"Who are you, my friend?" said Pantagruel. "What do you want, and what is your name?" The man answered him in German, gibberish, Italian, English, Basque, Lantern-language, Dutch, Spanish, Danish, Hebrew, Greek, Breton, and Latin.
"Well, well, my friend," replied Pantagruel, when the man had come to an end, "can you speak French?"
"That I can very well, sir," he replied, "for my name is Panurge, and I was bred and born in Touraine, which is the garden of France. I have just come from Turkey, where I was taken prisoner, and my throat is so parched and my stomach so empty that if you will only put a meal before me, it will be a fine sight for you to see me walk into it."
Pantagruel had conceived a great affection for the wandering scholar, and he took him home and set a great store of food before him. Panurge ate right on until the evening, went to bed as soon as he finished, slept till dinner time next day, so that he only made three steps and a jump from bed to table. Panurge was of a middle height, and had a nose like that of the handle of a razor. He was a very gallant and proper man in his person, and the greatest thief, drinker, roysterer, and rake in Paris. With all that, he was the best fellow in the world, and he was always contriving some mischief or other. Pantagruel, being pleased with him, gave him the castellany of Salmigondin, which was yearly worth 6,789,106,789 royals of certain rent; besides the uncertain revenue of c.o.c.kchafers and snails, amounting one year with another to the value of 2,435,768, or 2,435,769 French crowns of Berry. Sometimes it amounted to 1,234,554,321 seraphs, when it was a good season, and c.o.c.kchafers and snails in request; but that was not every year.
The new castellan conducted himself so well and prudently than in less than fourteen days he wasted all the revenue of his castellany for three whole years. Yet he did not throw it away in building churches and founding monasteries, but spent it in a thousand little banquets and joyful festivals, keeping open house for all good fellows and pretty girls who came that way.
Pantagruel being advertised of the affair was in no wise offended. He only took Panurge aside, and sweetly represented to him that if he continued to live in this manner it would be difficult at any time to make him rich.
"Rich?" answered Panurge. "Have you undertaken the impossible task to make me rich? Be prudent, like me, and borrow money beforehand, for you never know how things will turn out."
"But," said Pantagruel, "when will you be out of debt?"
"The Lord forbid I should ever be out of debt," replied Panurge. "Are you indebted to somebody? He will pray night and morning that your life may be blessed, long and prosperous. Fearing to lose his debt, he will always speak good of you in every company; moreover, he will continually get new creditors for you, in the hope, that, through them, you will be able to pay him."
To this Pantagruel answering nothing. Panurge went on with his discourse, saying: "To think that you should run full tilt at me and twit me with my debts and creditors! In this one thing only do I esteem myself worshipful, reverend, and formidable. I have created something out of nothing--a line of fair and jolly creditors! Imagine how glad I am when I see myself, every morning, surrounded by them, humble, fawning, and full of reverence. You ask me when I will be out of debt.
May the good Saint Babolin s.n.a.t.c.h me, if I have not always held that debt was the connection and tie between the heavens and the earth; the only bond of union of the human race; without it the whole progeny of Adam would soon perish. A world without debts! Everything would be in disorder. The planets, reckoning they were not indebted to each other, would thrust themselves out of their sphere. The sun would not lend any light to the earth. No rain would descend on it, no wind blow there, and there would be no summer or harvest. Faith, hope, and charity will be quite banished from such a world; and what would happen to our bodies?
The head would not lend the sight of its eyes to guide the hands and the feet; the feet would refuse to carry the head, and the hands would leave off working for it. Life would go out of the body, and the chafing soul would take its flight after my money.
"On the contrary, I shall be pleased to represent unto your fancy another world, in which everyone lends and everyone owes. Oh, how great will be the harmony among mankind! I lose myself in this contemplation.
