We may know his work, may know it well, and admire it more every time we read it. After being amused by it, after having enjoyed it, we may return again to study it and to enter more fully7 into its meaning. Yet there is no possibility of knowing his own life in the same fashion. In spite of all the efforts, often successful, that have been made to throw light on it, to bring forward a fresh document, or some obscure mention in a forgotten book, to add some little fact, to fix a date more precisely8, it remains9 nevertheless full of uncertainty10 and of gaps. Besides, it has been burdened and sullied by all kinds of wearisome stories and foolish anecdotes11, so that really there is more to weed out than to add.
This injustice12, at first wilful13, had its rise in the sixteenth century, in the furious attacks of a monk14 of Fontevrault, Gabriel de Puy-Herbault, who seems to have drawn15 his conclusions concerning the author from the book, and, more especially, in the regrettable satirical epitaph of Ronsard, piqued16, it is said, that the Guises18 had given him only a little pavillon in the Forest of Meudon, whereas the presbytery was close to the chateau19. From that time legend has fastened on Rabelais, has completely travestied him, till, bit by bit, it has made of him a buffoon20, a veritable clown, a vagrant21, a glutton22, and a drunkard.
The likeness23 of his person has undergone a similar metamorphosis. He has been credited with a full moon of a face, the rubicund24 nose of an incorrigible25 toper, and thick coarse lips always apart because always laughing. The picture would have surprised his friends no less than himself. There have been portraits painted of Rabelais; I have seen many such. They are all of the seventeenth century, and the greater number are conceived in this jovial26 and popular style.
As a matter of fact there is only one portrait of him that counts, that has more than the merest chance of being authentic28, the one in the Chronologie collee or coupee. Under this double name is known and cited a large sheet divided by lines and cross lines into little squares, containing about a hundred heads of illustrious Frenchmen. This sheet was stuck on pasteboard for hanging on the wall, and was cut in little pieces, so that the portraits might be sold separately. The majority of the portraits are of known persons and can therefore be verified. Now it can be seen that these have been selected with care, and taken from the most authentic sources; from statues, busts29, medals, even stained glass, for the persons of most distinction, from earlier engravings for the others. Moreover, those of which no other copies exist, and which are therefore the most valuable, have each an individuality very distinct, in the features, the hair, the beard, as well as in the costume. Not one of them is like another. There has been no tampering32 with them, no forgery33. On the contrary, there is in each a difference, a very marked personality. Leonard Gaultier, who published this engraving30 towards the end of the sixteenth century, reproduced a great many portraits besides from chalk drawings, in the style of his master, Thomas de Leu. It must have been such drawings that were the originals of those portraits which he alone has issued, and which may therefore be as authentic and reliable as the others whose correctness we are in a position to verify.
Now Rabelais has here nothing of the Roger Bontemps of low degree about him. His features are strong, vigorously cut, and furrowed34 with deep wrinkles; his beard is short and scanty35; his cheeks are thin and already worn-looking. On his head he wears the square cap of the doctors and the clerks, and his dominant36 expression, somewhat rigid37 and severe, is that of a physician and a scholar. And this is the only portrait to which we need attach any importance.
This is not the place for a detailed38 biography, nor for an exhaustive study. At most this introduction will serve as a framework on which to fix a few certain dates, to hang some general observations. The date of Rabelais’ birth is very doubtful. For long it was placed as far back as 1483: now scholars are disposed to put it forward to about 1495. The reason, a good one, is that all those whom he has mentioned as his friends, or in any real sense his contemporaries, were born at the very end of the fifteenth century. And, indeed, it is in the references in his romance to names, persons, and places, that the most certain and valuable evidence is to be found of his intercourse39, his patrons, his friendships, his sojournings, and his travels: his own work is the best and richest mine in which to search for the details of his life.
Like Descartes and Balzac, he was a native of Touraine, and Tours and Chinon have only done their duty in each of them erecting41 in recent years a statue to his honour, a twofold homage42 reflecting credit both on the province and on the town. But the precise facts about his birth are nevertheless vague. Huet speaks of the village of Benais, near Bourgeuil, of whose vineyards Rabelais makes mention. As the little vineyard of La Deviniere, near Chinon, and familiar to all his readers, is supposed to have belonged to his father, Thomas Rabelais, some would have him born there. It is better to hold to the earlier general opinion that Chinon was his native town; Chinon, whose praises he sang with such heartiness43 and affection. There he might well have been born in the Lamproie house, which belonged to his father, who, to judge from this circumstance, must have been in easy circumstances, with the position of a well-to-do citizen. As La Lamproie in the seventeenth century was a hostelry, the father of Rabelais has been set down as an innkeeper. More probably he was an apothecary44, which would fit in with the medical profession adopted by his son in after years. Rabelais had brothers, all older than himself. Perhaps because he was the youngest, his father destined45 him for the Church.
