This Pantagruel did, holding the mast firmly with both hands, and keeping it straighter than two hundred tacklings could have done. Everybody worked hard,—everybody except cowardly Panurge, who, when the sea first began to churn, sank upon deck all in a heap, more dead than alive. He could do nothing but whine and cry boo! boo! boo! boo! and call upon Heaven to save him. In the meanwhile, all the others were as busy as beavers,—Friar John, Gymnaste, Carpalim, Xenomanes, even Epistemon and old Ponocrates himself! All did wonders; but nobody worked like Friar John during all the storm; so, at least, declared James Brayer. Why, Friar John even pulled off his monk's gown, a thing he had, until then, been known to do only once, and that was when he saved the Abbey-Vineyard. "It bothers me, and I can't work in it," he said, as he pulled it off. With his waistcoat for a coat, he stood at his post with strong arm and cheery word for everybody. Every now and then he would glance at Panurge, still squatted on deck and crying, "Boo! boo! boo! boo! Friar John, my friend, good father, I am drowning. Boo! boo! boo! The water has got into my shoes. Boo! boo! boo! boboo! I drown! Oh, how I wish I was a gardener, and planted cabbages, for then I would be sure of always having at least one foot on land! Oh, my friend, the keel goes up to the sun. I hear the hull splitting. We are all drowned! Boo! boo! boo! holos! holos!" At last Friar John's patience gave out,—it was at the close of the sixth hour he had been working,—and he roared out to Panurge:—
"What art thou bellowing there for, like a calf? Panurge the cry-baby, Panurge the whiner, would it not better become thee to help thyself and friends? Come, be a man!"
Just then a huge sea broke on the deck. Panurge was too frightened even to look up. All the answer he could give to Friar John was, "Boo! boo! boo! boboo! The ship is capsized! I drown!"
At that moment, Pantagruel's voice was heard even above the storm, so mighty was it in prayer: "Save us, good Lord, if it be Thy will." The Giant's prayer must have been heard. The thunder still crashed; the lightning still blazed; the rain still poured; but it was not half so bad as before. The sea still rose; but it rose in hills, not mountains, now. Pantagruel still stood, as he had from the first, with his arms clinging to the mainmast while he braced it up, and his eyes trying to pierce through the blackness. At last, just as the day broke, he shouted:—
"Land! land! My children, I see land! We are not far from port. I can see the sky clearing up southwards. Cheer up, all!"
James Brayer was at his side as quick as lightning.
"Up, lads!" he shouted. "Our prince sees land, and the sea is smoother. We can put out a trifle of sail. Hands aloft to the maintop! Mind your steerage; clear your sheets; port, port! Helm-a-lee! Steady, steady!" And steady it was, too. Before all eyes on the ship land was now to be seen in full sight, some twenty miles off. The sun was just beginning to shine a little. The sea was no longer mad. It was only sobbing, sobbing, sobbing, as though half-ashamed it had so troubled the good Giant who knew how to pray.
It was late in the afternoon when James Brayer brought the flag-ship into port. It was so late that it was resolved not to go on shore until next day.
CHAPTER XL.
THE ISLAND OF THE MACREONS, AND ITS FOREST IN WHICH THE HEROES WHO ARE TEMPTED BY DEMONS DIE.
The next morning there was not a man in the whole fleet so spruce, so gay, so brave as Panurge.
"What cheer, ho! fore and aft?" he cried gaily. "Good-day to you, gentlemen, good-day to you all. Oh, ho! all's well, the storm is over. Please be so kind as to let me be the first to go on shore. Shall I help you before I go? Here, let me see, I'll coil this rope; I have plenty of courage; give it to me, honest tar,—no, no, I haven't a bit of fear, not I. How now, Friar John, you do nothing! Well, so there's nothing for me to do. Let us go on shore, then! Truly this is a fine place!"
