This is a book of the highest flavour, full of right hearty merriment,
spiced to the palate of the illustrious and very precious tosspots and
drinkers, to whom our worthy compatriot, Francois Rabelais, the
eternal honour of Touraine, addressed himself. Be it nevertheless
understood, the author has no other desire than to be a good
Touranian, and joyfully to chronicle the merry doings of the famous
people of this sweet and productive land, more fertile in cuckolds,
dandies and witty wags than any other, and which has furnished a good
share of men of renown in France, as witness the departed Courier of
piquant memory; Verville, author of _Moyen de Parvenir_, and others
equally well known, among whom we will specially mention the Sieur
Descartes, because he was a melancholy genius, and devoted himself
more to brown studies than to drinks and dainties, a man of whom all
the cooks and confectioners of Tours have a wise horror, whom they
despise, and will not hear spoken of, and say, “Where does he live?”
if his name is mentioned. Now this work is the production of the
joyous leisure of good old monks, of whom there are many vestiges
scattered about the country, at Grenadiere-les-St.-Cyr, in the village
of Sacche-les-Azay-le-Rideau, at Marmoustiers, Veretz, Roche-Cobon,
and the certain storehouses of good stories, which storehouses are the
upper stories of old canons and wise dames, who remember the good old
days when they could enjoy a hearty laugh without looking to see if
their hilarity disturbed the sit of your ruffle, as do the young women
of the present day, who wish to take their pleasure gravely--a custom
which suits our Gay France as much as a water jug would the head of a
queen. Since laughter is a privilege granted to man alone, and he has
sufficient causes for tears within his reach, without adding to them
by books, I have considered it a thing most patriotic to publish a
drachm of merriment for these times, when weariness falls like a fine
rain, wetting us, soaking into us, and dissolving those ancient
customs which make the people to reap public amusement from the
Republic. But of those old pantagruelists who allowed God and the king
to conduct their own affairs without putting of their finger in the
pie oftener than they could help, being content to look on and laugh,
there are very few left. They are dying out day by day in such manner
that I fear greatly to see these illustrious fragments of the ancient
breviary spat upon, staled upon, set at naught, dishonoured, and
blamed, the which I should be loath to see, since I have and bear
great respect for the refuse of our Gallic antiquities.
Bear in mind also, ye wild critics, you scrapers-up of words, harpies
who mangle the intentions and inventions of everyone, that as children
only do we laugh, and as we travel onward laughter sinks down and dies
out, like the light of the oil-lit lamp. This signifies, that to laugh
you must be innocent, and pure of a heart, lacking which qualities you
purse your lips, drop your jaws, and knit your brow, after the manner
of men hiding vices and impurities. Take, then, this work as you would
take a group of statue, certain features of which an artist could
omit, and he would be the biggest of all big fools if he puts leaves
upon them, seeing that these said works are not, any more than is this
book, intended for nunneries. Nevertheless, I have taken care, much to
my vexation, to weed from the manuscripts the old words, which, in
spite of their age, were still strong, and which would have shocked
the ears, astonished the eyes, reddened the cheeks and sullied the
lips of trousered maidens, and Madame Virtue with three lovers; for
certain things must be done to suit the vices of the age, and a
periphrase is much more agreeable than the word. Indeed, we are old,
and find long trifles, better than the short follies of our youth,
because at that time our taste was better. Then spare me your
slanders, and read this rather at night than in the daytime and give
it not to young maidens, if there be any, because this book is
inflammable. I will now rid you of myself. But I fear nothing from
this book, since it is extracted from a high and splendid source, from
which all that has issued has had a great success, as is amply proved
by the royal orders of the Golden Fleece, of the Holy Ghost, of the
Garter, of the Bath, and by many notable things which have been taken
therefrom, under shelter of which I place myself.
_Now make ye merry, my hearties, and gayly read with ease of body and
rest of reins, and may a cancer carry you if you disown me after
having read me._
These words are those of our good Master Rabelais, before whom we must
also stand, hat in hand, in token of reverence and honour to him,
prince of all wisdom, and king of Comedy.