A History of the French Novel, Vol. 1

by George Saintsbury

  CHAPTER VI

  RABELAIS

  [Sidenote: The anonymity, or at least impersonality, of authorship up tothis point.]

  Although--as it is hoped the foregoing chapters may have shown--theamount of energy and of talent, thrown into the department of Frenchfiction, had from almost the earliest times been remarkably great;although French, if not France, had been the mother of almost allliteratures in things fictitious, it can hardly be said that any writerof undeniable genius, entitling him to the first class in the Art ofLetters, had shown himself therein. A hundred _chansons de geste_ and asmany romances _d'aventures_ had displayed dispersed talent of a veryhigh kind, and in the best of them, as the present writer has tried topoint out, a very "extensive assortment" of the various attractions ofthe novel had from time to time made its appearance. But this again hadbeen done "dispersedly," as the Shakespearean stage-direction has it.The story is sometimes well told, but the telling is constantlyinterrupted; the great art of novel-conversation is, as yet, almostunborn; the descriptions, though sometimes very striking, as in the caseof those given from _Partenopeus_--the fatal revelation of Melior'scharms and the galloping of the maddened palfrey along the seashore,with the dark monster-haunted wood behind and the bright moonlit sea andgalley in front--are more often stock and lifeless; while, above all,the characters are rarely more than sketched, if even that. The oneexception--the great Arthurian history, as liberated from itsGraal-legend swaddling clothes, and its kite-and-crow battles withSaxons and rival knights, but retaining the mystical motive of theGraal-search itself and the adventures of Lancelot and other knights;combining all this into a single story, and storing it with incident fora time, and bringing it to a full and final tragic close by the loves ofLancelot himself and Guinevere--this great achievement, it has beenfrankly confessed, is so much muddled and distracted with episode whichbecomes positive digression, that some have even dismissed itspretensions to be a whole. Even those who reject this dismissal are notat one as to any single author of the conception, still less of theexecution. The present writer has stated his humble, but ever more andmore firm conviction that Chrestien did not do it and could not havedone it; others of more note, perhaps of closer acquaintance with MS.sources, but also perhaps not uniting knowledge of the subject with moreexperience in general literary criticism and in special study of theNovel, will not allow Mapes to have done it.

  The _Roman de la Rose_, beautiful as is its earlier part and ingeniousas is (sometimes) its later, is, as a _story_, of the thinnest kind. The_Roman de Renart_ is a vast collection of small stories of a specialclass, and the _Fabliaux_ are almost a vaster collection (if you do notexclude the "waterings out" of _Renart_) of kinds more general. There isabundance of amusement and some charm; but nowhere are we much beyondvery simple forms of fiction itself. None of the writers of _nouvelles_,except Antoine de la Salle, can be said to be a known personality.

  [Sidenote: Rabelais unquestionably the first very great known writer.]

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

  [Sidenote: But the first great novelist?]

  It may almost be said that his very excellence in this way has "stood inits own light." The readableness of Rabelais is extraordinary. Thepresent writer, after for years making of him almost an Addisonaccording to Johnson's prescription, fell, by mere accident andoccupation with other matters, into a way of _not_ reading him, exceptfor purposes of mere literary reference, during a long time. On threedifferent occasions more recently, one ten or a dozen years ago, one sixor seven, and the third for the purposes of this very book, he puthimself again under the Master, and read him right through. It isdifficult to imagine a severer test, and I am bound to confess (though Iam not bound to specify) that in some, though not many, instances I havefound famous and once favourite classics fail to stand it. Not so MasterFrancis. I do not think that I ever read him with greater interest thanat this last time. Indeed I doubt whether I have ever felt the_catholicon_--the pervading virtue of his book--quite so strongly as Ihave in the days preceding that on which I write these words.

  [Sidenote: Some objections considered.]

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

  Laying it down, then, as a point of fact that Rabelais _has_ thiscurious "holding" quality, whence does he get it? As everybody ought toknow, many good people, admitting the fact, have, as he would himselfhave said, gone about with lanterns to seek for out-of-the-way reasonsand qualities; while some people, not so good, but also accepting thefact in a way, have grasped at the above-mentioned indecency itself foran explanation. This trick requires little effort to kick it into itsnative gutter. The greater proportion of the "_Indexable_" part ofRabelais is mere nastiness, which is only attractive to a very smallminority of persons at any age, while to expert readers it is but atime-deodorised dunghill by the roadside, not beautiful, but negligible.Of the other part of this kind--the "naughty" part which is not nastyand may be somewhat nice--there is, when you come to consider itdispassionately, not really so very much, and it is seldom used in aseductive fashion. It may tickle, but it does not excite; may createlaughter, but never passion or even desire. Therefore it cannot be thiswhich "holds" any reader but a mere novice or a glutton for garbage.