While Panurge was blustering, and making believe that he had not been crying and blubbering all during the storm, Pantagruel and his company were paying no attention to him, but were making everything ready to go on shore. On landing they were met most kindly by the people of the island, which turned out to be a small one, known as the Island of Macreons, Macreon being a Greek word meaning an "old man." Therefore, the Island of Macreons was only another name for the "Island of Old Men." A venerable Macreon, with long white beard, reaching to his waist, who was the High Sheriff of the island, stepped forward, and gravely invited Pantagruel to go with him to the Town Hall, where he could take a rest after his fatigue, and be sure of a little luncheon afterwards. But the Giant would not leave the quay until all his men had got ashore, and with enough provisions to last them while at work on the ships, which needed many repairs after the storm. This was done at once, and then began the carouse both in the Town Hall and among the men along the quay. There is no telling now how much was really eaten and drunk during that day; but there was enough for every one. The people of the island brought their victuals. The Pantagruelists brought theirs. It was something more than a lunch, as it turned out. It was a real picnic on a large scale; everybody giving his share of the feast, and making the most of what the others brought.
After the meal Pantagruel took his officers aside, and told them that, as the ships had been strained by the storm, they should set to work to make them sound again. As soon as the people of the island heard of the trouble many offered to help. This they could easily do as they were all, more or less, carpenters, having a large forest behind three very small ports.
At Pantagruel's request the white-bearded Macreon, whose name was Macrobius, showed him all that was strange or wonderful in the island. Leaving the harbor, he took the Giant into the dark and gloomy forest, which was found at the entrance to be full of ruined temples, obelisks, pyramids, and crumbling tombs. Over most of these were inscriptions and epitaphs, some in strange letters, none could read, not even Panurge; others in Ionic characters; others in the Arabic; others in the Icelandic. "Our heroes come," the old man explained, "from every land on the earth."
Macrobius asked Pantagruel how it was that he and his fleet could have survived the awful storm and reached port, when the Macreons could see that all the air and the earth were in wild uproar. Pantagruel answered, with that simple faith of his which gives the smallest dwarf the strength of the tallest giant, "Friend, it was God's will." After which, he asked him whether these great storms were common around their coast.
The old man then told a very sad tale.
"Pilgrim," he said, in a broken voice, "this poor island of ours was once rich, great, and full of young people. Now there are no young people in it, and it is only full of old men like myself, and of shadows that we can feel, but never can see; shadows that we love, but never can know; shadows that move about in yonder forest you see stretched out before you, and, when their hour comes, die in its darkest depths. No common shadow ever yet lived or ever yet died in our forest. It is the dwelling-place only of heroes and of demons."
"Of heroes and demons?" cried Pantagruel, amazed.
"Yes, of heroes, who, after being great on earth and seeming to die there, come here to live another life, and to suffer, and to show themselves great for a final trial; and of demons who are given power to roam the forest at will, only to mock, and laugh, and lure, if they can, the heroes to sin."
"How do the demons lure the heroes to sin?"
"By trying to make them forget that to be good is the only way to be great."
"Do the heroes ever yield?"
"Yes, pilgrim, often, too often; and there is our great grief. If they once yield, they die at the moment of sinning, and there is neither storm at sea nor grief in the forest. We never can know when the bad heroes pass away. But ah! it is when the true heroes, who, though tempted, will not yield, die," and here Macrobius stretched out his hands towards the dark line of trees as though in prayer, "that we learn of it to our sorrow. Pilgrim!" he cried, while the tears, dry, like the tears old men shed, trickled down his withered cheeks into his white beard, "we were sure yesterday that we had lost another good hero."
"And what made thee sure, good Macrobius?"
"Because we noticed that a comet, which we had seen for three days before the storm, of a sudden grew dim, and that it shines no more. Then, yesterday, when the sea was at its worst, we could hear loud cries in the forest; feel tremblings in the earth under us; and in the air about us there were breathings and black clouds. Listen, now, the trees are calling some name, I know they are. I am old; my hearing is faint. Do you not hear voices?"
