Droll Stories from the Abbeys of Touraine | Page 4

student, and the dramatic interest of its
stories, the translator has thought that an English edition of Balzac's
chef-d'oeuvre would be acceptable to many. It has, of course, been
impossible to reproduce in all its vigour and freshness the language of
the original. Many of the quips and cranks and puns have been lost in
the process of Anglicising. These unavoidable blemishes apart, the
writer ventures to hope that he has treated this great masterpiece in a
reverent spirit, touched it with no sacrilegious hand, but, on the
contrary, given as close a translation as the dissimilarities of the two
languages permit. With this idea, no attempt had been made to polish or
round many of the awkwardly constructed sentences which are
characteristic of this volume. Rough, and occasionally obscure, they are
far more in keeping with the spirit of the original than the polished

periods of modern romance. Taking into consideration the many
difficulties which he has had to overcome, and which those best
acquainted with the French edition will best appreciate, the translator
claims the indulgence of the critical reader for any shortcomings he
may discover. The best plea that can be offered for such indulgence is
the fact that, although Les Contes Drolatiques was completed and
published in 1837, the present is the first English version ever brought
before the public.
London, January, 1874

FIRST TEN TALES

PROLOGUE
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