The Giant breathed a rumbling sigh of relief at getting through so much hard work. "I start for home at daybreak," he said. "Let my staff and these brave men, worthy of laurels, follow me."
The distance between Roche-Clermaud and the Palace of his father was not so very great; so that, leaving at daybreak the next day, Gargantua, with his staff and a long line of the brave officers and soldiers who had done such good service, following, reached the Palace very leisurely by sundown. It was a joyful day when Father Grandgousier, who, since Gargantua had left, seated so grandly on his great Mare, had been all the time praying for his safety, was told by the sentinels at the gate that the Prince, with a large retinue, was coming near. The old man at once hastened, in high glee, as fast as his gouty feet could carry him, to the court-yard, so as to be ready to receive his son. The moment Gargantua rode in through the gateway, Grandgousier shouted out:—
"Ho! ho! ho! ho! So thou art there, my boy! Come quickly to thy Father's arms!" Even while he was saying these words he was whispering aside to Snapsauce, the Very Fattest of the three Very Fat Cooks:—
"Get up, thou rogue, within two hours, the finest supper that has ever gone down mortal throats since the days of my cousin King Ahasuerus! My boy has come back a conqueror!"
Gargantua had already leaped down from his Mare and had rushed towards his father. It was truly a meeting of Giants, which the little men around could only manage to see by craning their necks in the air. After embracing, Grandgousier and Gargantua passed up the broad stone stairs which led to the main hall. They had not long to wait upon the three Very Fat Cooks, who, by the way, had sent out messengers miles and miles along the road by which their young master was to come, and had known half a day before Father Grandgousier himself did, the very hour when the Prince would reach the Palace. Cunning Very Fat Cooks!—they had only to send up the finest supper that had ever been seen since the days of King Ahasuerus, which had been all ready to be served long before the King had even thought of ordering it.
Everybody was in good humor, none more so than the jovial old King himself. When the huge table was cleared of all its rich viands and its sparkling wines, and the guests were about leaving the hall, Grandgousier distributed to each of the deserving soldiers the ornaments on the sideboard, which, in the mass, weighed eight hundred thousand and fourteen golden besants worth in great antique vases, rich pots, basins, superb cups, goblets, candlesticks, comfit-boxes, and other such golden plate. In addition to this princely gift, Grandgousier caused to be counted out from the Royal Coffers, to each hero, twelve hundred thousand golden crowns; and, as a further mark of his special favor, he directed that to such as he named should be granted, in perpetuity for themselves and their heirs, if they should happen to have any, certain castles and neighboring lands.
To Master Ponocrates, he gave Roche-Clermaud.
To Gymnaste, Le Coudray.
To Eudemon, Montpensier.
And so on with the favorites.
"Ho! ho! my boy!" suddenly cried Father Grandgousier, tapping his big forehead with his mighty finger. "We have forgotten some one, and him our bravest, too!"
"Whom?"
"Why, our gallant Friar."
"Oh! as for Friar John, trust him to me, Father. I shall take care of him!"
"What wilt thou do, my boy?"
"What will I do? Why, I shall build for him a Monastery a hundred times more magnificent than those Convents at Bonnivet, Chambourg, and Chantilly, that are the boast of the world. Our Friar shall be the Abbot of Theleme and he will make a famous Abbot, too!"
And so Gargantua built for his friend Friar John a Monastery greater than the Convent at Bonnivet, and the Convent at Chambourg, and the Convent at Chantilly; for his had nine thousand, three hundred and thirty-two chambers. But its greatest beauty, after all, was a wonderful winding stairway, up which six men-at-arms might ride abreast, with their six lances at rest, to the very top of the Abbey.
CHAPTER XXII.
GRANDGOUSIER'S DEATH.—GARGANTUA'S MARRIAGE.—PANTAGRUEL IS BORN.
After the war of the Bunmakers, all the kings and princes and nobles, for hundreds of miles around, came to congratulate the two mighty Giants. It was a time of royal feasting, and the Palace smelt more strongly of old, rich, dead dinners and suppers than ever before. For a whole year, its walls rang with laughter and joyous shouts, and then the kings and princes, nobles and friends, took to horse and returned to their homes, leaving Grandgousier and Gargantua in peace, with the love of all their subjects and the respect of their neighbors, for many happy years, over which there was but one cloud, the death of the kind old Queen Gargamelle. During all these years, more than I can now tell, Grandgousier was, of course, getting old, and at last grew so weak that he was forced to take to his bed.
