Gargantua and Pantagruel

by François Rabelais

  And they made their prisoner their roaster.

  They roasted the venison over the fire in which they had frazzled the knights. And then good cheer, with lots of vinaigre! And the devil take anyone who held back! It was a treat to watch them guzzling away.

  Then Pantagruel said:

  ‘Would to God that each one of you had a couple of pairs of hawks’ tinklers dangling from your chins, while dangling from mine were the great bells of Rennes, Poitiers, Tours and Cambrai: what a dawn peal we would ring as we champed our chops!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Panurge, ‘but it would be preferable to reflect a bit on the matter in hand and how we can get the better of our enemies.’

  ‘Good advice,’ said Pantagruel.

  He therefore addressed the prisoner:

  ‘Tell us the truth, my friend. And if you do not want to be flayed alive, lie about nothing whatsoever, for I am the one who devours little children. Tell me the disposition, number and strength of your army.’

  To which the prisoner replied:

  ‘Take it as true, my Lord, that the army includes three hundred giants all clad in armour made of blocks of sandstone and all wondrously big, though not as big as you are, except for one who is their chief and is called Loup Garou, who is entirely clad in Cyclopic anvils.

  Then there are a hundred and sixty-three thousand foot-soldiers, men strong and bold, all clad in an armour of Goblins’ pelts; three thousand four hundred men-at-arms; three thousand six hundred double canons and any number of siege-weapons; four score and fourteen thousand pioneers, and four hundred and fifty thousand strumpets as beautiful as goddesses…’

  –‘They’re for me!’ said Panurge –

  ‘… some of whom are Amazons; others hail from Lyons, Paris, Tours, Anjou, Poitiers, Normandy and Germany: from all lands and all tongues.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Pantagruel, ‘but is their king there?’

  ‘Yes, Sire,’ replied the prisoner. ‘He is there in person. His name is Anarch, King of the Dipsodes (which means the Thirsty Ones, for you have never seen such thirsty folk nor folk more given to drink). He has his tent guarded by the giants.’

  ‘Enough!’ said Pantagruel. ‘Up, boys. Are you sure you want to have a go at them with me?’

  Panurge replied:

  ‘God confound any man who abandons you. I have already thought out how I will make them as dead as porkers, leaving not a hough for the devil. There is one thing which worries me a little, though.’

  ‘And what is that?’ asked Pantagruel.

  ‘How I shall go about servicing all those strumpets after dinner,

  so that never a one

  Escapes a drumming once I have done.’

  Pantagruel laughed, ‘Ha, ha, ha!’

  And Carpalim said,

  ‘The divel of Biterno! By God, I’ll stuff one of them.’

  ‘And what about me?’ said Eusthenes. ‘I’ve not once had a good stiff on ever since we left Rouen; let the prick point at least to ten or eleven o’clock, especially since mine is as hard and strong as a hundred devils.’

  ‘Truly,’ said Panurge, ‘you will get the plumpest and most buxom ones of all!’

  ‘Hey!’ said Epistemon. ‘You’ll all be having a ride and I shall be left leading the donkey! The devil take anyone who tries that one on me. We shall enjoy the rights of war: He that is able to receive, let him receive.’97

  [‘No, no,’ said Panurge, ‘but tie your moke to the hook and enjoy a ride like everyone else.’]

  And that good giant Pantagruel laughed at everything; he then said to them:

  ‘But you are reckoning without mine host! I greatly fear I may see you in such a state before nightfall that you will have little desire for an erection and be ridden down with great blows from pike and lance.’

  ‘No, no!’ said Epistemon, ‘I shall deliver them to you all ready to roast, boil, fricassee or fold into pasties. They are not such a multitude as Xerxes led, for he had thirty thousand fighting men (if you trust Herodotus and Trogus Pompeius), yet Themistocles defeated them with his few. For God’s sake do not worry.’

  ‘Pooh!’ said Panurge, ‘pooh! My codpiece alone will dust off all the men, whilst Saint Besomhole who resides in it will mop up all the women.’

  ‘Up then, boys!’ said Pantagruel. ‘Let us begin our advance.’

