Gargantua and Pantagruel
Scelerata, formerly situated at the foot of the Capitol, between the
Tarpeian rock and the Tiber, marched out against the Veientes of Etruria
three hundred and six men bearing arms, all related to each other, with
five thousand other soldiers, every one of them their vassals, who were all
slain near the river Cremera, that comes out of the lake of Beccano. Now
from this same country of Ennasin, in case of need, above three hundred
thousand, all relations and of one family, might march out. Their degrees
of consanguinity and alliance are very strange; for being thus akin and
allied to one another, we found that none was either father or mother,
brother or sister, uncle or aunt, nephew or niece, son-in-law or
daughter-in-law, godfather or godmother, to the other; unless, truly, a tall
flat-nosed old fellow, who, as I perceived, called a little shitten-arsed
girl of three or four years old, father, and the child called him daughter.
Their distinction of degrees of kindred was thus: a man used to call a
woman, my lean bit; the woman called him, my porpoise. Those, said Friar
John, must needs stink damnably of fish when they have rubbed their bacon
one with the other. One, smiling on a young buxom baggage, said, Good
morrow, dear currycomb. She, to return him his civility, said, The like to
you, my steed. Ha! ha! ha! said Panurge, that is pretty well, in faith;
for indeed it stands her in good stead to currycomb this steed. Another
greeted his buttock with a Farewell, my case. She replied, Adieu, trial.
By St. Winifred’s placket, cried Gymnast, this case has been often tried.
Another asked a she-friend of his, How is it, hatchet? She answered him,
At your service, dear helve. Odds belly, saith Carpalin, this helve and
this hatchet are well matched. As we went on, I saw one who, calling his
she-relation, styled her my crumb, and she called him, my crust.
Quoth one to a brisk, plump, juicy female, I am glad to see you, dear tap.
So am I to find you so merry, sweet spiggot, replied she. One called a
wench, his shovel; she called him, her peal: one named his, my slipper;
and she, my foot: another, my boot; she, my shasoon.
In the same degree of kindred, one called his, my butter; she called him,
my eggs; and they were akin just like a dish of buttered eggs. I heard one
call his, my tripe, and she him, my faggot. Now I could not, for the
heart’s blood of me, pick out or discover what parentage, alliance,
affinity, or consanguinity was between them, with reference to our custom;
only they told us that she was faggot’s tripe. (Tripe de fagot means the
smallest sticks in a faggot.) Another, complimenting his convenient, said,
Yours, my shell; she replied, I was yours before, sweet oyster. I reckon,
said Carpalin, she hath gutted his oyster. Another long-shanked ugly
rogue, mounted on a pair of high-heeled wooden slippers, meeting a
strapping, fusty, squabbed dowdy, says he to her, How is’t my top? She was
short upon him, and arrogantly replied, Never the better for you, my whip.
By St. Antony’s hog, said Xenomanes, I believe so; for how can this whip be
sufficient to lash this top?
A college professor, well provided with cod, and powdered and prinked up,
having a while discoursed with a great lady, taking his leave with these
words, Thank you, sweetmeat; she cried, There needs no thanks, sour-sauce.
Saith Pantagruel, This is not altogether incongruous, for sweet meat must
have sour sauce. A wooden loggerhead said to a young wench, It is long
since I saw you, bag; All the better, cried she, pipe. Set them together,
said Panurge, then blow in their arses, it will be a bagpipe. We saw,
after that, a diminutive humpbacked gallant, pretty near us, taking leave
of a she-relation of his, thus: Fare thee well, friend hole; she
reparteed, Save thee, friend peg. Quoth Friar John, What could they say
more, were he all peg and she all hole? But now would I give something to
know if every cranny of the hole can be stopped up with that same peg.
A bawdy bachelor, talking with an old trout, was saying, Remember, rusty
gun. I will not fail, said she, scourer. Do you reckon these two to be
akin? said Pantagruel to the mayor. I rather take them to be foes. In our
country a woman would take this as a mortal affront. Good people of
t’other world, replied the mayor, you have few such and so near relations
as this gun and scourer are to one another; for they both come out of one
shop. What, was the shop their mother? quoth Panurge. What mother, said
the mayor, does the man mean? That must be some of your world’s affinity;
we have here neither father nor mother. Your little paltry fellows that
live on t’other side the water, poor rogues, booted with wisps of hay, may
indeed have such; but we scorn it. The good Pantagruel stood gazing and
listening; but at those words he had like to have lost all patience. (Here
Motteux adds an aside--‘os kai nun o Ermeneutes. P.M.’).
Having very exactly viewed the situation of the island and the way of
living of the Enassed nation, we went to take a cup of the creature at a
tavern, where there happened to be a wedding after the manner of the
country. Bating that shocking custom, there was special good cheer.
While we were there, a pleasant match was struck up betwixt a female called
Pear (a tight thing, as we thought, but by some, who knew better things,
said to be quaggy and flabby), and a young soft male, called Cheese,
somewhat sandy. (Many such matches have been, and they were formerly much
commended.) In our country we say, Il ne fut onques tel mariage, qu’est de
la poire et du fromage; there is no match like that made between the pear
and the cheese; and in many other places good store of such bargains have
been driven. Besides, when the women are at their last prayers, it is to
this day a noted saying, that after cheese comes nothing.
