The unfortunate concomitants of the birth of Pantagruel ­which is fatal to his mother Badebec ­contrast with the less chequered history of Gargantua and Gargamelle, while the mixed sorrow and joy of Gargantua at his wife’s death and his son’s birth completes this contrast.  Pantagruel, though quite as amiable as his father, if not more so, has in infancy the natural awkwardnesses of a giant, and a hairy giant too ­devouring cows whole instead of merely milking them, and tearing to pieces an unfortunate bear who only licked his infant chops.  As was said above, he has no wild-oats period of education like his father’s, but his company is less carefully chosen than that of Gargantua in the days of his reformation, and gives his biographer opportunities for his sharpest satire.

First we have (taken, as everybody is supposed now to know, from Geoffrey Tory, but improved) the episode of the Limousin scholar with his “pédantesque" deformation of French and Latin at once, till the giant takes him by the throat and he cries for mercy in the strongest meridional brogue. Then comes the famous catalogue of the Library of Saint Victor, a fresh attack on scholastic and monastic degeneracy, and a kind of joining hands (Ortuinus figures) with the German guerrilla against the Obscuri, and then a long and admirable letter from Gargantua, whence we learn that Grandgousier is dead, and that his son is now the sagest of monarchs, who has taken to read Greek, and shows no memory of his governesses or his earlier student days.  And then again comes Panurge.

Many doubtful things have been said about this most remarkable personage.  He has been fathered upon the Cingar of Folengo, which is too much of a compliment to that creation of the great Macaronic, and Falstaff has been fathered upon him, which is distinctly unfair to Falstaff.  Sir John has absolutely nothing of the ill-nature which characterises both Cingar and Panurge; and Panurge is an actual and contemptible coward, while many good wits have doubted whether Falstaff is, in the true sense, a coward at all.  But Panurge is certainly one thing ­the first distinct and striking character in prose fiction.  Morally, of course, there is little to be said for him, except that, when he has no temptations to the contrary, he is a “good fellow” enough.  As a human example of mimesis in the true Greek sense, not of “imitation” but of “fictitious creation,” he is, once more, the first real character in prose fiction ­the ancestor, in the literary sense, of the mighty company in which he has been followed by the similar creations of the masters from Cervantes to Thackeray.  The fantastic colouring, and more than colouring, of the whole book affects him, of course, more than superficially.  One could probably give some not quite absurd guesses why Rabelais shaped him as he did ­presented him as a very naughty but intensely clever child, with the monkey element in humanity thrown into utmost prominence.  But it is better not to do so.  Panurge has some Yahooish characteristics, but he is not a Yahoo ­in fact, there is no misanthropy in Rabelais. He is not merely impish (as in his vengeance on the lady of Paris), but something worse than impish (as in that on Dindenault); and yet one cannot call him diabolic, because he is so intensely human.  It is customary, and fairly correct, to describe his ethos as that of understanding and wit wholly divorced from morality, chivalry, or religion; yet he is never Mephistophelian.  If one of the hundred touches which make him a masterpiece is to be singled out, it might perhaps be the series of rapturous invitations to his wedding which he gives to his advisers while he thinks their advice favourable, and the limitations of enforced politeness which he appends when the unpleasant side of their opinions turns up.  And it may perhaps be added that one of the chief reasons for believing heartily in the last Book is the delectable and unimprovable contrast which La Quinte and her court of intellectual fantastry present to this picture of intellectual materialism.

It was impossible that such a figure should not to a certain extent dwarf others; but Rabelais, unlike some modern character-mongers, never lets his psychology interfere with his story.  After a few episodes, the chief of which is the great sign-duel of Thaumast and Panurge himself, the campaign against the Dipsodes at once enables Pantagruel to display himself as a war-like hero of romance, permits him fantastic exploits parallel to his father’s, and, by installing Panurge in a lordship of the conquered country and determining him, after “eating his corn in the blade,” to “marry and settle,” introduces the larger and most original part of the whole work ­the debates and counsellings on the marriage in the Third Book, and, after the failure of this, the voyage to settle the matter at the Oracle of the Bottle in the Fourth and Fifth.  This “plot,” if it may be called so, is fairly central and continuous throughout, but it gives occasion for the most surprising “alarums and excursions,” variations and divagations, of the author’s inexhaustible humour, learning, inventive fertility, and never-failing faculty of telling a tale.  If the book does sometimes in a fashion “hop forty paces in the public street,” and at others gambade in a less decorous fashion even than hopping, it is also Cleopatresque in its absolute freedom from staleness and from tedium.