The time he spent while a child with the Benedictine monks46 at Seuille is uncertain. There he might have made the acquaintance of the prototype of his Friar John, a brother of the name of Buinart, afterwards Prior of Sermaize. He was longer at the Abbey of the Cordeliers at La Baumette, half a mile from Angers, where he became a novice47. As the brothers Du Bellay, who were later his Maecenases, were then studying at the University of Angers, where it is certain he was not a student, it is doubtless from this youthful period that his acquaintance and alliance with them should date. Voluntarily, or induced by his family, Rabelais now embraced the ecclesiastical profession, and entered the monastery49 of the Franciscan Cordeliers at Fontenay-le-Comte, in Lower Poitou, which was honoured by his long sojourn40 at the vital period of his life when his powers were ripening50. There it was he began to study and to think, and there also began his troubles.
In spite of the wide-spread ignorance among the monks of that age, the encyclopaedic movement of the Renaissance51 was attracting all the lofty minds. Rabelais threw himself into it with enthusiasm, and Latin antiquity52 was not enough for him. Greek, a study discountenanced by the Church, which looked on it as dangerous and tending to freethought and heresy53, took possession of him. To it he owed the warm friendship of Pierre Amy and of the celebrated54 Guillaume Bude. In fact, the Greek letters of the latter are the best source of information concerning this period of Rabelais’ life. It was at Fontenay-le-Comte also that he became acquainted with the Brissons and the great jurist Andre Tiraqueau, whom he never mentions but with admiration55 and deep affection. Tiraqueau’s treatise56, De legibus connubialibus, published for the first time in 1513, has an important bearing on the life of Rabelais. There we learn that, dissatisfied with the incomplete translation of Herodotus by Laurent Valla, Rabelais had retranslated into Latin the first book of the History. That translation unfortunately is lost, as so many other of his scattered57 works. It is probably in this direction that the hazard of fortune has most discoveries and surprises in store for the lucky searcher. Moreover, as in this law treatise Tiraqueau attacked women in a merciless fashion, President Amaury Bouchard published in 1522 a body in their defence, and Rabelais, who was a friend of both the antagonists58, took the side of Tiraqueau. It should be observed also in passing, that there are several pages of such audacious plain-speaking, that Rabelais, though he did not copy these in his Marriage of Panurge, has there been, in his own fashion, as out spoken as Tiraqueau. If such freedom of language could be permitted in a grave treatise of law, similar liberties were certainly, in the same century, more natural in a book which was meant to amuse.
The great reproach always brought against Rabelais is not the want of reserve of his language merely, but his occasional studied coarseness, which is enough to spoil his whole work, and which lowers its value. La Bruyere, in the chapter Des ouvrages de l’esprit, not in the first edition of the Caracteres, but in the fifth, that is to say in 1690, at the end of the great century, gives us on this subject his own opinion and that of his age:
‘Marot and Rabelais are inexcusable in their habit of scattering60 filth61 about their writings. Both of them had genius enough and wit enough to do without any such expedient62, even for the amusement of those persons who look more to the laugh to be got out of a book than to what is admirable in it. Rabelais especially is incomprehensible. His book is an enigma,— one may say inexplicable63. It is a Chimera64; it is like the face of a lovely woman with the feet and the tail of a reptile65, or of some creature still more loathsome66. It is a monstrous67 confusion of fine and rare morality with filthy68 corruption69. Where it is bad, it goes beyond the worst; it is the delight of the basest of men. Where it is good, it reaches the exquisite70, the very best; it ministers to the most delicate tastes.’
Putting aside the rather slight connection established between two men of whom one is of very little importance compared with the other, this is otherwise very admirably said, and the judgment71 is a very just one, except with regard to one point — the misunderstanding of the atmosphere in which the book was created, and the ignoring of the examples of a similar tendency furnished by literature as well as by the popular taste. Was it not the Ancients that began it? Aristophanes, Catullus, Petronius, Martial73, flew in the face of decency74 in their ideas as well as in the words they used, and they dragged after them in this direction not a few of the Latin poets of the Renaissance, who believed themselves bound to imitate them. Is Italy without fault in this respect? Her story-tellers in prose lie open to easy accusation75. Her Capitoli in verse go to incredible lengths; and the astonishing success of Aretino must not be forgotten, nor the licence of the whole Italian comic theatre of the sixteenth century. The Calandra of Bibbiena, who was afterwards a Cardinal76, and the Mandragola of Machiavelli, are evidence enough, and these were played before Popes, who were not a whit77 embarrassed. Even in England the drama went very far for a time, and the comic authors of the reign78 of Charles II., evidently from a reaction, and to shake off the excess and the wearisomeness of Puritan prudery and affectation, which sent them to the opposite extreme, are not exactly noted79 for their reserve. But we need not go beyond France. Slight indications, very easily verified, are all that may be set down here; a formal and detailed proof would be altogether too dangerous.