"Gargantua, my boy, thou art already getting on in years," the old man said one day, after a fit of weakness, when he felt that he could not long live. "Why dost thou not marry, my son?"
"To tell the truth, Father, I have never once thought of marrying. Thou hast been so good to me that thou hast driven all thoughts of women away from me. Yet, if thou sayest the word, then shall I seek a wife."
"Seek, then, my boy, the Princess Badebec, the beautiful daughter of my good friend, the King of the Amaurotes, in Utopia. Make her thy wife if thou lovest thy Father. And thy Father's blessing will be on thee forever!" The good old King had scarcely whispered the last word when he feebly placed his hand on the head of Gargantua, who was kneeling by the bed. Then he stretched out to his full giant-length, gave a deep sigh of content, and died.
Gargantua was then at an age which would, in our day, be looked upon as quite venerable. He was just five hundred and twenty-one years old on the day when he buried his Father. He mourned him two years to the very month, day, hour, and minute. At the end of the last year, he charged his Prime Minister with a solemn proposal of marriage to the charming Princess Badebec. None so lovely as the Princess Badebec had, up to that time, ever been seen outside of Utopia.
Gargantua was five hundred and twenty-three years old when his nuptials with the Princess were celebrated in great state, and he had just turned his five hundred and twenty-fifth year, when he had at once the great joy of hearing that he had a son, and the deep sorrow of losing his dear wife, the lovely Queen Badebec herself.
The babe first saw the light at a time when there was such a drought over the whole land that there had been no rain for three years, three weeks, four days, and thirteen hours. But to understand clearly the reason why the little fellow was christened Pantagruel, it should be said that, during the awful drought, the sun glared down so fiercely on the baked earth that all the country around became barren. Never had there been felt such heat as then. There was not to be found a tree on which a leaf or flower could be coaxed to grow; the grass was sickly and yellow; the rivers seemed to vie the one with the other in laying bare their sandy beds; the fountains ran dry; the poor fish, with no water to keep them alive, floundered gasping in the muddy sand, until they died; the birds, little and big, some giving the shrillest of despairing shrieks, others the most plaintive of dying twitterings, all dropped dead in mid-air for very want of dew; and wolves, foxes, stags, wild boars, deer, hares, rabbits, weasels, and such other beasts as were unfortunate enough to roam about the forests, were to be found stiff in the fields, by the side of streams long dried up, and of fountains which no longer ran, with their red and swollen throats and mouths gaping wide open.
But it was, after all, the poor men and women who were to be most pitied during all this awful time. They were to be found everywhere, with their tongues hanging out like those of hares which have run before the hounds for hours. The hot glare of the sun, and the horrible thirst, turned these poor people half-crazy. Some would throw themselves into wells, hoping to find water in their dark depths.
Others would creep under the bellies of such cows as were still living, declaring, with a sickly smile, they were going there to get into the shade. Of course everybody flocked to the churches; people always do in a time of great trouble. It was really pitiful to see the eager way the worshippers rushed to the font where the holy water was kept. But to think that in doing so they only wanted to dip their fingers reverently into the blessed water, and to cross themselves piously, would be far from the truth. What each worshipper went to the church for was only to see if he couldn't scoop all the holy water in the font into a pitcher he kept under his cloak, as a drink for himself and his family, who had squeezed in as near after him as they could. It was a fight every day between the priests and such selfish church-goers; but the priests always got the better in the fight, as was right, since the holy water was meant for the comfort of penitent sinners, who sought the Church for humble worship, not for the use of thirsty sinners, who only came there to quarrel and steal.
It was towards the close of this awful parching time, when the people were most thirsty, and the deepest wells were empty, and the brightest fountains had run dry, and all the birds of the air and all the forest beasts were dead, and there was a general cry everywhere of "We are dying of thirst! water! water!" that Gargantua's baby Pantagruel was born.
This was a very good name, for it was given on account of this dry time. Gargantua had, while in Paris, studied only a little Greek, while he had studied much Latin, under Master Ponocrates. He chose, therefore, from the Greek language one-half of the name for his son, viz.: Panta, which is the Greek for all, and the other half Gruel, which is an Arabian word, meaning thirsty. Therefore, baby Pantagruel was only another name for baby All-Thirsty; and he well deserved the name, since it was soon found that nobody could come near the young Prince without feeling thirsty.