The marriage of Panurge and the consultations on it.]

The Third Book has less of apparent variety in it, and less of what might be called striking incident, than any of the others, being all but wholly occupied by the enquiries respecting the marriage of Panurge.  But this gives it a “unity” which is of itself attractive to some tastes, while the delightful sonnet to the spirit Of Marguerite,

    Esprit abstraict, ravy et ecstatique,

(perhaps the best example of rhétoriqueur poetry), at the beginning, and the last sight (except in letters) of Gargantua at the end, with the curious coda on the “herb Pantagruelion” (the ancestor of Joseph de Maistre’s famous eulogy of the Executioner), give, as it were, handle and top to it in unique fashion.  But the body of it is the thing.  The preliminary outrunning of the constable ­had there been constables in Salmigondin, but they probably knew the story of the Seigneur of Basche too well ­and the remarkable difference between the feudatory and his superior on the subject of debt, serve but as a whet to the project of matrimony which the debtor conceives.  Of course, Panurge is the very last man whom a superficial observer of humanity ­the very first whom a somewhat profounder student thereof ­would take as a marrying one.  He is “a little failed”; he thinks to rest himself while not foregoing his former delights, and he shuts eyes and ears to the proverb, as old as Greek in words and as old as the world in fact, that “the doer shall suffer.”  That he should consult Pantagruel is in the circumstances almost a necessity, and Pantagruel’s conduct is exactly what one would expect from that good-natured, learned, admirable, but rather enigmatic personage.  Merely “aleatory” decision ­by actual use of dice ­he rejects as illicit, though towards the close of the book one of its most delectable episodes ends in his excusing Mr. Justice Bridoye for settling law cases in that way.  But he recommends the sortes Virgilianae, and he, others, and Panurge himself add the experiment of dreams, and the successive consultation of the Sibyl of Panzoust, the dumb Nazdecabre, the poet Raminagrobis, Epistemon, “Her Trippa,” Friar John himself, the theologian Hippothadee, the doctor Rondibilis, the philosopher Trouillogan, and the professional fool Triboulet.  No reader of the most moderate intelligence can need to be told that the counsellors opine all in the same sense (unfavourable), though with more or less ambiguity, and that Panurge, with equal obstinacy and ingenuity, invariably twists the oracles according to his own wishes.  But what no reader, who came fresh to Rabelais and fasting from criticism on him, could anticipate, is the astonishing spontaneity of the various dealings with the same problem, the zest and vividness of the whole thing, and the unceasing shower of satire on everything human ­general, professional, and individual ­which is kept up throughout.  There is less pure extravagance, less mere farce, and (despite the subject) even less “sculduddery” than in any other Book; but also in no other does Rabelais “keep up with humanity” (somewhat, indeed, in the fashion in which a carter keeps up with his animal, running and lashing at the same time) so triumphantly.

In no book, moreover, are the curious intervals ­or, as it were, prose choric odes ­of interruption more remarkable.  Pantagruel’s own serious wisdom supplies not a few of them, and the long and very characteristic episode of Judge Bridoye and his decision by throw of dice is very loosely connected with the main subject.  But the most noteworthy of these excursions comes, as has been said, at the end ­the last personal appearance of the good Gargantua, and the famous discourse, several chapters long, on the Herb Pantagruelion, otherwise Hemp.

