[Illustration]
IX
The Giant Who Became a Saint
Offero
We have laughed at giants quaint,
Roaring rascals, bound to please us;
Hush! For now we have a saint,
One who served the infant Jesus.
_Seymour Barnard._
IX
The Giant Who Became a Saint
[Illustration: Sometimes he would hold them at arm’s length]
Among the smooth, blue hills of an eastern country lived a simple-hearted
giant lad named Offero. And though he was four times as high and four
times as wide as the other boys, that did not make him proud in the
least. He played with them as good-naturedly as if he had been no bigger
than they. Sometimes he would hold them at arm’s length, one in each
great hand. Sometimes he would toss them gently into the air. And when he
was particularly good-humored he would stand still for hours at a time
while they clambered up on his high shoulders.
One evening, tired from these boisterous games, they all lay sprawled
along the hillside, watching the stars come out and talking about the
great men they were going to be.
“I shall be a shepherd,” cried one, “and roam the hills all day.”
“And I shall be a barber, like my father,” shouted another.
“As for me,” cried a third, “I shall be a wine merchant, and sit at my
ease.”
But Offero said never a word.
“Offero! Offero!” cried the boys, scrambling up and swarming over him.
“What are you going to be?” And they tweaked his long hair.
But Offero held his peace. Then suddenly he sprang up, shaking them off
like so many puppies.
“I shall serve,” he thundered. “I shall serve the greatest king in the
world.”
The boys stared. “But how will you find him?” they cried.
“I shall walk till I find him,” said Offero, “and I shall know him
because he will be afraid of no one.”
Next morning at daybreak, Offero set out across the hills to seek his
king. For months he walked, from one proud palace to another, and past
the miles of poor men’s houses in between. Many a fine, glittering
court he saw, and many a king. But none of them was the one for whom he
searched. For no matter how broad their kingdoms might be, they were all
afraid of some king beyond, who had more men or more ships than they.
But Offero kept on, undismayed. And after a year and a day he came to
the king whom the others feared. When Offero saw the mighty look of this
king, his great heart thumped with joy. “At last,” thought he, “I have
found the greatest king of all!” For when the courtiers spoke of war,
the king did not cringe as the others had, but raised his head more
majestically than before.
So Offero went towering down the hall, and bent his huge height before
the throne.
“Oh, king,” he cried, “behold your servant, Offero!”
The king’s eyes gleamed. For proud and powerful as he was, with a giant
like this his name would be more terrible still.
“Rise, Offero,” he said. “The king accepts your service. In battle you
shall march at our army’s head; and in peace you shall stand behind our
throne.”
But when Offero marched before the king’s army, wars ceased. For at sight
of him the enemy turned and ran away as fast and far as their legs would
go. So there was little for him to do but stand behind the king’s throne
in the palace hall. And that was rather dull sometimes for a great,
strapping giant like Offero.
[Illustration: When Offero marched, wars ceased]
“But,” he would remind himself, “I am serving the greatest king of
all,—the only one who is unafraid.” And then he would straighten his big,
stiff shoulders, and look as proud and fierce as should the servant of
such a king.
One stormy night as Offero stood behind the throne, a minstrel came
to play his harp before the king. He sang of war, of dangers and
temptations; and Offero stood drinking in with all his heart the music
and the story. But the king fidgeted in his great chair, and Offero could
see his gold crown tremble. One hand would grip the carved, gilt lion by
his side, while the other made a nervous sign upon his forehead.
Offero watched, troubled. It was when the minstrel sang of Satan that the
king shuddered. It was at that name he made the sign upon his forehead.
When the minstrel had done, and the courtiers had taken their leave,
Offero knelt before the throne. “Oh, king,” he cried, “why did you shake
at Satan’s name?—you who are afraid of no one!”
The king smiled sadly. “Ah, Offero,” he said, “the mightiest monarch of
the earth must fear Satan. For he is more powerful than any king of us
all; and only that sign of the cross can save us from him.”
Offero sprang up, his huge shadow darkening the throne.
“Then you are not the greatest king!” he thundered. “Farewell. I go to
serve him whom you fear,—King Satan!”
And like a cyclone Offero was gone through the palace gate.
All night he strode through the storm; and when day cleared, he found
himself on a wide, pleasant road thronged with people all going down a
hill.