Pantagruel listened intently; but, even with his quick ears, could only hear a mournful sough, as though coming over the tops of the trees from a great distance.
"Not voices, but more like sobs, good old man. They may be weeping for the hero who died yesterday. Canst thou tell me his name?"
"Ah, pilgrim, there, too, is our cross! It is not given to us to learn the name of a hero who has died until a year after the forest has moaned, and the sea has wept, and the earth has trembled."
"And how dost thou show him honor?"
"We place in this part of the forest which we are allowed to enter, and on the tree he best loved when alive, a verse reciting his name, and saying that another hero has died, but not until the good God had given him the power to be greater than sin."
CHAPTER XLI.
PANTAGRUEL TOUCHES AT THE WONDERFUL ISLAND OF RUACH, WHERE GIANT WIDENOSTRILS HAD FOUND THE COCKS AND HENS WHICH KILLED HIM. HOW THE PEOPLE LIVED BY WIND.
As soon as the ships had been calked and repaired, and fresh food had been taken in, James Brayer gave the word to sail; and the fleet set out, with the feeble shouts of the good old men in their ears, from the Island of Macreons.
Two days after this the fleet touched at the Island of Ruach, which Pantagruel found to be the strangest, in one thing, of any he had yet seen.
That one thing was wind.
In other words, the people of Ruach lived on wind. They had nothing else to live on; they ate nothing, they drank nothing, but wind. The very houses they built were always as near windmills as they could build them. In their gardens they never grew cabbages, peas, beans, radishes,—only three different kinds of anemones, or wind-flowers. When they felt hungry, and there happened to be no wind stirring, the common people of the island, to start a breeze, used fans of feathers, or of paper, or of linen, as their means allowed. As for the rich, they lived by the whirl of their windmills,—the finest and the strongest wind, they declared, they could ever eat. Whenever they had a feast, the Ruachians would spread their tables under one windmill, and, if the table was long enough, it was made to stretch under two. While they were eating, or rather drinking, in the wind from the great-winged mills, the guests would be discussing among themselves the excellence, beauty, and rarity of their various kinds of wind. One would smack his lips, and whistle out,—they all whistled instead of talking:—
"Ah! how delightful this south-west breeze!"
Another: "How refreshing this south-east?"
Another: "But do taste a little of this western, I beg you! How healthful!"
Another: "How choice this east-by-north!"
Another: "Will none of you join me in this exquisite south?" and so forth.
Pantagruel wondered at all this whistling; but he opened his eyes wider than ever when he caught sight of a big, bloated fellow whipping, with his slipper, a servant-man and a boy. When he asked what was the matter, he was told that the bloated fellow had accused the man and the boy of stealing from him the better half of a large leathern bag of southerly wind, which he had put by for his own private winter-use. All Pantagruel said to this was, "This is very strange." While he was on his way to the King's palace, on invitation, he saw several of the islanders, with large fans in their hands, taking a walk. The rich islanders were all stout. The poor islanders were all thin. It was a fight for wind; and the windmills and big fans won it.
The people of Ruach had these two proverbs always in their mouths:—
Small fans make small wind.
Great fans make great wind.
These were the only proverbs which had ever been known among them.
When he met the King of the island, Pantagruel began to pay him compliments on the cheapness of the food of the people. "You live on wind; it costs you nothing; you have only to breathe to take in your food; you and your people must be very happy."
"Not so happy as you may think, noble Giant. We have our troubles, like any other people."
"Troubles! Why, what troubles can you have?"
"I will tell you. Every year, in the spring, a wicked Giant, named Widenostrils, who lives, I believe, in the Island of Tohu, comes here for his health by the advice of his physicians. The moment he steps on shore he begins to swallow our windmills. We are not afraid of Widenostrils for ourselves, although he is so horrid a monster; but we have a mortal fear of him for our windmills. It will not be long before there will be no more windmills left! Then what are we to do? We must have wind; for without wind we must die."
"Have you never tried to keep that wicked giant away?"