Thus, for instance, the old Fabliaux — the Farces80 of the fifteenth century, the story-tellers of the sixteenth — reveal one of the sides, one of the veins81, so to speak, of our literature. The art that addresses itself to the eye had likewise its share of this coarseness. Think of the sculptures on the capitals and the modillions of churches, and the crude frankness of certain painted windows of the fifteenth century. Queen Anne was, without any doubt, one of the most virtuous82 women in the world. Yet she used to go up the staircase of her chateau at Blois, and her eyes were not offended at seeing at the foot of a bracket a not very decent carving83 of a monk and a nun84. Neither did she tear out of her book of Hours the large miniature of the winter month, in which, careless of her neighbours’ eyes, the mistress of the house, sitting before her great fireplace, warms herself in a fashion which it is not advisable that dames85 of our age should imitate. The statue of Cybele by the Tribolo, executed for Francis I., and placed, not against a wall, but in the middle of Queen Claude’s chamber86 at Fontainebleau, has behind it an attribute which would have been more in place on a statue of Priapus, and which was the symbol of generativeness. The tone of the conversations was ordinarily of a surprising coarseness, and the Precieuses, in spite of their absurdities87, did a very good work in setting themselves in opposition88 to it. The worthy89 Chevalier de La-Tour-Landry, in his Instructions to his own daughters, without a thought of harm, gives examples which are singular indeed, and in Caxton’s translation these are not omitted. The Adevineaux Amoureux, printed at Bruges by Colard Mansion90, are astonishing indeed when one considers that they were the little society diversions of the Duchesses of Burgundy and of the great ladies of a court more luxurious91 and more refined than the French court, which revelled92 in the Cent Nouvelles of good King Louis XI. Rabelais’ pleasantry about the woman folle a la messe is exactly in the style of the Adevineaux.
A later work than any of his, the Novelle of Bandello, should be kept in mind — for the writer was Bishop93 of Agen, and his work was translated into French — as also the Dames Galantes of Brantome. Read the Journal of Heroard, that honest doctor, who day by day wrote down the details concerning the health of Louis XIII. from his birth, and you will understand the tone of the conversation of Henry IV. The jokes at a country wedding are trifles compared with this royal coarseness. Le Moyen de Parvenir is nothing but a tissue and a mass of filth, and the too celebrated Cabinet Satyrique proves what, under Louis XIII., could be written, printed, and read. The collection of songs formed by Clairambault shows that the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were no purer than the sixteenth. Some of the most ribald songs are actually the work of Princesses of the royal House.
It is, therefore, altogether unjust to make Rabelais the scapegoat94, to charge him alone with the sins of everybody else. He spoke59 as those of his time used to speak; when amusing them he used their language to make himself understood, and to slip in his asides, which without this sauce would never have been accepted, would have found neither eyes nor ears. Let us blame not him, therefore, but the manners of his time.
Besides, his gaiety, however coarse it my appear to us — and how rare a thing is gaiety!— has, after all, nothing unwholesome about it; and this is too often overlooked. Where does he tempt95 one to stray from duty? Where, even indirectly96, does he give pernicious advice? Whom has he led to evil ways? Does he ever inspire feelings that breed misconduct and vice48, or is he ever the apologist of these? Many poets and romance writers, under cover of a fastidious style, without one coarse expression, have been really and actively97 hurtful; and of that it is impossible to accuse Rabelais. Women in particular quickly revolt from him, and turn away repulsed98 at once by the archaic99 form of the language and by the outspokenness100 of the words. But if he be read aloud to them, omitting the rougher parts and modernizing101 the pronunciation, it will be seen that they too are impressed by his lively wit as by the loftiness of his thought. It would be possible, too, to extract, for young persons, without modification102, admirable passages of incomparable force. But those who have brought out expurgated editions of him, or who have thought to improve him by trying to rewrite him in modern French, have been fools for their pains, and their insulting attempts have had, and always will have, the success they deserve.
His dedications103 prove to what extent his whole work was accepted. Not to speak of his epistolary relations with Bude, with the Cardinal d’Armagnac and with Pellissier, the ambassador of Francis I. and Bishop of Maguelonne, or of his dedication104 to Tiraqueau of his Lyons edition of the Epistolae Medicinales of Giovanni Manardi of Ferrara, of the one addressed to the President Amaury Bouchard of the two legal texts which he believed antique, there is still the evidence of his other and more important dedications. In 1532 he dedicated105 his Hippocrates and his Galen to Geoffroy d’Estissac, Bishop of Maillezais, to whom in 1535 and 1536 he addressed from Rome the three news letters, which alone have been preserved; and in 1534 he dedicated from Lyons his edition of the Latin book of Marliani on the topography of Rome to Jean du Bellay (at that time Bishop of Paris) who was raised to the Cardinalate106 in 1535. Beside these dedications we must set the privilege of Francis I. of September, 1545, and the new privilege granted by Henry II. on August 6th, 1550, Cardinal de Chatillon present, for the third book, which was dedicated, in an eight-lined stanza107, to the Spirit of the Queen of Navarre. These privileges, from the praises and eulogies108 they express in terms very personal and very exceptional, are as important in Rabelais’ life as were, in connection with other matters, the Apostolic Pastorals in his favour. Of course, in these the popes had not to introduce his books of diversions, which, nevertheless, would have seemed in their eyes but very venial109 sins. The Sciomachie of 1549, an account of the festivities arranged at Rome by Cardinal du Bellay in honour of the birth of the second son of Henry II., was addressed to Cardinal de Guise17, and in 1552 the fourth book was dedicated, in a new prologue110, to Cardinal de Chatillon, the brother of Admiral de Coligny.