“Ho, there!” shouted Offero from his height. “Can any of you tell me the
way to King Satan?”
“Follow us,” cried the foremost; “we are bound that way.”
Now, the leaders, who went so fast ahead, looked mean and crafty; and
those who shuffled along behind were pale and wild, with restless eyes.
But Offero, towering so far above, could not see their faces. He was only
glad in his great, honest heart to be with such a large, gay company.
“For,” he said to himself, “does it not show that Satan is the greatest
king of all when so many people willingly leave other kings, to serve
him?”
The road went down steeper and steeper. And the faster it fell, the gayer
and more reckless the travelers became. They shouted and danced along so
riotously that even Offero’s huge strides hardly kept up with them.
Suddenly there was a shriek. In an instant all the gay cries were changed
to rasping screams. Offero stopped in bewilderment. Directly before him
the road was swallowed up in a vast, smoking cavern. It was into that his
companions had gone.
The shrieks grew fainter, and above them came a hoarse, sneering laugh.
“A cruel king, this Satan!” thought Offero. “But I have vowed to serve
the greatest, and I must go on.”
He stepped to the cavern’s mouth. A blast of black smoke choked him; and
as it cleared, he saw coming toward him, a haughty figure with a crown of
flames.
Offero bowed low.
“A handsome recruit!” snarled Satan. “Well, friends, a fellow like this
will be useful on our errand in the world up there.” And without a word
to the giant, Satan beckoned him to fall behind.
Offero followed sadly while Satan and his train swept jeering up the
hill. All along the way people cringed and shook at Satan’s coming. Dukes
and princes, ladies and laborers, all scurried at his glance. A whole
army marching to battle turned in terror at sight of him. Satan went on,
haughty and regardless.
Little by little, Offero began to forget his cruelty in admiration for
his boldness. “At last,” thought the honest giant, “I have found the
greatest king, who is afraid of no one.” And he stepped along proudly to
think that his search was done.
The road gave a sudden turn. Over the heads of Satan and his train Offero
could see a rough cross of wood against the sky, and at its foot a child
placing a handful of wild flowers.
The giant’s kind heart was troubled. “Such a baby!” he muttered. “If only
Satan would not frighten her!”
As he spoke there was a snort of fear. But it was not the child who gave
it. Satan, cowering, burst through his followers, and back along the
road. Offero’s great form barred the way.
“Let me by!” shrieked Satan. “Let me by, I say!”
Offero’s mighty hand tightened on his shoulder. “Tell me first,” said the
giant calmly, “of what you are afraid.”
“The cross!” screamed Satan. “The cross! The cross of Christ, my enemy!”
“This Christ,” said Offero, “is a greater king than you, then, or you
would not fear his cross.”
“Let me go!” cried Satan, beating with his fists on Offero’s massive arm.
“Save me!”
Offero loosened his grip. “Go,” he said scornfully, and stood aside while
Satan and his train rushed by him down the hill.
The little girl stood wondering beneath the cross. “Good day,” said
Offero. “Can you tell me the way to the king called Christ?”
“You must ask the hermit,” answered the child. “He knows the way. But the
path to his hut is steep and jagged, up a high hill.”
“Thank you,” said Offero. “The path does not matter, if he can tell me
how to find the greatest king.”
[Illustration: “Good day,” said Offero. “Can you tell me the way to the
king called Christ?”]
So the child pointed the way. All day long Offero climbed. The stones
were so big and sharp that they cut even his huge, hardy feet; and it was
sunset before he came to the hut on the mountain top.
The hermit was beginning his evening meal. “Welcome, friend,” he cried.
“Come in and sup with me.”
As they ate, Offero told the hermit of his errand. “I would find this
king called Christ,” he said. “For I have vowed to serve the greatest
king, who is afraid of no one. My arms are strong. I can fight for him
and make him more powerful than before.”
The hermit smiled. “To find Christ,” he said, “you must first serve him.
And to serve him you must not kill your fellowmen, but help them.”
“What can I do then?” asked Offero ruefully. “I am strong to fight. How
can I help?”
The hermit looked at him. “Good giant,” he said, “your shoulders are
broad and sturdy. They should be able to carry great weights.”
“They can indeed,” cried Offero happily. “It is from them I have my
name,—Offero,—the carrier.”