It matters not how Pantagruel got his name. He was the same kind of baby that his father had been before him, and was pronounced by all to be a marvellous young Giant, indeed. The Wise Women took charge of him upon his birth, and after washing and dressing him, while gravely wagging their old gray heads, with their skinny fingers to their noses, muttered darkly, the one to the other:—
"Our young Prince is born all hairy like a bear! He will do wonderful things, and, if he lives, he will surely reach old age!"
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE STRANGE THINGS PANTAGRUEL DID AS A BABY.
Gargantua hardly knew whether he ought to cry because his beloved Queen Badebec was dead, or laugh because his son Pantagruel was alive.
"My good wife is dead, who was the most this and the most that, which ever was in the world," he would blubber at one time. "Ha! Badebec, my wife, I shall never see thee again! Thou hast left me, my pet, forever! Ah! my poor Pantagruel, thou hast lost thy good Mother, thy sweet nurse. Holos!"
The poor Giant burst into tears, which flowed down his cheeks as large as ostrich-eggs, and he cried like a cow. Then his humor would change, and he fell to laughing like a calf.
"Ho! ho! my little son, how pretty thou art, and how grateful I should be to God that he has given me such a son. Ho! ho! ho! how glad I am! Let us drink! Throw melancholy out of the window; bring here the best wines; rinse the glasses; lay the cloth; drive away the dogs; blow up that fire; light the candles; shut the door; skim the soup; call in the beggars, and give them what they want! I ought to be happy,—I am happy. Ho! ho! ho!"
Poor old Giant! He was very proud, but he was very wretched all the same.
It would be a wonderful thing to tell how quickly Pantagruel grew in body and in strength. All the old-world talk about "Hercules in his cradle killing the two serpents" was nothing to boast of, because his snakes happened to be both small and weak. But Pantagruel, in his cradle, did things much more astonishing. Just think of his needing, as a baby, at every meal, the milk of four thousand six hundred cows! When it became necessary to order a kettle for him in which to boil his milk it took all the braziers of Saumure, in Anjou; of Villedieu, in Normandy; of Bramart, in Lorraine, to make it. They used to give him soup in a great bell, which was long to be seen at Bruges, in Berry, near the Palace, with a hole in it. How did that hole ever get there? Why, in the easiest way possible! Baby Pantagruel's teeth were already so big, and sharp, and strong, that, in his eagerness to get at the broth, he made a quick snap at the metal and broke through it, as though it were as flimsy as an egg-shell.
Another morning, at daybreak, when one of the four thousand six hundred cows, which gave him his principal food, was brought in to give him his breakfast, Pantagruel burst the bands which bound his arms, and caught hold of that poor cow to eat her alive; and he would have, without doubt, eaten her all up if she hadn't bellowed as loudly as though a pack of wolves were just at that moment striking their teeth in her legs. At the poor cow's cries, everybody ran up and released her from the Giant baby's awful teeth. Such an offence as trying to eat alive an innocent cow, which had done her best, among her four thousand five hundred and ninety-nine companions, to give him milk, could not pass unnoticed. Gargantua, although, away down in his own heart, he was proud of his little son's strength, grew very much afraid that, in some of his antics, he might hurt himself. He at once ordered Pantagruel to be bound to the cradle with great cables, and directed that, on no account, he should be allowed to get free from them. Here, then, was our poor Pantagruel in a bad fix! Baby as he was, he often felt very wretched; but never more wretched than when a great, shaggy bear, which was a special pet of his father, made it a point of politeness to drop in every day and, with his dirty tongue, to lick his face, which, on the other hand, the Wise Women made a point never to touch. That bear came once too often. Pantagruel, being in a bad humor one particular day, and feeling the rough, furred tongue licking all over and over his face, gave one tremendous jerk, and broke his chains as easily as Samson had broken those of the Philistines. Then he stretched out his hairy hands, and caught Master Bear, and tore him into pieces with as much ease as he might have done a chicken.