  How Pantagruel erected a trophy in memory of their prowess, and Panurge another in memory of the leverets. And how Pantagruel engendered little men from his loud farts and little women from his quiet ones. And how Panurge shattered a thick stave over a couple of glasses

  CHAPTER 17

  [Becomes chapter 27.

  Erecting trophies was the practice of the victors of Antiquity and therefore much admired during the Renaissance. Here it merits mock-heroics and also a parody. In the next book, Gargantua, trophies built in the gratitude of men’s minds will be preferred to such as are built of stone.]

  ‘Before we quit this spot,’ said Pantagruel, ‘I would like to erect a fair trophy in memory of your recent prowess.’

  So every man, with great merriment and little rustic songs, set up a big pike-staff on which they hung a soldier’s saddle, a horse’s head-armour, caparisons, stirrups and spurs, a hauberk, a full set of steel armour, a battle-axe, a broad-sword, a gauntlet, a mace, gussets, greaves and a gorget, with all the array required for a triumphal arch or trophy. Then, in eternal memory, Pantagruel composed the following song of victory:

  ’Twas here that valiant fights were fought

  By four brave men, as good as gold,

  Through good sense not good armour wrought,

  As Fabius and both Scipios told.

  Six hundred sixty lice, now cold –

  All powerful rogues – were burnt like bark.

  Kings and dukes from now must hold

  ‘Tis wit not might lights glory’s spark.

  Each mother’s son

  Knows victory – won

  Not by man – lies

  Where God’s writs run,

  Whose will be done

  Sans compromise.

  Not to the stronger comes the prize.

  But to whose works from grace have sprung.

  For him do wealth and honour rise

  Who hopes in faith in Him alone.

  While Pantagruel was composing the above poem, Panurge hung the horns of the roe-buck on to a big stake together with its pelt and its front right foot, then the ears of three leverets, the spine of a rabbit, the chaps of a hare, [the wings of a brace of bitterns, the feet of four wood-pigeons,] a cruet of vinaigre, a horn in which they kept their salt, a wooden spit, a basting stick, a wretched cauldron full of holes, a pan for sauces, an earthenware salt-cellar and a Beauvais-ware goblet. And in imitation of the verses on Pantagruel’s trophy he composed the following lines:

  Here on their bums, great battles fought,

  Four gallant fellows, good as gold,

  In praise of Bacchus fun have sought,

  Quaffing like carps the wine out-doled.

  Saddles of hare and thighs untold

  Of master leverets left their mark.

  Scorpion-fish, salt, vinaigre old,

  Strain all their guts lest bellies bark.

  Seize wine, each son

  And drink for fun

  ’Neath blazing skies:

  Let the best run

  Out from the tun:

  Quaffed as a prize.

  But leveret’s flesh – ‘tis no surprise –

  Sans vinaigre is ne’er well done.

  Its soul-worth in vinaigre lies:

  Gainsay it not, then all are one.

  Then Pantagruel said,

  ‘Come on, boys. We have mused here too long about food: rarely do great feasters feature in feats of arms! There is no shade, but of a standard! No aroma, but of steeds! No clink, but of armour!’

  [At which Epistemon began to smile and said:

  ‘There is no shade, but of a kitchen! No aroma, but of past
ies! No clink but of goblets!’]

  To which Panurge replied:

  ‘There is no shade, but of bed-curtains! No aroma, but of bosoms! No clink, but of bollocks!’

  Then leaping to his feet with a jump, a fart and a whistle, he cried:

  ‘Pantagruel! Live for ever!’

  Seeing which, Pantagruel strove to do likewise, but at the loud fart which he let off [the earth quaked for nine leagues around, from which, and the polluted air,] were engendered fifty [-three] thousand tiny men, all dwarfish and deformed: and from a quiet one he engendered the same number of bent-over little women (such as you can see in many places) who grow only downwards like cows’ tails or round the middle like Limousin turnips.

  ‘Well now,’ said Panurge, ‘is your flatulence so fruitful! Here by God are some fine old male down-at-heels and some fine female farts. We must marry them together and they’ll beget gadflies.’