These are no unknown or insignificant111 personages, but the greatest lords and princes of the Church. They loved and admired and protected Rabelais, and put no restrictions112 in his way. Why should we be more fastidious and severe than they were? Their high contemporary appreciation113 gives much food for thought.
There are few translations of Rabelais in foreign tongues; and certainly the task is no light one, and demands more than a familiarity with ordinary French. It would have been easier in Italy than anywhere else. Italian, from its flexibility114 and its analogy to French, would have lent itself admirably to the purpose; the instrument was ready, but the hand was not forthcoming. Neither is there any Spanish translation, a fact which can be more easily understood. The Inquisition would have been a far more serious opponent than the Paris’ Sorbonne, and no one ventured on the experiment. Yet Rabelais forces comparison with Cervantes, whose precursor115 he was in reality, though the two books and the two minds are very different. They have only one point in common, their attack and ridicule116 of the romances of chivalry117 and of the wildly improbable adventures of knight-errants. But in Don Quixote there is not a single detail which would suggest that Cervantes knew Rabelais’ book or owed anything to it whatsoever118, even the starting-point of his subject. Perhaps it was better he should not have been influenced by him, in however slight a degree; his originality119 is the more intact and the more genial120.
On the other hand, Rabelais has been several times translated into German. In the present century Regis published at Leipsic, from 1831 to 1841, with copious121 notes, a close and faithful translation. The first one cannot be so described, that of Johann Fischart, a native of Mainz or Strasburg, who died in 1614. He was a Protestant controversialist, and a satirist122 of fantastic and abundant imagination. In 1575 appeared his translation of Rabelais’ first book, and in 1590 he published the comic catalogue of the library of Saint Victor, borrowed from the second book. It is not a translation, but a recast in the boldest style, full of alterations123 and of exaggerations, both as regards the coarse expressions which he took upon himself to develop and to add to, and in the attacks on the Roman Catholic Church. According to Jean Paul Richter, Fischart is much superior to Rabelais in style and in the fruitfulness of his ideas, and his equal in erudition and in the invention of new expressions after the manner of Aristophanes. He is sure that his work was successful, because it was often reprinted during his lifetime; but this enthusiasm of Jean Paul would hardly carry conviction in France. Who treads in another’s footprints must follow in the rear. Instead of a creator, he is but an imitator. Those who take the ideas of others to modify them, and make of them creations of their own, like Shakespeare in England, Moliere and La Fontaine in France, may be superior to those who have served them with suggestions; but then the new works must be altogether different, must exist by themselves. Shakespeare and the others, when they imitated, may be said always to have destroyed their models. These copyists, if we call them so, created such works of genius that the only pity is they are so rare. This is not the case with Fischart, but it would be none the less curious were some one thoroughly124 familiar with German to translate Fischart for us, or at least, by long extracts from him, give an idea of the vagaries125 of German taste when it thought it could do better than Rabelais. It is dangerous to tamper31 with so great a work, and he who does so runs a great risk of burning his fingers.
England has been less daring, and her modesty126 and discretion127 have brought her success. But, before speaking of Urquhart’s translation, it is but right to mention the English-French Dictionary of Randle Cotgrave, the first edition of which dates from 1611. It is in every way exceedingly valuable, and superior to that of Nicot, because instead of keeping to the plane of classic and Latin French, it showed an acquaintance with and mastery of the popular tongue as well as of the written and learned language. As a foreigner, Cotgrave is a little behind in his information. He is not aware of all the changes and novelties of the passing fashion. The Pleiad School he evidently knew nothing of, but kept to the writers of the fifteenth and the first half of the sixteenth century. Thus words out of Rabelais, which he always translates with admirable skill, are frequent, and he attaches to them their author’s name. So Rabelais had already crossed the Channel, and was read in his own tongue. Somewhat later, during the full sway of the Commonwealth128 — and Maitre Alcofribas Nasier must have been a surprising apparition129 in the midst of Puritan severity — Captain Urquhart undertook to translate him and to naturalize him completely in England.
Thomas Urquhart belonged to a very old family of good standing72 in the North of Scotland. After studying in Aberdeen he travelled in France, Spain, and Italy, where his sword was as active as that intelligent curiosity of his which is evidenced by his familiarity with three languages and the large library which he brought back, according to his own account, from sixteen countries he had visited.