There will be peace among men; love, affection, fidelity, feastings, joy, and gladness; gold, silver, and merchandise will trot from hand to hand. There will be no suits of law, no wars, no strife. All will be good, all will be fair, all will be just. Believe me, it is a divine thing to lend, and an heroic virtue to owe. Yet this is not all. We owe something to posterity."
"What is that?" said Pantagruel.
"The task of creating it," said Panurge. "I have a mind to marry and get children."
"We must consult the Oracle of the Divine Bottle," exclaimed Pantagruel, "before you enter on so dangerous an undertaking. Come, let us prepare for the voyage."
_V.--The Divine Bottle_
Pantagruel knew that the Oracle of the Divine Bottle could only be reached by a perilous voyage in unknown seas and strange islands. But, undismayed by this knowledge, he fitted out a great fleet at St. Malo, and sailed beyond the Cape of Good Hope to Lantern Land. As they were voyaging along, beyond the desolate land of the Popefigs and the blessed island of the Papemanes, Pantagruel heard voices in the air, and the pilot said: "Be not afraid, my lord! We are on the confines of the frozen sea, where there was a great fight last winter between the Arimaspians and the Nepheliabetes. The cries of the men, the neighing of the horses, and all the din of battle froze in the air, and now that the warm season is come, they are melting into sound."
"Look," said Pantagruel, "here are some that are not yet thawed." And he threw on deck great handfuls of frozen words, seeming like sugar-plums of many colours. Panurge warmed some of them in his hands, and they melted like snow into a barbarous gibberish. Panurge prayed Pantagruel to give him some more, but Pantagruel told him that to give words was the part of a lover.
"Sell me some, then," cried Panurge.
"That is the part of a lawyer," said Pantagruel. But he threw three or four more handfuls of them on the deck, and as they melted all the noises of the battle rang about the ship.
From this point Pantagruel sailed straight for Lantern Land, and came to the desired island in which was the Oracle of the Bottle. On the front of the Doric portal was engraved in fine gold the sentence: "In Wine, Truth." The n.o.ble priestess, Bachuc, led Panurge to the fountain in the temple, within which was placed the Divine Bottle. After he had danced round it three Bacchic dances, she threw a magic powder into the fountain, and its water began to boil violently and Panurge sat upon the ground and waited for the oracle. First of all a noise like that made by bees at their birth came from the Divine Bottle, and immediately after this was heard the word, "Drink!"
The priestess then filled some small leather vessels with this fantastic water, and gave them to Panurge and Pantagruel, saying: "If you have observed what is written above the temple gates, you at last know that truth is hidden in wine. Be yourselves the expounders of your undertaking, and now go, friends, in the protection of that intellectual sphere, the centre of which is in all places and the circ.u.mference nowhere, which we call G.o.d. What has become of the art of calling down from heaven, thunder and celestial fire, once invented by the wise Prometheus? You have certainly lost it. Your philosophers who complain that all things were written by the ancients, and that nothing is left for them to invent, are evidently wrong. When they shall give their labour and study to search out, with prayer to the sovereign G.o.d (whom the Egyptians named the Hidden and Concealed, and invoking Him by that name, besought Him to manifest and discover Himself to them), He will grant to them, partly guided by good Lanterns, knowledge of Himself and His creatures. For all philosophers and ancient sages have considered two things necessary for the sure and pleasant pursuit of the way of divine knowledge and choice of wisdom--the goodness of G.o.d, and the company of men.
"Now go, in the name of G.o.d, and may He guide you."
