Gargantua and Pantagruel
Aristophanes, he coined an enormous number of interminable words, droll
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 depict 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 bombastic and thin;
his few attempts at verse are heavy, lumbering, and obscure, altogether
lacking in harmony, and quite as bad as those of his friend, Jean Bouchet.
He had no gift of poetic 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
unity is almost entirely 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 concealing the
toil, 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 soften
their effect, and appease the storm--for these were not literary
alterations, but were imposed on him by prudence--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 amalgamating 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 patchwork,
this mosaic, 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 modifications. 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 shipwreck. 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 lengthier
way, and the former clause is found in its integrity along with the
additional one, of which it forms, as it were, the warp. It was by this
method of touching 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 meddled 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 cohesion, precision, and brilliancy. It was modelled and
remodelled, 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 satirize the romances of chivalry. The
romance in verse by Baudouin de Sebourc, printed in recent years, was a
parody 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’
witticisms; here and there we may discover how he has developed a
situation. While gathering his materials wherever he could find them, he
was nevertheless profoundly original.
On this point much research and investigation 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 the 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 justified. 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 testimony 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 fixed them finally by writing them down. Floating about vaguely 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 ballad 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 exigencies 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 permeated even than Montaigne,
were a mine of inspiration. The proof of it is everywhere. Pliny
especially was his encyclopaedia, 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 quotation. 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 fictitious 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 insipid. 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 laborious trifling and cold-blooded exaggerations but a satire 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,
condemned 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 would 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
plagiarist. 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 controversy, 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