This new exploit made Gargantua still prouder of his son; but it was high time that something should be done with him. So he ordered to be made four great iron chains to hold him fast. One day a feast was given by King Gargantua in honor of the princes and nobles of his Court. It is pretty clear that all the great people, not to speak of the servants, had their time so well taken with the feast, that nobody ever thought it his business to bother himself about the little Prince, away upstairs in the nursery. If Pantagruel hated any one thing above another, that one thing was to be left by himself. What made it all the worse this time was that there he was in his cradle, closely chained, and obliged to listen to the gay sounds that swelled up, every now and then, from the dining-room. The poor child felt lonely. He tried to burst the chains which bound his arms to his cradle; but that he couldn't do, because they had been forged too strong and stout by the Royal Blacksmith. Then he began such a stamping with his feet that he broke the foot-board of his cradle, which was made of a great beam seven feet square. The moment he had succeeded in getting his feet quite out of the broken end, he slid forward as far as the chains would let him, until at last his feet touched the floor. Then, with a great wrench, he raised himself on his feet, bearing his cradle triumphantly on his back, which made him look for all the world like a turtle, with his shell, trying to climb a wall.
Such was the strange sight which, on presenting itself in the Banqueting Hall, startled the gay company. Pantagruel walked straight to the table, where he at first thought he would need no assistance; but he soon found himself obliged—not being, of course, able to use his hands—to lean forward, and lick up with his tongue any tidbit that he could find near the edge of the table. When his father saw how hungry he was, he knew well enough that his baby never would have broken through his cradle, and tramped down the stairs with it on his back, unless he had been left alone by his nurses. Turning to the princes and lords present, he asked them if it was not better that his boy should be freed from those heavy chains.
The guests, with one voice, declared that the chains were an insult to the young Prince; and even the First Physician gave it as his opinion that, if Pantagruel were to be kept any longer fastened in such a way to his cradle, he would all his life be a cripple.
The moment he was unchained Pantagruel sat down at the table, and was made much of by every guest. Such a welcome soon made him feel quite at home, and he showed it by breaking, with one blow of his fist, that ugly cradle into more than five hundred thousand pieces, vowing to himself—he couldn't well say the words—that he would never be found in it again—never! never! never!
CHAPTER XXIV.
AFTER STUDYING AT SEVERAL UNIVERSITIES PANTAGRUEL GOES TO PARIS.
Pantagruel grew, from day to day, in health, and stature, and strength, which, of course, gave great delight to his father. Gargantua ordered to be made for his son, while he was still small, a cross-bow, with which he could make himself merry in shooting at the little birds, and which is kept to this day, and is known as the great Cross-Bow of Chantelle. It was not long after this that Pantagruel was sent off to school at Poitiers, under the charge of his tutor Epistemon, where he showed himself a diligent scholar.
Just before they left, while his son was getting into the saddle, good Father Gargantua had taken Epistemon on his arm for a few words of private talk. All he said, in a solemn whisper, was: "Teach my boy, first of all, Greek; secondly, Latin. My father cared for nothing so much as Latin. If I knew Greek half so well as I know my Latin, I should be happy."
Having noticed that the students of Poitiers had often so much time on their hands that they did not know how to get rid of it, and being a good-hearted young Giant, Pantagruel thought he would take pity on them and devise some plan to help them. So, one fine day, he tore from a great ledge of rocks, which the people of the town called Passelourdin, a large stone, about twelve fathoms square, and carried it in his strong arms with the greatest ease to four pillars which then stood in the middle of a field, upon which, by sheer force, he placed the stone. None of the young students had the slightest idea why the Giant of whom they were so proud had robbed big Passelourdin, but it was not long before they began to do precisely what Pantagruel had thought they would do. Whenever they had nothing else to think about—which, by the way, happened the greater part of every day—they would fill up the time by climbing up to the stone, bearing with them flagons of wine and hams and pies, upon which they feasted with loud shouts of laughter, each one being sure to wind up his first day's fun by cutting his name deep into the surface of the stone. By and by, it began to be talked about as the "Raised Stone." And, for a long time, no student was allowed to graduate at the University of Poitiers unless he had first solemnly sworn that he had drunk in the magical Fountain of Croustelles, had taken a walk to Passelourdin, and had from there climbed to the top of the "Raised Stone."