  Pantagruel did so, and called them pygmies. And he sent them off to live on a nearby island, where they have since greatly multiplied. But the cranes ceaselessly make war on them; against which they defend themselves courageously, for those wee bit men – dubbed Curry-comb Handles in Scotland – are frequently choleric, the physiological reason for which being that their hearts lie close to their shit.

  At that same time Panurge took up a couple of glasses which were there, both of the same size, and filled them to the brim with water. He placed one on one stool and the other on another, setting them five feet apart. He then took the pole of a javelin about five-and-a-half-foot long and placed it on top of the glasses in such a manner that the two ends of the pole just touched their rims. He then grasped a thick stake and said to Pantagruel and the others:

  ‘Gentlemen, think how easily we shall win victory over our foes. For, just as I shall break the pole placed over these glasses without breaking or shattering them and, what is more, without spilling one drop of water, so too shall we break the heads of those Dipsodes of ours, without any of us being injured and without any harm to our affairs. But,’ he said to Eusthenes, ‘to stop you from thinking that there is any enchantment, you take this stake and you strike the pole in the middle as hard as you can.’

  Eusthenes did so, breaking it cleanly in two without spilling one drop of water from those glasses.

  Then Panurge said, ‘I know plenty of others! Now let us go confidently on our way…’

  How Pantagruel most strangely won a victory over the Dipsodes and the giants

  CHAPTER 18

  [Becomes Chapter 28.

  The mock-heroic tale continues, echoing the style of the chivalrous romances and their wonders, with echoes too of ancient heroic deeds retold in the style of Lucian’s True History.

  There are lessons in warfare and justified strategic deceptions within the context of a faith which holds that God does not merely help those who help themselves.

  Editions after ‘37 omit:… I do not say to you like those black-beetle humbugs, Help yourself and God will help you, for, on the contrary, Help yourself and the devil will break your neck! What I say is.]

  After all that was said, Pantagruel summoned their prisoner and sent him back, saying:

  ‘Go off to your king in his camp; tell him news of what you have seen, and that he is to arrange a feast for me tomorrow towards midday! For as soon as my galleys arrive – tomorrow morning at the latest – I shall, by means of eighteen hundred thousand fighting-men and seven thousand giants, each one bigger than you see me to be, prove to him that he has acted insanely and irrationally in thus attacking my country.’

  By which Pantagruel feigned that he had a navy at sea.

  The prisoner, however, replied that he was his slave and would be happy never to return to his own people, preferring to fight at Pantagruel’s side against them; and that he should, by God, permit him to do so.

  To which Pantagruel would not give his consent, but ordered him to leave promptly as he had said. He then gave him a box full of euphorbia-resin and grains of daphne gnidium [pickled in brandy and reduced to a syrup], commanding him to bear it to his king and to tell him that if he could swallow one ounce of it without a drink he could withstand him without fear.

  The prisoner thereupon clasped his hands together and implored him to take pity on him in the hour of battle.

  Pantagruel replied,

  ‘Once you have reported [all] this to your king, I do not say to you like those black-beetle humbugs, Help yourself and God will help you, for on the contrary, Help yourself and the devil will break your neck! What I say is, Put all your hope in God and he will never forsake you. As for me, although I am powerful, as you can see, and have an infinite number of men under arms, my hope is not in my might nor in my exertions: all my trust is in God my Protector, who never forsakes them that have placed their hope and thoughts in him.’

  When he had finished, the prisoner [begged Pantagruel to come to a reasonable agreement where his ransom was concerned. Pantagruel replied that his aim was not to pillage or ransom men but to enrich them and to reform them in total freedom.

  ‘Go on your way,’ said Pantagruel, ‘in the peace of the living God, and never follow wicked companions lest evil befall you.’

  He] departed and Pantagruel said to his men:

  ‘I have given this prisoner to understand, lads, that we have a navy at sea and that we shall not make an attack before about midday tomorrow, with the intent that they, fearing a great arrival of men, may spend tonight putting things in order and raising defences; but meanwhile my intention is to attack them about the hour of the first watch.’

  But now let us leave Pantagruel and his apostles and tell of Anarch the king and his army.