"Yes; often and often; and it was only last spring that we hit upon what we thought to be a good plan. About the time we were expecting a visit from Widenostrils, we sent to a neighboring island to get us a supply of cocks and hens. As soon as we got them, we filled our largest windmills with them. As usual, Widenostrils, when he landed, began to gobble up one windmill after another. Very soon the roosters began to crow, and the hens began to cackle, and both began to fly about inside his stomach. Then Widenostrils got very sick, and lay down in yonder field gasping for a whole day. As he lay down the strangest thing happened."
"What was that, friend?"
"Of course, with the cocks and hens crowing and cackling and making such a to-do in his stomach, here and there, Widenostrils kept his mouth open, hoping they would get tired and fly out. Seeing his big mouth open, what should all the foxes in the neighborhood, which are very tame, as we never hunt them, scenting the cocks and hens inside, do but scamper after them through the monster's throat? We were afraid to have the wicked Giant die among us, so we managed to rouse him, although he was very sick, and even helped him to reach his ship, which sailed away at once. But of what use after all? Our curse will be back next spring. If the cocks and hens and foxes don't kill him, what can we do?"
"Have no more fear, friend," said Pantagruel; "Widenostrils, the giant, the swallower of your windmills, is dead. I am sure of that, for I myself saw his corpse in Tohu. One of my friends here can tell you more. What, ho! Panurge!"
"That can I, your majesty," cried Panurge, stepping briskly forward. "The Giant Widenostrils died from having too many cocks and hens and foxes in his stomach. I heard in his stomach, with my own ears,—which are pretty sharp ones,—as he lay stretched out in the meadow, cocks crowing, hens cackling, foxes yelping, and by my faith, I thought the foxes were getting the better of the cocks and the hens."
"Thank Heaven! We can build our dear windmills again, and we shall not die," cried the King, who at once sent his herald to announce the good news through the island.
CHAPTER XLII.
HOW PANTAGRUEL WITH HIS DARTS KILLS A MONSTER WHICH CANNON-BALLS COULD NOT HURT.—THE POWER OF THE SIGN OF THE CROSS.
About sundown of the day when the fleet left Ruach, as they were coming near Wild Island, Pantagruel's keen eye spied, far off, a huge whale, which, raised above the waters higher than the maintop, came straight towards the fleet, blowing and spouting from its horrid nostrils so high a stream of water that it seemed to be a swollen river rushing down a mountain's side.
Pantagruel pointed out the whale to the pilot and to Xenomanes. James Brayer was the first one to give advice, and his advice was always worth listening to. What he advised was that the trumpets of the Thalmege should be sounded so as to warn all the fleet to stand close, and look to themselves. At this alarm, every ship, galleon, frigate, and brigantine (according to naval discipline) placed itself in such order as to form the Greek Y,—the flag-ship being in the centre. This proved that James Brayer, while being a good sailor, had been landsman enough sometimes to watch cranes fly in the air. For the letter Y is just the figure that the cranes in their journeys—the leader always being in front—choose in winging their long or short ways across the sky.
Of course the first one to get on the forecastle, where he could have a word with the grenadiers, was Friar John! Brave Friar John! He was the right-hand where anything strong or good was to be done. As to Panurge, he began to cry and howl at the top of his voice. "Boo! boo! boo! This is a worse business than that of the other day," he blubbered, shrugging up his shoulders and shivering in his fright. "That frightful thing over there is the horrid Leviathan Job spoke of! I am sure he is coming to swallow us all up, ships, sails, men and all, like so many pills. Ah! friends, let's escape the monster. The land is near; let us go on shore!"
"Panurge," said Pantagruel, turning round, "all thou hast to do is to trust to me. Have no fear; I shall do its business presently."
"Oh, Your Highness knows well enough that I am never afraid except when there is danger! Boo! boo! boo!"