While the students were making merry over their new game, Pantagruel was poring harder than ever over dusty old tomes in the Library of the University. One day, while he was reading the fine chronicles of his ancestors, he happened to turn over the page which told him of the famous Giant Jeffrey of Lusignan, nicknamed "Jeffrey of the Great Tooth," who was buried at Maillezais, near by. What should Pantagruel do but choose a play-day to pay his respects to the sepulchre of the old Giant! Taking some friends along with him he soon reached Maillezais. All the way to the tomb he had been thinking of nothing but how he would do it honor; but, when he got there, his eyes seemed glued to a picture of his big-toothed ancestor, which was hanging on the wall. It wasn't a cheerful portrait, I must say, for it made old Jeffrey of the Great Tooth look like a man in an awful fury and with a horrible toothache, half-drawing his great malchus out of its scabbard. The moment Pantagruel saw this, he grew half afraid and half angry. Pointing sternly to the picture, he said:—
"He has not been painted in this way without cause. See how his eyes glare, and how his great tooth seems to come out in pain. Why should he draw his malchus? I suspect that, at his death, some wrong was done to him which he looks to his kindred to avenge. I shall look deeper into this matter, and do what I shall think to be right."
After having done a good turn for his fellow-students at Poitiers, Pantagruel resolved to visit the other Universities of France. He did not like Bordeaux very much, so he soon went to Toulouse. Here he learned to dance and to use the two-handed sword,—a special exercise with the students of that University. But he decided he wouldn't stay any longer at Toulouse after he had occasion to see how the students had sometimes a little trick of their own of roasting their regents alive, like so many red herrings. So he strode off to Montpellier, where he met pleasant company, and began to think, one day, that he ought to study Medicine, and the next, that the Law was, after all, the only thing for him; but he soon grew tired of all this and, journeying from university to university, at last settled himself after a time at Orleans. Here he was made welcome with joyous shouts and much respect; and, as the students were none too fond of their books, Pantagruel took great pains to become a master at tennis,—the favorite game of the city. After several years passed at Orleans, he consulted with Epistemon about going to the great University of Paris. It was a glorious day for him—and I dare say the sober teacher himself, under all his wise look, was just as pleased as his pupil—when the journey was at last decided on. But, before leaving, the Giant was told that an enormous bell, belonging to the City of Orleans, had been lying under the ground at Saint Aignan for more than two hundred and fourteen years, as it was so big and heavy that no engine—much less, men—could be found strong enough to move it from its place. The fact is, the good people of Orleans, having heard that the Giant was thinking of leaving them for good, came before him, humbly praying him, before his departure, to bring that great bell to the tower which had been waiting ever so many years for it. Pantagruel, with his usual kindness, went to the spot where the bell was, and lifted it as easily as if it had been a hawk's bell. As he was quite sure of his own strength, Pantagruel thought that, before carrying the bell to the belfry, he would take a stroll about the city with it in his hands, making it ring in the streets and by-ways. Of course everybody in Orleans—man, woman, boy, girl; even the babies, who didn't know what they were smiling at, but showed their little white teeth and dimpling cheeks all the same—were all out, crowding the streets and jostling in the by-ways. But here, while our Pantagruel was amusing himself and while the ringing was sounding through the city, there came a terrible misfortune, of which nobody had the slightest idea at the time. It was only found out at night, when the simple people wanted to drink in honor of the great event, that all the good wine of Orleans had of a sudden curdled and turned sour. It was the awful strokes of that tremendous bell in Pantagruel's hand, as he tramped up and down the streets, which had curdled the Orleans wine, and made the honest people who drank it spit as white as cotton, crying out: "We have caught the Pantagruel, and our very throats are salted."
After this exploit Pantagruel, with Epistemon, and his valet Carpalim, was very glad to start for Paris. On entering that city, all the people stretched their heads out of the windows to see him pass; peering down at his feet as he tramped through the streets, and then, with their mouths wide open, craning their necks to see how high in the clouds his head might be. They were just a little afraid, in their curiosity, that their visitor might take up their King's Palace and stalk away with it, as his father Gargantua, whom every old woman had seen and of whom every child had heard, had carried away, years and years before, the Bells of Nôtre Dâme to hang them around his Mare's neck.
"Clear enough, this young Giant is the old Giant's son," the gossips whispered to each other.
While in Paris, Pantagruel—as was the fashion for young men to do—went one day to see the world-famous Victor Library. There he found books with high titles on the covers, and no sense between them. One look at the shelves of the Victor Library was enough for the Prince.