  So when the prisoner arrived he betook himself to the king and told him how there had come a great giant called Pantagruel, who had discomfited and cruelly roasted every one of the six hundred and fifty-nine knights, he alone being spared to bring the news. Moreover that giant had charged him to say that the king should prepare to have him for dinner about midday on the morrow, since he had decided to invade him at that hour.

  He then handed the king the box containing the confection. But the very moment that he swallowed one spoonful of it he suffered such an inflammation of the throat with an ulceration of his uvula that his tongue peeled off. As a remedy he could find no alleviation except by drinking without a break, for as soon as he withdrew the goblet from his lips his tongue burnt him. They therefore did nothing but sluice wine [down his throat] through a funnel.

  Seeing which, his captains, pashas and the men of his guard themselves tasted the specific to test whether it really did provoke such thirst; but what happened to their king happened to them: they all began to swig wine by the flagonful, so much so that it was noised through the camp how the prisoner had returned, that the assault must come tomorrow, and that the king was already preparing for it by crooking the elbow, as were the captains and the guardsmen. So that every man jack in the army began to tope, tipple and swill as on Saint Martin’s Eve.

  In short they drank so much that they lay scattered over the camp in a swinish sleep.

  And now let us return to our good giant Pantagruel and tell how he comported himself in this matter.

  On leaving the site of the trophy, he took their ship’s mast in his hand as though it were a pilgrim’s staff and stowed in its crow’s nest the two hundred and thirty-seven casks of white Angevine wine left over from Rouen, and strapped to his belt the salt-boat crammed with salt as easily as the lansquenets’ women bear their little baskets. And thus did he set out on his way with his companions. And when they approached the enemy camp Panurge said to him,

  ‘My Lord, would you like to do a good deed? Send us down that white Angevine wine from the crow’s nest and let us drink it, German-fashion.’98

  Pantagruel readily condescended to do so, and they drank so thoroughly that not one single drop from those two hundred and thirty-seven casks was left, except for a bottle made of Touraine leather which
Panurge filled for himself – he called it his vade mecum – and some wretched dregs to make vinaigre.

  After they had taken a good tug at the bottle, Panurge gave Pantagruel some fiendish pills compounded of round pastilles of alkegengi resin, Spanish fly and other diuretic specifics.99

  That done, Pantagruel said to Carpalim:

  ‘Go to the city and, as you do so well, scramble up the wall like a rat and tell those inside that they are to make a sortie at that very hour and fall upon the enemy as violently as they can. That said, scramble down again, taking a flaming torch with you with which to set fire to all the tents and pavilions in their camp. Then you will raise a great shout with that mighty voice of yours, which is more frightening than that of Stentor when heard above all the din of the Trojans’ battle, and then leave the said camp.100

  ‘Agreed,’ said Carpalim. ‘But would it not be good for me to spike all their guns?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Pantagruel, ‘but do set fire to all their powder.’

  In obedience Carpalim departed at once and did as Pantagruel decreed. So all the fighting-men on guard in the city came out. And when he had set fire to all the tents and pavilions, he glided lightly over those inside without their noticing anything, so deeply did they sleep and snore. He reached the emplacements of their artillery and set their munitions ablaze. But – O! the pity of it!101 – the fire took so quickly that it nearly engulfed the wretched Carpalim. Were it not for his wonderful speed and celerity he would have been fricasseed [like a pig].

  But he sped away so quickly that no bolt from a cross-bow flies more fast. And once he had cleared their trenches he gave such a terrifying yell that it seemed that all the devils were unleashed. That din did awaken the enemy, but can you guess how? They were as heavy as that first bell of mattins which the men of Luçon call Scratch-your-balls!

  In the meantime Pantagruel began to sow the salt he had in his tub, and because the enemy were sleeping with their jaws gaping wide, he so filled up their gullets that those poor wretches began barking like foxes, crying, ‘Ha! Pantagruel! Pantagruel!102 You are stoking up our fires! Suddenly Pantagruel wanted to do a pee on account of the drugs which Panurge had given him; and so well and copiously did he piss over their camp that he drowned them all, producing a Flood of their own for ten miles around. And the tale tells us that if his father’s mule had been there too and had staled as copiously there would have been a flood more enormous than that of Deucalion, for she never staled without producing a river greater than the Rhône [and the Danube].