The Fourth Book (Third of Pantagruel) starts the voyage, and begins to lead the commentator who insists on fixing and interpreting the innumerable real or apparent double, treble, and almost centuple meanings, into a series of dances almost illimitable.  As has been suggested more than once, the most reasonable way is probably to regard the whole as an intentional mixture of covert satire, pure fooling, not a little deliberate leading astray, and (serving as vehicle and impelling force at once) the irresistible narrative impulse animating the writer and carrying the reader on to the end ­any end, if it be only the Other End of Nowhere.  The “curios,” living and other, of Medamothi (Nowhere to begin with!), and the mysterious appearance of a shipful of travellers coming back from the Land of Lanterns, whither the Pantagruelian party is itself bound; the rather too severely punished ill-manners of the sheep-dealer Dindenault; the strange isles of various nature ­such, especially, as the abode of the bailiffs and process-servers, which gives occasion to the admirably told story of Francois Villon and the Seigneur of Basche; the great storm ­another of the most famous passages of the book ­with the cowardice of Panurge and the safe landing in the curious country of the Macreons (long-livers); the evil island where reigns Quaresmeprenant, and the elaborate analysis of that personage by the learned Xenomanes; the alarming Physeter (blowing whale) and his defeat by Pantagruel; the land of the Chitterlings, the battle with them, and the interview and peace-making with their Queen Niphleseth (a passage at which the sculduddery-hunters have worked their hardest), and then the islands of the Papefigues and the Papimanes, where Rabelais begins his most obvious and boldest meddling with the great ecclesiastical-political questions of the day ­all these things and others flit past the reader as if in an actual voyage.  Even here, however, he rather skirts than actually invades the most dangerous ground.  It is the Decretals, not the doctrines, that are satirised, and Homenas, bishop of Papimania, despite his adoration of these forgeries, and the slightly suspicious number and prettiness of the damsels who wait upon him, is a very good fellow and an excellent host.  There is something very soothing in his metaphorical way of demanding wine from his Hebes, “Clerice, esclaire icy,” the necessary illumination being provided by a charming girl with a hanap of “extravagant” wine.  These agreeable if satiric experiences ­for the Decretals do no harm beyond exciting the bile of Master Epistemon (who, it is to be feared, was a little of a pedant) ­are followed by the once more almost universally known passage of the “Frozen Words” and the visit to “Messer Gaster, the world’s first Master of Arts”; by the islands (once more mysterious) of Chaneph (hypocrisy) and Ganabin (thieves); the book concluding abruptly with an ultra-farcical cochonnerie of the lower kind, relieved partially by a libellous but impossible story about our Edward the Fifth and the poet Villon again, as well as by the appearance of an interesting but not previously mentioned member of the crew of the Thalamege (Pantagruel’s flagship), the great cat Rodilardus.

One of the peculiarities of the Fifth Book, and perhaps one of those which have aroused that suspicion about it which, after what has been said above, it is not necessary further to discuss, is that it is more “in blocks” than the others. The eight chapters of the Isle Sonnante take up the satire of the Fourth Book on Papimania and on the “Papegaut,” who is here introduced in a much fiercer tone ­a tone which, if one cared for hypothetical criticism, might be attributed with about equal probability to a genuine deepening of hostile feeling, to absence of revision, and to possible sophistication by some one into whose hands it fell between the author’s death and its publication.  But a perfectly impartial critic, who, on the one hand, does not, in Carlyle’s admirable phrase, “regard the Universe as a hunting-field from which it were good and pleasant to drive the Pope,” and, on the other, is content to regard the extremer Protestants as singularly unpleasant persons without pronouncing Ernulphus-curses on them, may perhaps fail to find in it either the cleverest or the most amusing part of the voyage.  The episode of the next Isle ­that des Ferrements ­is obscure, whether it is or is not (as the commentators were sure to suggest) something else beginning with “obsc-,” and the succeeding one, with its rocks fashioned like gigantic dice, is not very amusing.  But the terrible country of the Chats Fourres and their chief Grippeminaud ­an attack on the Law as unsparing as, and much more vivid than that on the Church in the overture ­may rank with the best things in Rabelais.  The tyrant’s ferocious and double-meaning catchword of Or ca! and the power at his back, which even Pantagruel thinks it better rather to run away from than to fight openly, which Panurge frankly bribes, and over which even the reckless and invincible Friar John obtains not much triumph, except that of cutting up, after buying it, an old woman’s bed ­these and the rest have a grim humour not quite like anything else.