While Panurge was whimpering, the monster had got fairly into the Greek Y made by the fleet. It was the whale which began the fight. The moment it found itself inside the angle, and saw the ships on each side of it, it wheeled around and began to spout water by whole tons upon them. Then it was that the ships took up the war. They all set to work as though they were mad, to hurl against the whale on every side arrows, spears, darts, javelins, and harpoons. Never had there been seen such a storm of deadly weapons whistling through the air at one time.
You may be sure that Friar John did not spare himself.
Panurge nearly died from fright.
The artillery belched out largest balls; but they didn't do the least harm. All they did was to strike the monster's tough, black hide and slant off. When he saw how so much good powder was being wasted, Pantagruel thought it was high time for him to keep his promise to Panurge. He had, when a boy, a great name for throwing darts, javelins, and such missiles. There was not a man around the Royal Palace of Utopia who had not seen, more than once, his wonderful skill in dart-throwing; for, with his immense darts, which were so large that they looked very much like the huge beams that support the bridges of Nantes and Saumur and Bergerac, he used, standing a mile off, to open an oyster without breaking its shell; snuff a candle without putting it out; shoot a magpie in the eye; and he had even been known to turn over leaf after leaf of Friar John's breviary, and not tear one of them. Pantagruel had already found out that there was a fine store of darts in the ship, and he ordered a good supply to be laid on the deck before him. With the first dart, hurled with a mighty force, he struck the whale so furiously in the head that he pierced both its jaws and its tongue, making one piece of the three.
This was a great victory. The monster could not spurt any more.
With the second dart he put out its right eye.
With the third he put out its left.
Then everybody began to crowd around to look in safety at the whale, which, if it had not been for the Giant's darts, might have ended in drowning the whole fleet, but which was now rolling and staggering about on the waves, stunned and blinded. The creature was still alive, and might yet do some harm; and so Pantagruel, who was watching every movement, threw out a fourth dart, which struck it under the tail. Then the giant began to hurl his darts, one after another, on each side of the black hide, not wildly, but with the same care and skill with which he had once turned the leaves of Friar John's breviary. Fifty darts struck it on one side. Fifty darts more struck it on the other side. This was too much for the monster. It turned on its greasy back, as all dead fishes do, and floated without motion, looking, with the beams and darts upside down in the water, like a gigantic centipede crawling on the sea, with the tips of its hundred feet just showing, every now and then, above the surface of the waves.
Just as soon as the whale was seen to be floating, James Brayer shouted, "A boat's crew, to bring yonder carcass to the island!"
In a trice a boat manned by strong men, and filled with harpoons, was towing the whale towards Wild Island. The Giant himself took no notice of all this; but, having seen from the deck a small deserted seaport towards the south, he fixed on a fine, pleasant grove near it, as a good place to pitch tent and have a gay time after their victory. Once there, Friar John, who was near his side, at a word from the Giant, rang the bell for supper. Pantagruel took to eating cheerfully with his men. Of a sudden, fierce cries were heard from the forest, a half mile or so back from the little grove.
"What is that?" asked Pantagruel of Xenomanes.
"Only the wild creatures, sir, who have given this Wild Island its name. Some say they are demons. By raising your head you may see them over the hill in yonder thicket."
Pantagruel, without further word, rushed from the table to scour the thicket. The whole company rose and followed him. It was not long before he had, with great strides, reached the top of the ridge, whence he could see a dark line, unbroken, save here and there by black banners, of gigantic forms half lost in the shadows of the thicket. The moment the dark shapes saw Pantagruel on the ridge, they began to utter loud cries, and more than one mighty form stepped out from the line to threaten. But when Friar John, Xenomanes, and the rest appeared on the ridge, a howl of defiance broke from the thicket. The dark masses seemed beside themselves with rage, and all at once the line was broken.
"By my faith," said Pantagruel, "they are demons, Xenomanes! Look, they have wings, and their wings are as black as their banners!"
This was true. The dark masses had only broken so as to give themselves space to raise their wings in triumph at seeing so many wretched mortals ready for destruction. Often and often had crews, thrown by shipwreck upon Wild Island, reached the shore and had never been heard of more.