In another room I saw them marrying an old greasy boot to a young pliable
buskin. Pantagruel was told that young buskin took old boot to have and to
hold because she was of special leather, in good case, and waxed, seared,
liquored, and greased to the purpose, even though it had been for the
fisherman that went to bed with his boots on. In another room below, I saw
a young brogue taking a young slipper for better for worse; which, they
told us, was neither for the sake of her piety, parts, or person, but for
the fourth comprehensive p, portion; the spankers, spur-royals,
rose-nobles, and other coriander seed with which she was quilted all over.
Chapter 4.X.
How Pantagruel went ashore at the island of Chely, where he saw King St.
Panigon.
We sailed right before the wind, which we had at west, leaving those odd
alliancers with their ace-of-clubs snouts, and having taken height by the
sun, stood in for Chely, a large, fruitful, wealthy, and well-peopled
island. King St. Panigon, first of the name, reigned there, and, attended
by the princes his sons and the nobles of his court, came as far as the
port to receive Pantagruel, and conducted him to his palace; near the gate
of which the queen, attended by the princesses her daughters and the court
ladies, received us. Panigon directed her and all her retinue to salute
Pantagruel and his men with a kiss; for such was the civil custom of the
country; and they were all fairly bussed accordingly, except Friar John,
who stepped aside and sneaked off among the king’s officers. Panigon used
all the entreaties imaginable to persuade Pantagruel to tarry there that
day and the next; but he would needs be gone, and excused himself upon the
opportunity of wind and weather, which, being oftener desired than enjoyed,
ought not to be neglected when it comes. Panigon, having heard these
reasons, let us go, but first made us take off some five-and-twenty or
thirty bumpers each.
Pantagruel, returning to the port, missed Friar John, and asked why he was
not with the rest of the company. Panurge could not tell how to excuse
him, and would have gone back to the palace to call him, when Friar John
overtook them, and merrily cried, Long live the noble Panigon! As I love
my belly, he minds good eating, and keeps a noble house and a dainty
kitchen. I have been there, boys. Everything goes about by dozens. I was
in good hopes to have stuffed my puddings there like a monk. What! always
in a kitchen, friend? said Pantagruel. By the belly of St. Cramcapon,
quoth the friar, I understand the customs and ceremonies which are used
there much better than all the formal stuff, antique postures, and
nonsensical fiddle-faddle that must be used with those women, magni magna,
shittencumshita, cringes, grimaces, scrapes, bows, and congees; double
honours this way, triple salutes that way, the embrace, the grasp, the
squeeze, the hug, the leer, the smack, baso las manos de vostra merce, de
vostra maesta. You are most tarabin, tarabas, Stront; that’s downright
Dutch. Why all this ado? I don’t say but a man might be for a bit by the
bye and away, to be doing as well as his neighbours; but this little nasty
cringing and courtesying made me as mad as any March devil. You talk of
kissing ladies; by the worthy and sacred frock I wear, I seldom venture
upon it, lest I be served as was the Lord of Guyercharois. What was it?
said Pantagruel; I know him. He is one of the best friends I have.
He was invited to a sumptuous feast, said Friar John, by a relation and
neighbour of his, together with all the gentlemen and ladies in the
neighbourhood. Now some of the latter expecting his coming, dressed the
pages in women’s clothes, and finified them like any babies; then ordered
them to meet my lord at his coming near the drawbridge. So the
complimenting monsieur came, and there kissed the petticoated lads with
great formality. At last the ladies, who minded passages in the gallery,
burst out with laughing, and made signs to the pages to take off their
dress; which the good lord having observed, the devil a bit he durst make
up to the true ladies to kiss them, but said, that since they had disguised
the pages, by his great grandfather’s helmet, these were certainly the very
footmen and grooms still more cunningly disguised. Odds fish, da jurandi,
why do not we rather remove our humanities into some good warm kitchen of
God, that noble laboratory, and there admire the turning of the spits, the
harmonious rattling of the jacks and fenders, criticise on the position of
the lard, the temperature of the pottages, the preparation for the dessert,
and the order of the wine service? Beati immaculati in via. Matter of
breviary, my masters.
Chapter 4.XI.
Why monks love to be in kitchens.
This, said Epistemon, is spoke like a true monk; I mean like a right
monking monk, not a bemonked monastical monkling. Truly you put me in mind
of some passages that happened at Florence, some twenty years ago, in a
company of studious travellers, fond of visiting the learned, and seeing
the antiquities of Italy, among whom I was. As we viewed the situation and
beauty of Florence, the structure of the dome, the magnificence of the
churches and palaces, we strove to outdo one another in giving them their
due; when a certain monk of Amiens, Bernard Lardon by name, quite angry,
scandalized, and out of all patience, told us, I don’t know what the devil
you can find in this same town, that is so much cried up; for my part I
have looked and pored and stared as well as the best of you; I think my
eyesight is as clear as another body’s, and what can one see after all?
There are fine houses, indeed and that’s all. But the cage does not feed
the birds. God and Monsieur St. Bernard, our good patron, be with us! in
all this same town I have not seen one poor lane of roasting cooks; and yet