“Then, Offero,” said the hermit quietly, “why not use your shoulders to
serve King Christ? There is a river not far from here, which runs deep
and wild; and there are many people who come night and day to cross it
over. The strongest and hardiest pass through safely, but the old and
weak are often swept away by the flood.”
Offero’s eyes flamed with sudden pride. “I can carry them all safely
across!” he cried. Then his face darkened. “But how shall I find King
Christ?” he asked.
The hermit’s eyes looked far away. “You will not have to search,” he said
gently. “If you serve him well, he will come to you.”
Next morning Offero and the hermit set out for the river. But hardly were
they down the mountain when every traveler called out to them to turn
back. “The river is in a fury,” they cried. “No man could reach the other
side alive.”
The hermit shook his head. “Come and see,” he said. “For I have a trusty
ferryman here who can weather any flood.” So Offero and the hermit kept
on; and the travelers followed, wondering.
The river beat against its banks, and the waves rushed white with foam.
Offero pulled up a stout green tree to steady himself, and waded in till
he could feel the cruel whirlpools sweeping around his ankles. Then
lifting the hermit to his broad, firm shoulder, he plunged fearlessly
into the raging stream. The water swirled and hissed about him. It rose
to his great chest, and wet the edge of the hermit’s robe. But it was of
no avail against the giant. He towered through it as solid as a cliff,
and set the hermit safely on the other side.
A great “bravo” went up from the watching people; and when Offero came
back, they gathered about him, clamoring to be carried. So Offero began
his service of the king whom he had never seen.
Day and night he kept at it,—in the spring when the river was high and
surly, in the winter when it was chilling and swift. To be within call
always, he built himself a hut on the bank; and there was no one who
knocked, however haughty or humble, that Offero did not take upon his
shoulder and carry safely through the river.
So every day Offero’s great face grew more kindly and his shoulders more
patient. But always in his heart there was a kind of longing wonder
whether the King would really seek him out, as the hermit had said; and
whether Christ was indeed the greatest king, afraid of no one. “If Christ
would only come!” he thought; and sometimes in the depths of night he
would start up and unbar the door, thinking that he heard the knock of
the King. But it was only the wind, or now and again some belated pilgrim
begging to be carried across the river.
One black night when the rain lashed the hut, and the river ran high and
wild, Offero awoke to a sound that was not the storm. “A knock!” said his
listening heart. “A knock!” Or was it after all a dream? No pilgrim, not
even the fearless King would travel a night like this.
Nevertheless Offero sprang up, lit his great, rude lantern, and threw
open the door. A drenching blast blew away his breath, but there on the
threshold, in the gusty light was a pilgrim indeed,—a little child with
his cloak running with rain.
[Illustration: A little child, with his cloak running with rain]
Offero caught him up with one grasp of his great arm. “Poor little one!”
he cried. “Come in from the storm.”
“No, no, kind giant,” pleaded the child. “I cannot stay. I must cross
the river to-night. It runs deep and wild for my small strength, and I
come to ask if you will carry me through.”
So Offero took his staff, and settling the child gently on his shoulder,
plunged out into the pelting storm.
Above the wind they could hear the river roaring through the dark.
Offero strode to the edge and stepped in. At the very bank the water was
knee-deep, and the waves washed high on his great body. The child clung
closer to his neck, and Offero stopped and steadied himself. The bottom
was slippery at best; and to-night, with the waves rushing against him,
it was harder than ever to stand upright.
At every step the river grew deeper and more savage. The rapids snarled
about his neck, and his eyes were blinded with foam. The child, who had
been but a featherweight, seemed suddenly to become heavier than a man.
Offero’s mighty shoulder bent under the load. The waves plunged into
his face, choking him. And still the child pressed him down. The water
was smothering him, and he felt the current sweeping him off his feet.
Firmly as he held to his staff, he could not go on. The child was like a
mountain, bearing him down. His limbs were numb and cramped, and all his
strength seemed gone. A daze came over him, and the water surged in above
his head.
With one last struggle, he straightened himself, raising the child above
the foam. Offero gasped, staggered forward, and stopped, trembling and
weak. But he had passed the channel and stepped into the shallower water
on the other side. No matter how heavily the child bore upon him now,
he could keep his head above the waves. So he stood, bowed and panting,
beaten by the river and the rain.
Then slowly he felt his way through the blackness out of the torrent and
up the solid bank. Gently he set the child down and stooped beside it.