"These are demons; bless us, Friar John," whispered Pantagruel. "What can sinful men do against them?"
And, even while saying this, and without knowing it, the prayerful Giant was making the Sign of the Cross.
At the sacred sign there was, of a sudden, a lifting of black banners. Then, with a flapping of heavy wings, a great stir of mighty bodies leaving the thickets and rising into the air; the dark masses came sweeping over the very ridge where Pantagruel was, on their way to the sea, casting a blacker shadow than the coming night, shrieking and wailing as they passed.
From that blessed day, shipwrecked sailors have wandered in safety through the forest, and never met a demon.
For Wild Island is wild no more.
CHAPTER XLIII.
WHICH TELLS OF SEVERAL ISLANDS, AND THE WONDERFUL PEOPLE WHO LIVED IN THEM.
Next day, having been favored with a fair wind all night, they stopped at the Island of Sadness, where all the people had once been very rich, but were then very poor. Pantagruel found that nothing was to be seen on such an island except fear, want, and misery. So he did no more than step, for a few moments, into the church, near the harbor. On coming out, he ordered that eighteen thousand royal gold pieces should be given out for the relief of the poor people, and then he went on shipboard, not being willing to stay there any longer.
Leaving this desolate island, a strong breeze sprang up, that brought them, after one day, to the blessed Island of Papimany, where lived a people so hospitable that some of them went every day to the port to see if any strangers had come. As soon as anchor had been dropped,—in fact, even before the ship had been well-moored,—four chief men rowed out in a skiff to pay their respects to Pantagruel. On the strangers going ashore, men, women, and children marched to meet them in a procession that reached from one end of the island to the other, and gave a welcome of cheers that lasted above a quarter of an hour.
In the midst of all this joy, the school-master of the place, anxious that his boys should miss no chance of seeing what was for their good, came up with all his teachers, ushers, and school-boys, to show them, with their own eyes, a Giant so tall and renowned as Pantagruel. After which, in order to keep the lads from ever forgetting what they had seen, the chief school-master threw off his gown and went to work in a hurry to give each of them a sound thrashing. This displeased the Giant so greatly that he shouted, "If you do not leave off whipping those poor children, I shall go at once." In his fright at this great voice booming so high up in the air, the chief school-master dropped his rod with one hand, and, with his other, the poor little fellow whose turn had just come, while all the boys, big and little—those who had had their whipping, as well as those who hadn't had it—crowded around the good Giant's big feet to thank him.
At this moment the Mayor rode up on a mule with green trappings, and carried Pantagruel and his party off to dinner. Nothing could be finer than the feasting of this good people; but Pantagruel, anxious to catch the good wind which was then springing up, only stayed for this grand dinner. Before leaving, he had his men to bring on shore nine pieces of cloth of gold, which he presented to his entertainers; filled the poor-box of the church with gold; scattered sweetmeats among the children; and ordered much money to be given to the servants who had waited on them at table.
Out at sea once more, they sailed on for several days without incident. One day, however, when they were at table eating, drinking, and telling stories, Pantagruel went on deck to look at the sea. After looking out a while, he began to turn his great ears towards the sky, and it was then he called out, "Do you hear nothing, gentlemen? It seems to me some people are talking above us, yet I can see no one. Listen!" So the whole company got up from the table, ran on deck, and set to cocking up their eyes and clapping their hands to their ears; but all would not do; they could neither see nor hear anything. Pantagruel, standing with his eyes still looking up, continued to hear the voices. At last some sharp-eared fellow cried, "I think I hear something." Then, all at once, every man on board began to cry out that he could plainly hear voices of men and neighing of horses; but, as nothing could be seen, everybody was mightily frightened, and Panurge worse than all. Nothing would do him but to beg Friar John to stay by him, saying that they were all undone, and that there was no fooling with the devil. "We are undone," he whimpered. "Just listen to those guns. Let's flee! There are our sails and oars; why can't we use them? I never was brave at sea; not that I am afraid! Oh, no! for I fear nothing but danger, that I don't! We are all dead men; Set off! set off!"