  Less easily dismissible, but, it will seem, not less inadequate is thealleged "key"-interest of the book. Of course there are some people, andmore than a person who wishes to think nobly of humanity might desire tofind, who seem never to be tired of identifying Grandgousier, Gargantua,and Pantagruel himself with French kings to whom they bear not theslightest resemblance; of obliging us English by supposing us to be theMacreons (who seem to have been very respectable people, but who inhabitan island singularly unlike England in or anywhere near the time ofRabelais), and so on. But to a much larger number of persons--and onedares say to all true Pantagruelists--these interpretations are eitherthings that the Master himself would have delighted to satirise, andwould have satirised unsurpassably, or, at best, mere superfluities andsupererogations. At any rate there is no possibility of finding in themthe magic spell--the "Fastrada's ring," which binds youth and age aliketo the unique "Alcofribas Nasier."

  One must, it is supposed, increase the dose of respect (thoughsome people, in some cases, find it hard) when considering a furtherquality or property--the Riddle-attraction of Rabelais. Thisriddle-attraction--or attractions, for it might be better spoken
of in avery large plural--is of course quite undeniable in itself. There are asmany second intentions in the ordinary sense, apparently obvious in_Gargantua_ and _Pantagruel_, as there can have been in the scholasticamong the dietary of La Quinte, or of any possible Chimaera buzzing atgreatest intensity in the extremest vacuum. On the other hand, some ofus are haunted by the consideration, "Was there ever any human beingmore likely than Francois Rabelais to echo (with the slightest change)the words ascribed to Divinity in that famous piece which is taken, ongood external and ultra-internal evidence, to be Swift's?

  _I_ to such block-heads set my wit! _I_ [_pose_] such fools! Go, go--you're bit."

  And there is not wanting, amongst us sceptics, a further section who arequite certain that a not inconsiderable proportion of the book is notallegory at all, but sheer "bamming," while others again would transferthe hackneyed death-bed saying from author to book, and say that thewhole Chronicle is "a great perhaps."

  [Sidenote: And dismissed as affecting the general attraction of thebook.]

  These things--or at least elaborate discussions of them--lie somewhat,though not so far as may at first seem, outside our proper business. Itmust, however, once more be evident, from the facts and very nature ofthe case, that the puzzles, the riddles, the allegories cannotconstitute the main and, so to speak, "universal" part of the attractionof the book. They may be a seasoning to some, a solid cut-and-come-againto others, but certainly not to the majority. Even in _Gulliver_--theGreat Book's almost, perhaps quite, as great descendant--theseattractions, though more universal in appeal and less evasivelypresented, certainly do not hold any such position. The fact is thatboth Rabelais and Swift were consummate tellers of a story, and(especially if you take the _Polite Conversation_ into Swift's claim)consummate originators of the Novel or larger story, with more than"incidental" attraction itself. But we are not now busied with Swift.

  [Sidenote: Which lies, largely if not wholly, in its story-interest.]

  Not much serious objection will probably be taken to the place allottedto Master Francis as a tale-teller pure and simple, although it cannotbe said that all his innumerable critics and commentators have laidsufficient stress on this. From the uncomfortable birth of Gargantua tothe triumphant recessional scene from the Oracle of the Bottle, proofsare to be found in every book, every chapter almost, and indeed almostevery page; and a little more detail may be given on this head later.But the presentation of Rabelais as a novelist-before-novels may causemore demur, and even suggest the presence of the now hopelesslydiscredited thing--paradox itself. Of course, if anybody requiresregular plot as a necessary constituent, only paradox could contend forthat. It _has_ been contended--and rightly enough--that in the generalscheme and the two (or if you take in Grandgousier, three) generationsof histories of the good giants, Rabelais is doing nothing more thanparody--is, indeed, doing little more than simply follow the traditionsof Romance--Amiles and Jourdains, Guy and Rembrun, and many others. Butsome of us regard plot as at best a full-dress garment, at the absenceof which the good-natured God or Muse of fiction is quite willing towink. Character, if seldom elaborately presented, except in the case ofPanurge, is showered, in scraps and sketches, all over the book, anddescription and dialogue abound.