The next section ­that of the Apedeftes or Uneducated Ones ­has been a special object of suspicion; it is certainly a little difficult, and perhaps a little dull.  One is not sorry when the explorers, in the ambiguous way already noted, “passent Oultre,” and, after difficulties with the wind, come to “the kingdom of Quintessence, named Entelechy.”  Something has been said more than once of this already, and it is perhaps unnecessary to say more, or indeed anything, except to those who themselves “hold of La Quinte,” and who for that very reason require no talking about her.  “We” (if one may enrol oneself in their company) would almost rather give up Rabelais altogether than sacrifice this delightful episode, and abandon the idea of having the ladies of the Queen for our partners in Emmelie, and Calabrisme, and the thousand other dances, of watching the wonderful cures by music, and the interesting process of throwing, not the house out of the window, but the window out of the house, and the miraculous and satisfactory transformation of old ladies into young girls, with very slight alteration of their former youthful selves, and all the charming topsyturvifications of Entelechy.  Not to mention the gracious if slightly unintelligible speeches of the exquisite princess, when clear Hesperus shone once more, and her supper of pure nectar and ambrosia (not grudging more solid viands to her visitors), and the great after-supper chess-tournament with living pieces, and the “invisible disparition” of the lady, and the departure of the fortunate visitors themselves, duly inscribed and registered as Abstractors of Quintessence.  The whole is like a good dream, and is told so as almost to be one.

Between this and the final goal of the Country of Lanterns the interest falls a little.  The island of “Odes” (not “poems” but “ways"), where the “walks walk” (les chemins cheminent); that of “Esclots” ("clogs"), where dwell the Frères Fredonnants, and where the attack on monkery is renewed in a rather unsavoury and rather puerile fashion; and that of Satin, which is a sort of Medamothi rehandled, are not first-rate ­they would have been done better, or cut out, had the book ever been issued by Master Francis.  But the arrival at and the sojourn in Lanternia itself recovers the full powers of Rabelais at his best, though one may once more think that some of the treatment might have been altered in the case just mentioned.

Apart from the usual mixture of serious and purely jocular satire, of learning and licence, of jargonic catalogues, of local references to Western France and the general topography of Utopia, this conclusion consists of two main parts ­first, a most elaborate description of the Temple, containing underground the Oracle of the Bottle, to which the pilgrims are conducted by a select “Lantern,” and of its priestess Bacbuc, its adytum with a fountain, and, in the depth and centre of all, the sacred Bottle itself; and secondly, the ceremonies of the delivery of the Oracle; the divine utterance, Trinq! its interpretation by Bacbuc; the very much ad libitum reinterpretations of the interpretation by Panurge and Friar John, and the dismissal of the pilgrims by the priestess, Or allez de par Dieu, qui vous conduise!

What, it may be asked, is the object of this cumbrous analysis of certainly one of the most famous and (as it at least should be) one of the best known books of the world?  That object has been partly indicated already; but it may be permissible to set it forth more particularly before ending this chapter.  Of the importance, on the one hand, of the acquisition by the novel of the greatest known and individual writer of French up to his date, and of the enormous popularity of this example of it, enough may have been said.  But the abstract has been given, and the further comment is now added, with the purpose of showing, in a little detail, how immensely the resources and inspirations of future practitioners were enriched and strengthened, varied and multiplied, by Gargantua and Pantagruel.  The book as a whole is to be classed, no doubt, as “Eccentric” fiction.  But if you compare with Rabelais that one of his followers who possessed most genius and who worked at his following with most deliberation, you will find an immense falling off in richness and variety as well as in strength.  The inferiority of Sterne to Master Francis in his serious pieces, whether he is whimpering over dead donkeys and dying lieutenants, or simulating honest indignation against critics, is too obvious to need insistence.  Nor can one imagine any one ­unless, like Mackenzie and other misguided contemporaries or juniors, he himself wanted to whimper, or unless he also aimed at the fatrasie ­going to Sterne for pattern or inspiration.  Now Rabelais is a perpetual fount of inspiration, an inexhaustible magazine of patterns to the most “serious” novelist whose seriousness is not of the kind designated by that term in dissenting slang.  That abounding narrative faculty which has been so much dwelt on touches so many subjects, and manages to carry along with it so many moods, thoughts, and even feelings, that it could not but suggest to any subsequent writer who had in him the germ of the novelist’s art, how to develop and work out such schemes as might occur to him.  While, for his own countrymen at least, the vast improvement which he made in French prose, and which, with the accomplishment of his younger contemporaries Amyot and Montaigne, established the greatness of that prose itself, was a gain, the extent of which cannot be exaggerated.  Therefore it has seemed not improper to give him a chapter to himself, and to treat his book with a minuteness not often to be paralleled in this History.