Pantagruel, hearing all this noise, called out, without turning about, "Who talks of fleeing? Let us see, rather, who these people may be; they may be friends. I can discover nothing, though I can see, with my eyes, a hundred miles around." Just then, James Brayer came up, as if he had something important on his mind, and said, "Have no fear, my lord; I can make all this clear. We are on the confines of the Frozen Sea. At the beginning of last winter, a great and bloody battle was fought not far from here. Then the words and shouts of the men; the hacking and clashing of battle-axes; the jostling of armor: the neighing of horses, and all the noise and din of battle, froze in the air; and now, the winter being over, and the summer having come, all these sounds have melted, and we can hear them."
Pantagruel, who at first had thought it to be witchcraft, which he hated above all things, of a sudden cried out, "Why, sure enough, here are some tumbling down that are not yet thawed!"
He then threw on deck a handful of what seemed to be rough sugar-plums, but which were, in fact, frozen words. Everybody—even Panurge, who, by this time had plucked up heart, on hearing what James Brayer had said—ran here and there, picking up the sugar-plums. Pantagruel was sure that he had never seen, in all his travels, anything quite so odd as these sugar-plums; for many of them melted almost before he could throw them down, leaving his hand all wet with water; while his ears were stunned from below by the awful shouts and groans of men, the whistling of bullets, the heavy boom of cannon, and the wild, shrill neighing of war-horses, which all came out as those queer sugar-plums melted on deck.
The next day Pantagruel went ashore on a rugged, craggy, barren island, where cocks are never heard to crow, and where lived Gaster, the first Master of Arts in the world. Being himself a scholar, he wanted to make the acquaintance of the First Master of Arts. He found him a most wonderful and despotic old king, who talked with every one by signs, for he could not hear, having been born without ears. Gaster never bothered himself for anybody's comfort or convenience but his own, and Pantagruel soon noticed that no one ever tried to reason with him. At his smallest sign, all present, whether courtiers or foreigners, anxiously inquired what was his will, and hurried off, running themselves out of breath, and knocking each other over in their hurry to do what he wanted. Pantagruel watched Master Gaster very closely, in order to see if he deserved his great name for learning. He was not long in finding out that the old glutton, being a great lover of corn, had invented machines for cultivating it, and many mills for grinding it fine and white; also recipes for baking it into delicious loaves and cakes, for Master Gaster made signs that nothing put him into a greater passion than heavy bread. He also had a knowledge of many curious arts that he had studied out for the preservation of his beloved corn,—such as keeping the rain up in the air, and how to coax it down just at the time it was wanted; also a way to destroy the hail, and prevent the winds from blowing, and to crush the storms, and a thousand other wonderful things.
Master Epistemon was greatly interested in all these fine inventions, and prevailed upon Pantagruel to stay much longer than he wished, for this First Master of Arts, with all his wisdom, had very rude manners. Pantagruel, not being very skilful, as we already know, in talking by signs, got so tired after a while that he couldn't put up with it any longer; so he turned his broad back upon the greedy old man, and gave the order to go on board.
Not long after they were under way the wind fell, so that there was not a capful in all the sails of the fleet. Pantagruel's ship could hardly get along, although James Brayer kept tacking all the time. Everybody was put out of sorts by this accident, and moped about, scarcely speaking a word to each other. Pantagruel nodded over his book on the quarter-deck; Panurge idly played with a piece of rope, pulling it about with his teeth; while Friar John marched off to the pantry, to see what the cook might be doing. After two or three hours in the galley, here came Friar John, puffing and blowing, to Pantagruel, upstairs. Finding him awake, he asked:—
"Will Your Highness be so kind as to tell us how a man can kill time and raise a good wind at sea?"