On his return to England he entered the service of Charles I., who knighted him in 1641. Next year, after the death of his father, he went to Scotland to set his family affairs in order, and to redeem130 his house in Cromarty. But, in spite of another sojourn in foreign lands, his efforts to free himself from pecuniary131 embarrassments132 were unavailing. At the king’s death his Scottish loyalty133 caused him to side with those who opposed the Parliament. Formally proscribed134 in 1649, taken prisoner at the defeat of Worcester in 1651, stripped of all his belongings135, he was brought to London, but was released on parole at Cromwell’s recommendation. After receiving permission to spend five months in Scotland to try once more to settle his affairs, he came back to London to escape from his creditors136. And there he must have died, though the date of his death is unknown. It probably took place after 1653, the date of the publication of the two first books, and after having written the translation of the third, which was not printed from his manuscript till the end of the seventeenth century.
His life was therefore not without its troubles, and literary activity must have been almost his only consolation137. His writings reveal him as the strangest character, fantastic, and full of a naive138 vanity, which, even at the time he was translating the genealogy139 of Gargantua — surely well calculated to cure any pondering on his own — caused him to trace his unbroken descent from Adam, and to state that his family name was derived140 from his ancestor Esormon, Prince of Achaia, 2139 B.C., who was surnamed (Greek), that is to say the Fortunate and the Well-beloved. A Gascon could not have surpassed this.
Gifted as he was, learned in many directions, an enthusiastic mathematician141, master of several languages, occasionally full of wit and humour, and even good sense, yet he gave his books the strangest titles, and his ideas were no less whimsical. His style is mystic, fastidious, and too often of a wearisome length and obscurity; his verses rhyme anyhow, or not at all; but vivacity142, force and heat are never lacking, and the Maitland Club did well in reprinting, in 1834, his various works, which are very rare. Yet, in spite of their curious interest, he owes his real distinction and the survival of his name to his translation of Rabelais.
The first two books appeared in 1653. The original edition, exceedingly scarce, was carefully reprinted in 1838, only a hundred copies being issued, by an English bibliophile143 T(heodore) M(artin), whose interesting preface I regret to sum up so cursorily144. At the end of the seventeenth century, in 1693, a French refugee, Peter Antony Motteux, whose English verses and whose plays are not without value, published in a little octavo volume a reprint, very incorrect as to the text, of the first two books, to which he added the third, from the manuscript found amongst Urquhart’s papers. The success which attended this venture suggested to Motteux the idea of completing the work, and a second edition, in two volumes, appeared in 1708, with the translation of the fourth and fifth books, and notes. Nineteen years after his death, John Ozell, translator on a large scale of French, Italian, and Spanish authors, revised Motteux’s edition, which he published in five volumes in 1737, adding Le Duchat’s notes; and this version has often been reprinted since.
The continuation by Motteux, who was also the translator of Don Quixote, has merits of its own. It is precise, elegant, and very faithful. Urquhart’s, without taking liberties with Rabelais like Fischart, is not always so closely literal and exact. Nevertheless, it is much superior to Motteux’s. If Urquhart does not constantly adhere to the form of the expression, if he makes a few slight additions, not only has he an understanding of the original, but he feels it, and renders the sense with a force and a vivacity full of warmth and brilliancy. His own learning made the comprehension of the work easy to him, and his anglicization of words fabricated by Rabelais is particularly successful. The necessity of keeping to his text prevented his indulgence in the convolutions and divagations dictated145 by his exuberant146 fancy when writing on his own account. His style, always full of life and vigour147, is here balanced, lucid148, and picturesque149. Never elsewhere did he write so well. And thus the translation reproduces the very accent of the original, besides possessing a very remarkable150 character of its own. Such a literary tone and such literary qualities are rarely found in a translation. Urquhart’s, very useful for the interpretation151 of obscure passages, may, and indeed should be read as a whole, both for Rabelais and for its own merits.
Holland, too, possesses a translation of Rabelais. They knew French in that country in the seventeenth century better than they do to-day, and there Rabelais’ works were reprinted when no editions were appearing in France. This Dutch translation was published at Amsterdam in 1682, by J. Tenhoorn. The name attached to it, Claudio Gallitalo (Claudius French-Italian) must certainly be a pseudonym152. Only a Dutch scholar could identify the translator, and state the value to be assigned to his work.
Rabelais’ style has many different sources. Besides its force and brilliancy, its gaiety, wit, and dignity, its abundant richness is no less remarkable. It would be impossible and useless to compile a glossary154 of Voltaire’s words. No French writer has used so few, and all of them are of the simplest. There is not one of them that is not part of the common speech, or which demands a note or an explanation. Rabelais’ vocabulary, on the other hand, is of an astonishing variety. Where does it all come from? As a fact, he had at his command something like three languages, which he used in turn, or which he mixed according to the effect he wished to produce.