  [Sidenote: Contrast of the _Moyen de Parvenir_.]

  But it is not on such beggarly special pleading as this that the claimshall be founded. It must rest on the unceasing, or practicallyunceasing, impetus of story-interest which carries the reader through. Aremarkably useful contrast-parallel in this respect, may be found inthat strange book, the _Moyen de Parvenir_. I am of those who think thatit had something to do with Rabelais, that there is some of his stuff init, even that he may have actually planned something like it. But the"make-up" is not more inferior in merit to that of _Gargantua_ and_Pantagruel_ than it is different in kind. The _Moyen de Parvenir_ isfull of separate stories of the _fabliau_ kind, often amusing and welltold, though exceedingly gross as a rule. These stories are "set" in aframework of promiscuous conversation, in which a large number of greatreal persons, ancient and modern, and a smaller one of inventedcharacters, or rather names, take part. Most of this, though not quiteall, is mere _fatrasie_, if not even mere jargon: and though there areglimmerings of something more than sense, they are, with evidentdeliberation, enveloped in clouds of nonsense. The thing is not a wholeat all, and the stories have as little to do with each other or with anygeneral drift as if they were professedly--what they are practically--abundle of _fabliaux_ or _nouvelles_. As always happens in suchcases--and as the author, whether he was Beroalde or another, whether ornot he worked on a canvas greater than he could fill, or tried to patchtogether things too good for him, no doubt intended--attempts have beenmade to interpret the puzzle here also; but they are quite obviouslyvain.

  [Sidenote: A general theme possible.]

  [Sidenote: A reference--to be taken up later--to the last Book.]

  Such a sentence, however, cannot be pronounced in any such degree ormeasure on the similar attempts in the case of _Gargantua_ and_Pantagruel_; for a reason which some readers may find unexpected. Theunbroken vigour--unbroken even by the obstacles which it throws in itsown way, like the Catalogue of the Library of Saint-Victor and theburlesque lists of adjectives, etc., which fill up whole chapters--withwhich the story or string of stories is carried on, may naturallysuggest that there _is_ a story or at least a theme. It is a sort ofquaint alteration or catachresis of _Possunt quia posse videntur_. Theremust be a general theme, because the writer is so obviously able tohandle any theme he chooses. It may be wiser--it certainly seems so tothe present writer--to disbelieve in anything but occasionalsallies--episodes, as it were, or even digressions--of political,religious, moral, social and other satire. It is, on the other hand, amost important thing to admit the undoubted presence--now and then, andnot unfrequently--of a deliberate dropping of the satiric and burlesquemask. This supplies the presentation of the serious, kindly, and humanpersonality of the three princes (Grandgousier, Gargantua, andPantagruel); this the schemes of education (giving so large a proportionof the small bulk of _not_-nonsense written on that matter). Above all,this permits, to one taste at least, the exquisite last Book,presentation of La Quinte and the fresh roses in her hand, theoriginality of which, not only in the whole book in one sense, but inthe particular Book in the other, is, to that taste, and suchargumentative powers as accompany it, an almost absolute proof of thatBook's genuineness. For if it had been by another who, _un_likeRabelais, had a special tendency towards such graceful imagination, hecould hardly have refrained from showing this elsewhere in this longbook.[90]

  [Sidenote: Running survey of the whole.]

  But however this may be, it is certain that a critical reader,especially when he has reason to be startled by the external, if notactually extrinsic, oddities of and excesses of the book, will bejustified in allowing--it may almost be said that he is likely toallow--the extraordinary volume of concatenated fictitious interest inthe whole book or books. The usual and obvious "catenations" are indeedalmost ostentatiously wanting. The absence of any real plot has beensufficiently commented on, with the temptations conferred by it tosubstitute a fancied unity of purpose. The birth, and what we may callthe two educations, of Gargantua; the repetition, with sufficientdifferences, of the same plan in the opening of _Pantagruel_; theappearance of Panurge and the campaign against the Dipsodes; the greatmarriage debate; and the voyage to the Oracle of the Bottle, areconnected merely in "chronicle" fashion. The character-links are hardlystronger, for though Friar John does play a more or less important partfrom almost the beginning to quite the end, Panurge, the most importantand remarkable single figure, does not appear for a considerable time,and the rest are shadows. The scene is only in one or two chaptersnominally placed in Nowhere; but as a whole it is Nowhere Else, orrather a bewildering mixture of topical assignments in a very small partof France, and allegorical or fantastic descriptions of a multitude ofUtopias. And yet, once more, it _is_ a
whole story. As you read it youalmost forget what lies behind, you quite forget the breaches ofcontinuity, and press on to what is before, almost as eagerly, if notquite in the same fashion, as if the incidents and the figures were notless exciting than those of _Vingt Ans Apres_. Let us hope it may not beexcessive to expend a few pages on a sketch of this strange story thatis no story, with, it may be, some fragments of translation orparaphrase (for, as even his greatest translator, Urquhart, found, acertain amount of his own _Fay ce que voudras_ is necessary withRabelais) here and there.