Pantagruel gave a yawn, and said, half-laughing, "A good dinner will kill time quicker than anything else, as you, my good Friar John, better than most men, know. Have dinner served! Maybe the wind will come with the dinner."
Friar John needed no second hint. It was the good Friar's boast that he knew and loved the ceremonies of the kitchen much better than he did those of the court. So, at these words, he hurried downstairs, and soon marched in at the head of the stewards, cup-bearers, and carvers, who bore four stately meat-pasties. At the sight of these fine viands all the mouths began to water, and they were soon deep in feasting and drinking.
While they were thus passing their time merrily, and making up riddles for Pantagruel to guess, the dull weather also passed away; and, the breeze having freshened, with full sails set, they were soon making up for the time they had lost. Not long after, they came in sight of a high land, which Pantagruel, first discovering, pointed out to Xenomanes, and asked him:—
"What is that high rock yonder, with two tops?"
"That, Your Highness, is the Island of Ganabim. The people who live there are all thieves. Yet there is on the top of that very mountain a fountain worth seeing, since it is the finest fountain in the world. Does Your Highness wish to go on shore?"
"Ho! not I," replied Pantagruel; "but, for the honor of the finest fountain in the world, we ought to give a salute as we pass." As the flag-ship came just in front of the rock the gunner fired. At once, the gunners of the other ships gave, every one, a gun to the island, which made so mighty a noise that it seemed as if the sky was about tumbling down in thunder.
The next day they sighted Sharp Island, an unhealthy country, with rocks shooting up in an ugly way everywhere through the barren soil. The pilot pointed out two cube-shaped rocks that were so white they might have been taken for alabaster. He said they were filled with demons and caused more wrecks, both of men and goods, than the famous Scylla and Charybdis. Of course, the flag-ship and all the fleet steered far out to sea in passing Sharp Island.
Sailing four days, toward nightfall of the last day, they came near the fairy-like shores of Lanternland. For leagues around the sea seemed twinkling with fires, that gave a tremulous sparkle, or, darting up into bright light, hovered a while over the water, and then would be lost, only to be found again shining nearer and brighter than before. James Brayer said that the whole coast was planted with light-houses. Xenomanes confirmed this, adding, that "there was no port in the world equal to those of Lanternland, and no coast where the piloting was so safe."
Here they stopped for a day, and were received with great friendship by the Queen of that country. Pantagruel was greatly vexed that he could not speak the Lantern language, so as to talk with Her Majesty; but, Panurge, who understood it just as well as he did his maternal French, acted as his interpreter. After supping with Her Majesty in the royal banquet hall, Pantagruel asked whether he had reached the island too late to be in time for their great Annual Fair. He was told that the Fair was already over; and he then acquainted the Queen with the purpose of his voyage, and prayed her to grant him a guide to the Kingdom of India. Of course the Queen was greatly interested when she heard that it was love for the bright little Princess of India which had brought a Giant so great a distance. She promised all he asked, and assured him that he should have her own particular guide—the best in all Lanternland—to go with them the next morning.
Pantagruel, after saluting Her Majesty with such majestic grace as became so stately a prince, withdrew, followed by his friends, to take some rest. The next day, having first seen that their guide was on board, they took their leave, amid the glad cheers and huzzas of the good Lanternists, who vowed that, if they had only stopped one more night, they would have made such a blaze along the coast as would have lighted them half-way to India.
Every story must have its ending.
And the ending of this story is that the good Prince Pantagruel, led by his guide from Lanternland, first passed over the Caspian mountains in search of his charming Princess; then defied the Cannibals; conquered the Island of Pearls; and, at last, after reaching India, married the lovely daughter of King Prestham of that land.
To tell the story of the supper which good King Gargantua had promised to give Pantagruel, and which was to equal that of King Ahasuerus, and of the great and valorous deeds of Pantagruel, after his marriage, would make a history much more wonderful than what you have just read. But this is a part of his life which the Wise Man—who so loved the three good Giants, Grandgousier, Gargantua, and Pantagruel—promised to write, but never did.