“Are you quite safe and well, little one?” asked he.
“Quite safe, good Offero,” said the child, “thanks to your kind care. For
you have served me bravely, carrying me and my great burden through the
raging river.”
“I saw no burden,” said Offero, wondering; “I only felt it.”
And as he spoke, the sky brightened, the storming of the wind and river
ceased, and the rain fell in gentle, shining drops.
“My burden,” said the child gravely, “is the greatest any man has ever
borne. For I have taken on my shoulders all the sins and sorrows of the
world.”
Offero fell back, dumb with wonder. For before him stood no longer the
child, but a stately figure, serene, triumphant, with a crowning light
about his head.
“For I,” said the kind, deep voice, “am Christ, the king whom you have
served. And because you have borne me faithfully, you shall be called not
Offero, the carrier, but Christoffero, the Christ-carrier. So all men
shall know that you are my brave and loyal servant.”
The giant dropped on his knees, but for wonder and joy he could not find
his voice. He could only gaze with grateful eyes. And as he looked, the
King turned, and walked majestically over the hills toward the sunrise.
But Christoffero knelt on, lost in ecstasy. For he knew that he had found
the greatest king, who was afraid of nothing, not even the sins and
sorrows of the whole world.
So Offero, by serving, became the giant saint,—Christopher.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
X
Gargantua
The giant Grangousier, of feasters the first,
Hated that any should hunger or thirst;
To all at his table, the low or the high,
“Eat, eat,” said Grangousier, “and drink ere you’re dry!”
When the babe of this generous giant was yet
But a lusty young guzzler of all he could get,
He made his convivial father rejoice
By shouting “Drink, drink!” at the top of his voice.
Now, one would have thought that for eating, indeed,
The babe and his father had perished of greed;
But kindness as keen as his hunger was then
Made baby Gargantua greatest of men.
_Seymour Barnard._
X
Gargantua
Part One: How Gargantua Learned His Latin
[Illustration]
Of all the giants that ever lived, the fattest and the jolliest was good
old King Grangousier. From morning till night, and around again from
night till morning, there was nothing but one continual banquet at his
palace. Whenever you might happen in, there were always pigs roasting,
puddings steaming, spits turning, pies baking, chickens broiling, jellies
hardening, cakes frying, cooks stirring, butlers pouring, and pages
running to and fro with platters. There was always, in fact, such a cloud
of savory odors streaming out of the palace that the people for miles
around did nothing but eat the air.
In the midst of all the bustle sat King Grangousier at the head of his
table, singing and laughing, and letting out his belt at the end of each
course. And the best of it was that there was no one so rich and no one
so poor that he was not invited to sit down too and eat and drink and
laugh and sing as much as he was able. Prince and pauper, beggar and
baron, all flocked together about Grangousier’s board.
“Eat, eat, my good people,” Grangousier would cry, beaming down at
his small guests. “Here, boy, bring puddings, pheasants, capons,—and
chitterlings for the lady. Fill up the glasses. Fall to, comrades! Eat
before you’re hungry; drink before you’re thirsty,—that’s the palace
rule.”
And it must be said for Grangousier that he followed his own rule very
well. Every day he grew broader and rounder and bulgier; and as for his
chins, some said there were nine, and some that there were ten, but
anyway there was a cascade of them that fell down over the royal shirt
frills.
And so, when one day the hearty old king was blessed with a son, no one
was in the least surprised that the youngster was the biggest, lustiest,
thirstiest baby that ever was born. His baby carriage was a great wooden
cart as big as a house, drawn by a hundred oxen. And it took seven
thousand, nine hundred and thirteen cows to supply him with milk.
The very moment he was born, in fact, instead of crying, “Mie, mie, mie!”
like other babies, he shouted out at the top of his lungs, “Drink, drink,
drink!”
When father Grangousier heard _that_, his joy nearly choked him so that
he could just gasp out in his queer old French, “Que grand tu as!”—by
which he meant, “What a big throat you have!”
And all the lords and neighbors who were feasting with him, clapped their
flagons on the table and vowed that the baby could not have a better name.
“Here’s to Prince Que-grand-tu-as!” they cried.
Now, the very oldest of the king’s old neighbors, who I am afraid was a
little tipsy, shouted the toast out after the others, and in his haste,
slurred the four words together. So it happened that the young giant was
named for all time: GARGANTUA.