After a few months passed in Paris—studying and gaining great stores of knowledge all the time,—Pantagruel, in reply to one who asked him what he thought of the city, answered drily, that while "Paris was a very good place to live in, it was a very bad place to die in."
CHAPTER XXV.
PANTAGRUEL FINDS PANURGE, WHOM HE LOVES ALL HIS LIFE.
One day Pantagruel was strolling outside the city-walls towards the Abbey St. Antoine. While engaged in philosophical talk with his own people, and several students besides, he happened to see, coming along the road, a young man of fine height and handsome presence, who looked so bloody and so woebegone, and whose clothes hung around him in such tatters and rags, that he seemed to have barely escaped with his life from a pack of mad dogs. As soon as his eyes fell upon the man, Pantagruel said to his attendants:—
"Do you see that man yonder, coming from Charanton Bridge? By my faith, he is poor only in fortune. As far as I can judge by his features, Nature has given that man a rich and noble lineage."
When the stranger had come up to them, Pantagruel said to him: "My good friend, I beg you to stop a moment, and answer a few questions which I am about to ask you. You will not repent it if you do so, as I feel a strange desire to aid you in the distress in which I see you, for you excite my pity. Before all, my friend, tell me who you are? Where do you come from? What do you seek? And what is your name?"
The stranger then answered him:—
In German—
To which Pantagruel, not knowing a single word, replied:—
"My friend, I don't quite understand this gibberish. If you want us to get at your meaning, speak to us in another language."
Then the stranger spoke:—
In Arabic—
"Ha! Do you know what he is saying, Master?" cried Pantagruel to Epistemon.
Epistemon's answer was a shake of the head.
Then in Italian—
To which Master Epistemon only said: "As much of one as of the other, and nothing of either."
Then the solitary wanderer spoke:—
In English—
What he said in a very strange English was: "Lord, if you be so vertuous of intelligence, as you be naturally releaved to the body, you should have pity of me; for nature hath made us equal, but fortune hath some exalted, and others deprived; nevertheless is vertue often deprived, and the vertuous men despised; for before the last end none is good."
"Ho! still less," cried poor Pantagruel.
Then the Basque—
Carpalim, Pantagruel's valet, thought he caught something familiar here, but the stranger went on as if nothing had been said.
In a rattling unknown language—
"Do you speak a Christian tongue, my friend, or do you make your lingo as you go along?" asked Epistemon, who was beginning to get rather tired.
Then in Dutch—
"Quite as bad as the others!" muttered Pantagruel under his breath.
Then in Spanish—
"See here, my friend," retorted Pantagruel, who in his turn was getting tired, "I have not the slightest doubt that you are master of various languages. But all I ask is that you should tell us what you want to say in some tongue which we can understand."
Then in Danish—
"I think," said Eusthenes, "the old Goths must have spoken that way."
Then in a sonorous tongue—
Here Master Epistemon thought it right to say: "This time I have caught his meaning. What he has just said is in the old Hebrew, rhetorically pronounced."
Then in Greek—
"Oh! That's Greek. I know it. How long didst thou stay in Greece?" asked the valet Carpalim, who had once been in that country.
The the low Breton tongue—
It was now Pantagruel's turn to say: "It seems to me that I understand what you are trying to say; for it is the tongue of my own country, of Utopia, or something very like it."
But, just as he was beginning to say something more, the stranger broke out again:—
In the Latin language—
"That's all very well, my friend, but can't you speak French?"
"Certainly, and very well, too, an it please you, my lord," answered the man. "By good luck, the French is at once my natural and maternal language. I was born in the garden of France,—fair Toulouse."
"Then you are a Frenchman! Let us know at once what is your name. If you satisfy me in this, you need never wander from my company, and we shall be one to the other, as Æneas and Achates."
"Sir," said the stranger, "my name in baptism was Panurge. I have just come home from Turkey, where I had the misfortune of being made a prisoner in the expedition against Metelin. I have ever so many good stories to tell Your Highness, more marvellous than those of Ulysses. As you are gracious enough to promise to keep me among your friends, I protest that I shall never leave you. I beg your pardon, my lord, I want one word more. I am desperately hungry, my teeth being very sharp, and my throat very dry. A dinner just now would be just as good as a balsam for sore eyes."