  [Sidenote: _Gargantua._]

  Master Francis does not exactly plunge into the middle of things; but hespends comparatively little time on the preliminaries of the ironicalPrologue to the "very illustrious drinkers," on the traditionallynecessary but equally ironical genealogy of the hero, on the elaborateverse _amphigouri_ of the _Fanfreluches Antidotees_, and on the mockscientific discussion of extraordinarily prolonged periods of pregnancy.Without these, however, he will not come to the stupendous banquet oftripe (properly washed down, and followed by pleasant revel on the"echoing green") which determined the advent of Gargantua into theworld, which enabled Grandgousier, more fortunate than his son on afuture occasion, to display his amiability as a husband and a fatherunchecked by any great sorrow, and which was, as it were, crowned andsealed by that son's first utterance--no miserable and ordinary infant'swail, but the stentorian barytone "_A boire!_" which rings through thebook till it passes in the sharper, but not less delectable treble of"_Trinq!_" And then comes a brief piece, not narrative, but ascharacteristic perhaps of what we may call the ironical _moral_ of thenarrative as any--a grave remonstrance with those who will not believein _ceste estrange nativite_.

  [Sidenote: The birth and education.]

  I doubt me ye believe not this strange birth assuredly. If ye disbelieve, I care not; but a respectable man--a man of good sense--_always_ believes what people tell him and what he finds written. Does not Solomon say (Prov. xiv.), "The innocent [simple] believeth every word" etc.? And St. Paul (1 Cor. xiii.), "Charity believeth all things"? Why should you _not_ believe it? "Because," says you, "there is no probability[91] in it." I tell you that for this very and only reason you ought to believe with a perfect faith. For the Sorbonists say that faith is the evidence of things of no probability.[92] Is it against our law or our faith? against reason? against the Sacred Scriptures?[93] For my part I can find nothing written in the Holy Bible which is contrary thereto. But if the Will of God had been so, would you say that He could not have done it? Oh for grace' sake do not make a mess of your wits in such vain thoughts. For I tell you that nothing is impossible with God.

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

  This is, of course, the kind of passage which has been brought againstRabelais, as similar ones have been brought against Swift, to justifycharges of impiety. But, again, it is not necessary to bother(_tabuster_) about that. Any one who cannot see that it is the foolishuse of reverend things and not the things themselves that the satirehits, is hardly worth argument. But there is no doubt that this sort ofmortar, framework, menstruum, canvas, or whatever way it may be bestmetaphored, helps the apparent continuity of the work marvellously,leaving, as it were, no rough edges or ill-mended joints. It is, to usean admirable phrase of Mr. Balfour's about a greater matter, "thelogical glue which holds together and makes intelligible themultiplicity" of the narrative units, or perhaps instead of"intelligible" one should here say "appreciable."