First of all, of course, he had ready to his hand the whole speech of his time, which had no secrets for him. Provincials155 have been too eager to appropriate him, to make of him a local author, the pride of some village, in order that their district might have the merit of being one of the causes, one of the factors of his genius. Every neighbourhood where he ever lived has declared that his distinction was due to his knowledge of its popular speech. But these dialect-patriots have fallen out among themselves. To which dialect was he indebted? Was it that of Touraine, or Berri, or Poitou, or Paris? It is too often forgotten, in regard to French patois156 — leaving out of count the languages of the South — that the words or expressions that are no longer in use to-day are but a survival, a still living trace of the tongue and the pronunciation of other days. Rabelais, more than any other writer, took advantage of the happy chances and the richness of the popular speech, but he wrote in French, and nothing but French. That is why he remains so forcible, so lucid, and so living, more living even — speaking only of his style out of charity to the others — than any of his contemporaries.
It has been said that great French prose is solely157 the work of the seventeenth century. There were nevertheless, before that, two men, certainly very different and even hostile, who were its initiators and its masters, Calvin on the one hand, on the other Rabelais.
Rabelais had a wonderful knowledge of the prose and the verse of the fifteenth century: he was familiar with Villon, Pathelin, the Quinze Joies de Mariage, the Cent Nouvelles, the chronicles and the romances, and even earlier works, too, such as the Roman de la Rose. Their words, their turns of expression came naturally to his pen, and added a piquancy158 and, as it were, a kind of gloss153 of antique novelty to his work. He fabricated words, too, on Greek and Latin models, with great ease, sometimes audaciously and with needless frequency. These were for him so many means, so many elements of variety. Sometimes he did this in mockery, as in the humorous discourse159 of the Limousin scholar, for which he is not a little indebted to Geoffroy Tory in the Champfleury; sometimes, on the contrary, seriously, from a habit acquired in dealing160 with classical tongues.
Again, another reason of the richness of his vocabulary was that he invented and forged words for himself. Following the example of Aristophanes, he coined an enormous number of interminable words, droll161 expressions, sudden and surprising constructions. What had made Greece and the Athenians laugh was worth transporting to Paris.
With an instrument so rich, resources so endless, and the skill to use them, it is no wonder that he could give voice to anything, be as humorous as he could be serious, as comic as he could be grave, that he could express himself and everybody else, from the lowest to the highest. He had every colour on his palette, and such skill was in his fingers that he could depict162 every variety of light and shade.
We have evidence that Rabelais did not always write in the same fashion. The Chronique Gargantuaine is uniform in style and quite simple, but cannot with certainty be attributed to him. His letters are bombastic163 and thin; his few attempts at verse are heavy, lumbering164, and obscure, altogether lacking in harmony, and quite as bad as those of his friend, Jean Bouchet. He had no gift of poetic165 form, as indeed is evident even from his prose. And his letters from Rome to the Bishop of Maillezais, interesting as they are in regard to the matter, are as dull, bare, flat, and dry in style as possible. Without his signature no one would possibly have thought of attributing them to him. He is only a literary artist when he wishes to be such; and in his romance he changes the style completely every other moment: it has no constant character or uniform manner, and therefore unity166 is almost entirely167 wanting in his work, while his endeavours after contrast are unceasing. There is throughout the whole the evidence of careful and conscious elaboration.
Hence, however lucid and free be the style of his romance, and though its flexibility and ease seem at first sight to have cost no trouble at all, yet its merit lies precisely in the fact that it succeeds in concealing168 the toil169, in hiding the seams. He could not have reached this perfection at a first attempt. He must have worked long at the task, revised it again and again, corrected much, and added rather than cut away. The aptness of form and expression has been arrived at by deliberate means, and owes nothing to chance. Apart from the toning down of certain bold passages, to soften170 their effect, and appease171 the storm — for these were not literary alterations, but were imposed on him by prudence172 — one can see how numerous are the variations in his text, how necessary it is to take account of them, and to collect them. A good edition, of course, would make no attempt at amalgamating173 these. That would give a false impression and end in confusion; but it should note them all, and show them all, not combined, but simply as variations.
After Le Duchat, all the editions, in their care that nothing should be lost, made the mistake of collecting and placing side by side things which had no connection with each other, which had even been substituted for each other. The result was a fabricated text, full of contradictions naturally. But since the edition issued by M. Jannet, the well-known publisher of the Bibliotheque Elzevirienne, who was the first to get rid of this patchwork174, this mosaic175, Rabelais’ latest text has been given, accompanied by all the earlier variations, to show the changes he made, as well as his suppressions and additions. It would also be possible to reverse the method. It would be interesting to take his first text as the basis, noting the later modifications176. This would be quite as instructive and really worth doing. Perhaps one might then see more clearly with what care he made his revisions, after what fashion he corrected, and especially what were the additions he made.
No more striking instance can be quoted than the admirable chapter about the shipwreck177. It was not always so long as Rabelais made it in the end: it was much shorter at first. As a rule, when an author recasts some passage that he wishes to revise, he does so by rewriting the whole, or at least by interpolating passages at one stroke, so to speak. Nothing of the kind is seen here. Rabelais suppressed nothing, modified nothing; he did not change his plan at all. What he did was to make insertions, to slip in between two clauses a new one. He expressed his meaning in a lengthier178 way, and the former clause is found in its integrity along with the additional one, of which it forms, as it were, the warp179. It was by this method of touching180 up the smallest details, by making here and there such little noticeable additions, that he succeeded in heightening the effect without either change or loss. In the end it looks as if he had altered nothing, added nothing new, as if it had always been so from the first, and had never been meddled181 with.