Pantagruel, on hearing these words from the stranger, was delighted. He at once ordered that a full meal should be got ready. This being set before him Panurge, who hadn't eaten for two whole days, stuffed himself and went to bed with the roosters, and never woke up until dinner-time next day, when he leaped from his bed, and, without so much as washing his face, reached the dining-room in three hops and one jump.
CHAPTER XXVI.
PANTAGRUEL BEATS THE SORBONNE IN ARGUMENT, AND PANURGE PROVES THAT AN ENGLISHMAN'S FINGERS ARE NOT SO NIMBLE AS A FRENCHMAN'S.
While Pantagruel was at Paris, he was receiving, every now and then, letters from his father, which were so kind, and so full of good advice to him to improve himself in the Languages, that he had not the heart to neglect them, even had he wished. One day, after laughing more than usual at one of Panurge's pranks,—and his new friend had turned out a queer fish indeed,—he thought it was right to see how much he had really learned. The very next day, therefore, at all the crossings of the city he posted, with his own hand, nine thousand seven hundred and sixty-four propositions, challenging all the wise men of Paris to argue with him, and show where, and in what, and how far, any of his propositions was wrong. At so bold a defiance, the wise men of Paris puckered their foreheads, opened wide their nostrils, breathed heavily, and ended by accepting the challenge. They thought that a Giant's strongest point was his body; but Pantagruel very soon proved to them that he was stronger than all of them, bunched together, in brains.
It was at the gates of Sorbonne itself—the great University—that Pantagruel, flushed with victory, next knocked. Sorbonne was not too proud to meet the bold Giant from Utopia in a fair combat, not of blows, but of words. For six weeks, Pantagruel maintained his theses against all the theologians, from four o'clock in the morning until six o'clock in the evening, with the exception of two hours allowed for refreshment. The contest made a great noise in the court, and most of the lords, masters of requests, presidents, counsellors, bankers, secretaries, lawyers, together with the doctors and professors of the great city, came to hear the learned talk day after day. Among all these there were, of course, some very headstrong and restive, who must needs take a hand in helping the theologians to puzzle Pantagruel; but, at the end, they themselves were routed, the most learned doctors of the Sorbonne along with all the rest.
From that time, everybody began to talk about Pantagruel's wonderful knowledge,—as, before that, all the talk had been about his monstrous size,—even to the wash-women, roast-meat sellers, pen-knife-makers, and others, who, whenever they would catch a sight of him on the street, would poke each other in the ribs and call out: "Oh, look, there he goes!" Pantagruel would have been blind if he had not seen these good people nudge one another, and deaf if he had not heard what they were saying. He certainly was very much pleased; but that is not at all strange, since Demosthenes, the prince of Greek orators, felt the same when once, in passing along a street in Athens, an old hag pointed her skinny fingers sharp at him, screaming: "That's the man!"
So great did Pantagruel's fame become in Paris that, whenever there was a law-nut harder to crack than usual, the parties would appeal to him to decide between them, and his decisions were always so just that, strange to say, both sides would go away satisfied,—which is a thing hard to be believed, since the like is not to be seen for thirteen Jubilees. His reputation also went abroad, and, in consequence, attracted the attention of a wise Englishman named Thaumastes, who came all the way from England with the sole intention of seeing Pantagruel, and testing for himself if his knowledge was so great as had been told. On reaching Paris, Thaumastes asked where Pantagruel lodged, and, on being informed, went to the St. Denis Hotel, where he found him walking in the garden with Panurge on his arm. When his eyes first fell on the Giant, he was almost out of his senses for fear, seeing him so big and so tall. At last he managed to pluck up courage enough to salute him very courteously.
"Very true it is, mighty Sir," he said, "what Plato, prince of philosophers, once declared, that, if the image of Science were corporeal enough to be brought in all her beauty before the eyes of men, she would excite in all the world great wonder. I came disposed to wonder; now, seeing, I do more—I admire. Having heard of your renown I have left country, home, and kinsmen, and have, in spite of the long journey and the hardships of crossing the sea, presented myself here with the sole purpose of seeing you, and consulting you upon some passages of Philosophy in which I believe, and yet cannot be sure, that I am right. If you will only deign to solve my doubts, I hereby declare myself your slave. But I beg to make plain one point, and that is, that I wish to dispute through signs only, without speaking. I shall be found, if it suits Your Magnificence, in the great hall of Navarre, at seven o'clock to-morrow morning."