  Sometimes the "glue" of ironic comment rather saturates these units ofnarrative than surrounds or interjoins them, and this is the case withwhat follows. The infantine peculiarities of Gargantua; his dress andthe mystery of its blue and white colours (the blue of heaven and thewhite of the joy of earth); how his governesses and he played together;what smart answers he made; how he became early both a poet and anexperimental philosopher--all this is recounted with a marvellousmixture of wisdom and burlesque, though sometimes, no doubt, with rathertoo much of _haut gout_ seasoning. Then comes the, in Renaissance books,inevitable "Education" section, and it has been already noted brieflyhow different this is from most of its group (the corresponding part of_Euphues_ may be suggested for comparison). Even Rabelais does notescape the main danger--he neglects a little to listen to the wisestvoice, "Can't you let him alone?" But the contrasts in the case ofGargantua, the general tenor (that good prince profiting by his ownexperience for his son's benefit) in that of Pantagruel, are not too"improving," and are made by their historian's "own sauce" exceedinglypiquant. Much as has been written on the subject, it is not easy to bequite certain how far the "Old" Learning was fairly treated by the"New." Rabelais and Erasmus and the authors of the _Epistolae ObscurorumVirorum_ are such a tremendous overmatch for any one on the other side,that the most judicial as well as judicious of critics must be ratherpuzzled as to the real merits of the case. But luckily there is no needto decide. Enjoyment, not decision, is the point, and there is nodifficulty in _that_. How Gargantua was transferred from the learned butsomewhat, as the vulgar would say, "stick-in-the-mud" tutorship ofMaster Thubal Holofernes, who spent eighteen years in reading _De ModisSignificandi_ with his pupil, and Master Jobelin Bride, who has "becomea name"--not exactly of honour; how he was transferred to the lessantiquated guidance of Ponocrates, and set out for Paris on the famousdappled mare, whose exploits in field and town were so alarming, andwho had the bells of Notre Dame hung round her neck, till they werereplaced rather after than because of the remonstrance of Master Janotusde Bragmardo; how for a time, and under Sorbonic direction, he wastedthat time in short and useless study, with long intervals ofcard-playing, sleeping, etc. etc., and of course a great deal of eatingand drinking, "not as he ought and as he ought not"--all this leads upto the moment when the sage Ponocrates takes him again in hand, andinstitutes a strenuous drill in manners, studies, manly exercises, andthe like, ending with one of those extraordinary flashes of perfectstyle and noble meaning which it pleases Rabelais to emit from what somecall his "dunghill" and others his "marine-store."

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

  [Sidenote: The war.]

  It is only after this serious training that the first important divisionof what may be called the action begins--the "War of the Cakes," inwhich certain outrageous bakers, subjects of King Picrochole of Lerne,first refuse the custom of the good Grandgousier's shepherds, and thenviolently assault them, the incident being turned by the cholericmonarch into a _casus belli_ against the peaceful one. Invasion, theearly triumph of the aggressor, the triumphant appearance of theinvincible Friar John, and the complete turning of the tables by theadvent of Gargantua and his terrible mare, follow each other in rapidand brilliant telling, and perhaps no parts of the book are betterknown. The extraordinary felicity with which Rabelaisian irony--herekept in quieter but intenser activity than almost anywhere else--seizesand renders the common causes, excuses, manners, etc., of war can neverhave escaped competent readers; but it must have struck more persons oflate than perhaps at any former time. It would be impertinent toparticularise largely; but if the famous adaptation and amplification ofthe old Pyrrhus story in the counsel of Spadassin and Merdaille toPicrochole were printed in small type as the centre of a fathom-squaresheet, the whole margin could be more than filled with extracts, fromGerman books and newspapers, of advice to Kaiser Wilhelm II. Nor isthere anything, in literature touching history, where irony has bittenmore deeply and lastingly into Life and Time than the brief record ofPicrochole's latter days after his downfall.

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

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

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

  [Sidenote: The Counsel to Picrochole.]

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

  "The other part will meanwhile draw towards Aunis, Saintonge, Angoumois, and Gascony, as well as Perigord, Medoc, and Elanes. Without any resistance they will take towns, castles, and fortresses. At Bayonne, at St. Jean de Luz, and at Fontarabia you will seize all the ships, and coasting towards Galicia and Portugal, will plunder all the seaside places as far as Lisbon, where you will be reinforced with all the supplies necessary to a conqueror: _Corbleu!_ Spain will surrender, for they are all poltroons. You will pass the Straits of Seville,[94] and will there erect two columns more magnificent than those of Hercules for the perpetual memory of your name. And that Strait shall thenceforward be named the Sea of Picrochole.

  "When that sea has been passed, lo! comes Barbarossa[95] to surrender as your slave." "I," said Picrochole, "will extend mercy to him." "Very well," said they, "on condition that he is baptized. And then you will assault the kingdoms of Tunis, of Hippo,[96] of Argier, of Bona, of Corona--to cut it short, all Barbary. Going further,[97] you will keep in your hands Majorca, Minorca, Sardinia, Corsica, and the other islands of the Ligurian and Balearic sea. Coasting to the left[98] you will dominate all Narbonese Gaul, Provence, the Allobroges, Genoa, Florence, Lucca, and, begad! Rome. Poor master Pope is already dying for fear of you." "I will never kiss his slipper," said Picrochole.