The comparison is most instructive, showing us to what an extent Rabelais’ admirable style was due to conscious effort, care, and elaboration, a fact which is generally too much overlooked, and how instead of leaving any trace which would reveal toil and study, it has on the contrary a marvellous cohesion182, precision, and brilliancy. It was modelled and remodelled183, repaired, touched up, and yet it has all the appearance of having been created at a single stroke, or of having been run like molten wax into its final form.
Something should be said here of the sources from which Rabelais borrowed. He was not the first in France to satirize184 the romances of chivalry. The romance in verse by Baudouin de Sebourc, printed in recent years, was a parody185 of the Chansons de Geste. In the Moniage Guillaume, and especially in the Moniage Rainouart, in which there is a kind of giant, and occasionally a comic giant, there are situations and scenes which remind us of Rabelais. The kind of Fabliaux in mono-rhyme quatrains of the old Aubery anticipate his coarse and popular jests. But all that is beside the question; Rabelais did not know these. Nothing is of direct interest save what was known to him, what fell under his eyes, what lay to his hand — as the Facetiae of Poggio, and the last sermonnaires. In the course of one’s reading one may often enough come across the origin of some of Rabelais’ witticisms186; here and there we may discover how he had developed a situation. While gathering187 his materials wherever he could find them, he was nevertheless profoundly original.
On this point much research and investigation188 might be employed. But there is no need why these researches should be extended to the region of fancy. Gargantua has been proved by some to be of Celtic origin. 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 and 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 justified189. 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 testimony190 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 fixed191 them finally by writing them down. Floating about vaguely192 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 ballad193 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 exigencies194 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 permeated195 even than Montaigne, were a mine of inspiration. The proof of it is everywhere. Pliny especially was his encyclopaedia196, 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 quotation197. 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 fictitious198 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 insipid199. 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 laborious200 trifling201 and cold-blooded exaggerations but a satire202 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, condemned203 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 should 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 plagiarist204. 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 controversy205, 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 burlesque206 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 garb207 produces the most amusing effect. In the original it is sometimes difficult to read, for Folengo has no objection to using the most colloquial208 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, imprisonment209 and deliverance, his journey in search of his father, during which he visits the Planets and Hell. The narration210 is constantly interrupted by incidental adventures. Occasionally they are what would be called to-day very naturalistic, and sometimes they are madly extravagant211.
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 sergeants212, 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 revels213 in drinking scenes, junkettings, gormandizing, battles, scuffles, wounds and corpses214, magic, witches, speeches, repeated enumerations, lengthiness215, 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 lengthy216 a matter; one would have to quote too many passages, but on this question of sources nothing is more interesting than a perusal217 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 anonymous218 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 miscreant219 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 exclamations220 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 animation221 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 clatter222 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 adorned223. The Counts of Anjou were not saints. They were proud, quarrelsome, violent, rapacious224, and extravagant, as greedy as they were charitable to the Church, treacherous225 and cruel. Yet their anonymous panegyrist has made them patterns of all the virtues226. 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, literally227 translated whole lines of it in the wonderful speech of Gargantua to the vanquished228. 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 mere27 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 varied229 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 bibliography230 of the works relating to Rabelais is drawn up — which, by the bye, will entail231 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 briefly232. 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 contradictory233 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 emphatic234, 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 Ass5 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 interfered235.
In the remainder the sentiment is distinctly Protestant. Rabelais was much struck by the vices236 of the clergy237 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 favourable238 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, precursors239 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 excellence240 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 reminders241 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 applied242 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 maker243 is far from showing the same suppleness244 and strength.
A eulogistic245 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 transcribe246 accurately247. 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 scrupulous248 and painful fidelity249, 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 tampered250 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 Revocation251 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 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 annotations252, 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 etymology253. Learned though he was, Rabelais had little care to be so etymological254, 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 encumbered255 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 allusions256. He is neither so complicated nor so full of riddles257. 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 purely258 imaginary, utterly259 without proof, and should the more emphatically be looked on as baseless and dismissed. They are radically260 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 bristling261 with the nonsensical and superfluous262 consonants263 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 judicious264, 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 juxtaposition265 of things that were not formerly266 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 lucidity267 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.