Pantagruel, although by no means sure that he knew how to argue with his fingers, replied with his usual grace to the courteous Englishman, paying him many compliments for his design of carrying on a great disputation by signs only. After which, Thaumastes, who, by the way, had not quite got over his fear of the Giant, went straight to the Cluny Hotel, where he lodged, declaring when he reached there that he had never felt so thirsty in all his life. He swore to the landlord that he thought that terrible Pantagruel was even then clutching him by his throat—so very dry and ready to choke he was.
On his side, too, Pantagruel was grievously disturbed. He did nothing in the first part of his sleep, that night, but dream about books with hard Latin titles, and visions of phantom hands hovering in the air around his head, and making passes under his very nose. All he could do was to turn and twist, and twist and turn again, in his bed, and groan, so dolefully, that Panurge, rudely wakened from his first nap, ventured to come into the room.
"My lord," he said, as he approached the bed, "don't trouble yourself about this matter. Turn on your right side like a good Christian, and go to sleep. With your permission, I shall answer Mr. Englishman to-morrow. By my faith! I never yet saw an Englishman who knew what to do with his fingers!"
Pantagruel was, of course, delighted to hear this. He knew how sharp Panurge was, and how far he could go beyond other men. But somehow he still had his misgivings; and so he turned his big body around for the last time and went to sleep, only to be haunted all night long by Latin books with hard names, and a plague of mocking fingers making signs under his nose.
The next morning, the great College of Navarre was packed with people to hear the famous dispute between the Giant and the Englishman.
As soon as Pantagruel and Panurge reached the hall, all the professors and students began, as was their custom, to clap with their hands. But Pantagruel shouted out at the top of his voice, which sounded as if a double cannon had been of a sudden shot off: "Peace, all! If you trouble me here, I shall cut off the heads of every one of you." At this terrible threat, the crowd stood amazed, and did not dare even cough. The fact is, they grew so thirsty, all of a sudden, that their tongues dropped out from their throats as if Pantagruel, instead of stepping on the platform, had gone from one to the other salting them all.
When everything was quiet, Panurge stepped forward with a pleasant smile, and addressed the Englishman in these words:—
"I am only an insignificant pupil of my royal master, Prince Pantagruel, whose reputation, here and elsewhere, is so noble and so exalted; but I swear that I shall convince thee that, in all signs made in the sacred name of Science, I am thy master, and can give thee all the lessons thou mayst need."
"Is that so?" cried Thaumastes; "then, let us begin!"
It was a battle of signs, as we know already, not of words. The Englishman made the first sign.
Some people thought at the time that Panurge, in his answer, showed rather too plainly the low opinion he had of his learned antagonist's skill in finger-moving. He suddenly raised his right hand in air, then put the thumb inside of his right nostril while keeping the four fingers stretched out, but close together in a line parallel with the tip of his nose—meanwhile closing the left eye completely, and depressing the right eye. Then he raised on high his left hand, with close pressing and extension of the four fingers and elevation of the thumb, holding his left hand in a straight line with his right, with about a cubit and a half between them.
The Englishman answered, without seeming to understand this sign of Panurge.
Then Panurge replied.
Then the Englishman.
Then both made, one after the other, and with the greatest rapidity, the neatest, the most skilful, the most beautiful, the most dazzling, the most speaking, so to say, signs, all in the name of Science, but all so much in favor of Panurge, with the little talking devil there is in French fingers, that Thaumastes became so confounded that he began to blow like a goose, and finally gave up the fight. But the Englishman, when he had been beaten, was honest enough to say so. Rising from his seat, while gallantly taking off his cap, he thanked Panurge in a low tone. Then, with a loud voice, he addressed the learned assembly:—
"My lords, at this time, I can surely say that you have an incomparable treasure in your presence. I refer to my Lord Pantagruel, whose fame alone brought me here from the other end of England. But you can better judge how learned the master must be since I find so much skill in his pupil, for I have always heard that the scholar is never above the master."
It is said that the Englishman, after his defeat, was well and honorably treated by Pantagruel. It was also whispered that Thaumastes, on his return to England, caused to be printed in London a book which contained all the signs and the meanings of the Great Disputation, but of which, strange to say, no copy has reached this day.