Up to the time he was five years old, Gargantua was educated much like
the other children of the kingdom, in
Drinking, eating, and sleeping;
Eating, sleeping, and drinking;
Sleeping, drinking, and eating.
From dawn till dark he was continually full of frolic. He would roll
about in the mud; slide down the palace towers; run after hawks and
eagles with a net, as other children chase butterflies. When his
playmates ran about with their paper whirligigs, he would pick up a
convenient windmill and go charging down with it across the kingdom.
Best of all he liked his horses. To make a good rider of him, his father
had built a great horse of wood as high as a church. Across its back
Gargantua would throw himself, and make it trot, jump, amble, gallop, or
pace just as he liked. Of a huge post he made himself a hunting-nag; and
of a beam, a work-horse. Besides these he had ten or twelve poles that
did for race-horses, and seven great boards that were horses for his
coach. All of them he kept in his own room, tied securely to his bed.
[Illustration: He would make it trot or gallop]
One day Lord Breadinbag, the Duke of Free-meal, and the Earl of
Dry-throat, with all their followers, came to visit King Grangousier.
With so many guests all at once, the palace was crowded, and in the
stables for the visitors’ horses there was not a stall to be had.
Lord Breadinbag’s steward and his first gentleman-of-horse came on
Gargantua just as he was sliding down off the palace roof. “Aha!” thought
they, “we can find out from _him_ where the king’s own stables are.”
“Good prince,” said the steward, “can you show us where the giant horses
are kept?”
“Oh, yes,” cried Gargantua, “come with me.”
And taking them both by the hand, he dragged them after him up the great
staircase of the palace. Through a long hall he led them up into a tower.
“This is some trick!” gasped the gentleman-of-horse. “The stables are
never at the top of the house.”
As for the poor steward, he was too breathless
to reply. “You—never—can—tell,” he panted.
“Things—so—odd—in—these—giants’—countries.”
But Gargantua kept on dodging around corners and dashing up staircases,
and there was nothing for it but to stumble after. Finally he flung open
his bedroom door.
“Here are my great horses!” he cried. “Here is my roan, here is my bay,
here is my race horse!” And with that he gave a lash at the beams and
poles.
As soon as the steward and the gentleman-of-horse got their breath, they
laughed indeed, and fairly tripped over each other in rushing downstairs
to tell the joke in the banquet hall.
When Grangousier heard it, he roared till his chins shook again. “The
young rogue!” he bellowed. “The rascal! If he is old enough to be up to
mischief, he is old enough to go to SCHOOL!”
From that moment Gargantua’s fate was sealed. The next day an old
schoolmaster named Tubal Holofernes came to teach him his letters. Now,
Master Holofernes was a little, wizened man whom Gargantua could have
lifted up in one of his big hands. Standing on the ground he had to
shout through a trumpet to reach Gargantua’s ears. So, in order to get
on faster with the teaching, Grangousier had him lifted up on one of the
wooden horses, and ordered Gargantua to stand quietly alongside.
“A, B, C,” Holofernes would shout into his pupil’s tremendous ear. And
Gargantua, who thought the whole thing a fine new game, would roar the
letters out gaily after him.
So well did he learn them, in fact, that by the time he was ten years
old, he could say the whole alphabet by heart backwards, to the immense
delight of his father and all the banqueters.
[Illustration: Master Holofernes]
“And now,” cried Grangousier, fairly bursting with pride and pudding, “he
must be at his Latin.” For the truth of it was Grangousier did not know a
word of Latin himself, and so he was determined that his son should be a
great scholar.
Gargantua did not mind in the least. It meant new playthings for him.
For, since there were no printed books in those days, Gargantua had first
of all to learn to write books of his own. So Grangousier had made for
him a great blank book about an acre square, a pen-holder as long as the
pillar of Enay, and a horn that would hold a whole black lake of ink.
Master Holofernes would stand on the writing-desk and make his little,
correct letters down in one corner of the book. Then Gargantua would
take his pen and splash and scrawl and scratch in great lines and arcs
all over the huge pages. Each letter Gargantua made, in fact, was so
big that poor Holofernes had to look at it through a reducing glass to
see the whole of it at once. All this took some time of course, but
Grangousier was hugely pleased when, in thirteen years, six months and
two weeks after he began, Gargantua could make any letter in the alphabet.