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1
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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3
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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4
generalization
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| n.普遍性，一般性，概括 | |
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5
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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6
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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8
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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9
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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10
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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13
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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14
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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15
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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17
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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18
guises
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| n.外观，伪装( guise的名词复数 )v.外观，伪装( guise的第三人称单数 ) | |
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19
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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20
buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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21
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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22
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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23
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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24
rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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25
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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26
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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27
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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28
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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29
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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30
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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31
tamper
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| v.干预，玩弄，贿赂，窜改，削弱，损害 | |
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32
tampering
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| v.窜改( tamper的现在分词 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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33
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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34
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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36
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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37
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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38
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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39
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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40
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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41
erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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42
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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43
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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44
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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45
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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46
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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47
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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48
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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49
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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50
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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51
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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52
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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53
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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54
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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55
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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56
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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57
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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58
antagonists
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| 对立[对抗] 者，对手，敌手( antagonist的名词复数 )； 对抗肌； 对抗药 | |
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59
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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60
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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61
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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62
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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63
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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64
chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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65
reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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66
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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67
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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68
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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69
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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70
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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71
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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72
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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73
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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74
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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75
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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76
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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77
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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78
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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79
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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80
farces
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| n.笑剧( farce的名词复数 )；闹剧；笑剧剧目；作假的可笑场面 | |
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81
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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82
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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83
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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84
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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85
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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86
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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87
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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88
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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89
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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90
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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91
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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92
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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93
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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94
scapegoat
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| n.替罪的羔羊，替人顶罪者；v.使…成为替罪羊 | |
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95
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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96
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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97
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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98
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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99
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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100
outspokenness
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101
modernizing
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| 使现代化，使适应现代需要( modernize的现在分词 )； 现代化，使用现代方法 | |
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102
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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103
dedications
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| 奉献( dedication的名词复数 )； 献身精神； 教堂的)献堂礼； （书等作品上的）题词 | |
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104
dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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105
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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106
cardinalate
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| 枢机主教之职 | |
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107
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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108
eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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109
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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110
prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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111
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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112
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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113
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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114
flexibility
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| n.柔韧性，弹性，（光的）折射性，灵活性 | |
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115
precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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116
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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117
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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118
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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119
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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120
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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121
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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122
satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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123
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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124
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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125
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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126
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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127
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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128
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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129
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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130
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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131
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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132
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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133
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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134
proscribed
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| v.正式宣布（某事物）有危险或被禁止( proscribe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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136
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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137
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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138
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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139
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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140
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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141
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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142
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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143
bibliophile
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| n.爱书者；藏书家 | |
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144
cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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145
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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146
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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147
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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148
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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149
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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150
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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151
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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152
pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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153
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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154
glossary
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| n.注释词表；术语汇编 | |
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155
provincials
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| n.首都以外的人，地区居民( provincial的名词复数 ) | |
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156
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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157
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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158
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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159
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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160
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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161
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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162
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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163
bombastic
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| adj.夸夸其谈的，言过其实的 | |
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164
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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165
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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166
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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167
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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168
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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169
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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170
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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171
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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172
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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173
amalgamating
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| v.（使）（金属）汞齐化( amalgamate的现在分词 )；（使）合并；联合；结合 | |
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174
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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175
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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176
modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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177
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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178
lengthier
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| adj.长的，漫长的，啰嗦的( lengthy的比较级 ) | |
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179
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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180
touching
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|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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181
meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
cohesion
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| n.团结，凝结力 | |
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183
remodelled
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|
| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
satirize
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| v.讽刺 | |
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185
parody
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|
| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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186
witticisms
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| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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187
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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188
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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189
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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190
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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191
fixed
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|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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192
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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193
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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194
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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195
permeated
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|
| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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196
encyclopaedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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197
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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198
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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199
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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200
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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201
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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202
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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203
condemned
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|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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204
plagiarist
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| n.剽窃者，文抄公 | |
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205
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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206
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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207
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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208
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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209
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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210
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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211
extravagant
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|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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212
sergeants
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| 警官( sergeant的名词复数 )； （美国警察）警佐； （英国警察）巡佐； 陆军（或空军）中士 | |
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213
revels
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|
| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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214
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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215
lengthiness
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| n.冗长 | |
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216
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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217
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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218
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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219
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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220
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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221
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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222
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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223
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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224
rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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225
treacherous
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|
| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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226
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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227
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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228
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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229
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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230
bibliography
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|
| n.参考书目；(有关某一专题的)书目 | |
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231
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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232
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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233
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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234
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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235
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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236
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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237
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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238
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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239
precursors
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| n.先驱( precursor的名词复数 )；先行者；先兆；初期形式 | |
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240
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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241
reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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242
applied
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|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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243
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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244
suppleness
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| 柔软； 灵活； 易弯曲； 顺从 | |
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245
eulogistic
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| adj.颂扬的，颂词的 | |
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246
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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247
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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248
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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249
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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250
tampered
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|
| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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251
revocation
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| n.废止，撤回 | |
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252
annotations
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| n.注释( annotation的名词复数 )；附注 | |
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253
etymology
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| n.语源；字源学 | |
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254
etymological
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| adj.语源的，根据语源学的 | |
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255
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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257
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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258
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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259
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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260
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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261
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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262
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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263
consonants
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| n.辅音，子音( consonant的名词复数 )；辅音字母 | |
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264
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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265
juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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266
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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267
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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