CHARLES READE
Hard Cash
Charles Reade made his first appearance as an author comparatively late in life. He was the son of an English squire, born at Ipsden on June 8, 1814, and was educated for the Bar, being entered at Lincoln"s Inn in 1843. His literary career began as dramatist, and it is significant that it was his own wish that the word "dramatist" should stand first in the description of his works on his tombstone. His maiden effort in stage literature, "The Ladies" Battle," was produced in 1851; but it was not until November, 1852, with the appearance of "Masks and Faces"--the story which he afterwards adapted into prose under the t.i.tle of "Peg Woffington"--that Reade became famous as a playwright. From 1852 until his death, which occurred on April 11, 1884, Reade"s life is mainly a catalogue of novels and dramas. Like many of Charles Reade"s works, "Hard Cash, a Matter-of-Fact Romance," is a novel with a purpose, and was written with the object of exposing abuses connected with the lunacy laws and the management of private lunatic asylums. Ent.i.tled "Very Hard Cash," it first appeared serially in the pages of "All the Year Round," then under the editorship of Charles d.i.c.kens, and although its success in that form was by no means extraordinary, its popularity on its publication in book form in 1863 was well deserved and emphatic. The appearance of "Hard Cash," which is a sequel to a comparatively trivial tale, "Love me Little, Love me Long," provoked much hostile criticism from certain medical quarters--criticism to which Reade replied with vehemence and characteristic vigour. His activity in the campaign against the abuses of lunacy law did not end with the publication of this story, since he conducted personal investigations in many individual cases of false imprisonment under pretence of lunacy.
_I.--The Dodd and Hardie Families_
In a snowy-villa, just outside the great commercial seaport, Barkington, there lived, a few years ago, a happy family. A lady, middle-aged, but still charming; two young friends of hers, and an occasional visitor.
The lady was Mrs. Dodd; her periodical visitor her husband, the captain of an East Indiaman; her friends were her son Edward, aged twenty, and her daughter, Julia, nineteen.
Mrs. Dodd was the favourite companion and bosom friend of both her children. They were remarkably dissimilar. Edward was comely and manly, no more; could walk up to a five-barred gate and clear it; could row all day, and then dance all night; and could not learn his lessons to save his life.
In his sister Julia modesty, intelligence, and, above all, enthusiasm shone, and made her an incarnate sunbeam.
This one could learn her lessons with unreasonable rapidity, and Mrs.
Dodd educated her herself, from first to last; but Edward she sent to Eton, where he made good progress--in aquatics and cricket.
In spite of his solemn advice--"you know, mamma, I"ve got no headpiece"--he was also sent to Oxford, and soon found he could not have carried his wares to a better market. Advancing steadily in that line of study towards which his genius lay, he was soon as much talked about in the university as any man in his college, except one. Singularly enough, that one was his townsman--much Edward"s senior in standing, though not in age. Young Alfred Hardie was doge of a studious clique, and careful to make it understood that he was a reading man who boated and cricketed to avoid the fatigue of lounging.
To this young Apollo, crowned with variegated laurel, Edward looked up from a distance, praised him and recorded his triumphs in all his letters; but he, thinking nothing human worthy of reverence but intellect, was not attracted by Edward, till at Henley he saw Julia, and lo! true life had dawned. He pa.s.sed the rest of the term in a soft ecstasy, called often on Edward, and took a prodigious interest in him, and counted the days till he should be for four months in the same town as his enchantress. Within a month of his arrival in Barkington he obtained Mrs. Dodd"s permission to ask his father"s consent to propose an engagement to Julia, which was promptly refused; and inquiry, petulance, tenderness, and logic were alike wasted on Mr. Hardie by his son in vain. He would give no reason. But Mrs. Dodd, knowing him of old, had little doubt, and watched her daughter day and night to find whether love or pride was the stronger, all the mother in arms to secure her daughter"s happiness. Finding this really at stake, she explained that she knew the nature of Mr. Hardie"s objections, and they were objections that her husband, on his return, would remove. "My darling," she said, "pray for your father"s safe return, for on him, and on him alone, your happiness depends, as mine does."
Next day Mrs. Dodd walked two hours with Alfred, and his hopes revived under her magic, as Julia"s had. The wise woman quietly made terms. He was not to come to the house except on her invitation, unless indeed he had news of the Agra to communicate; but he might write once a week, and enclose a few lines to Julia. On this he proceeded to call her his best, dearest, loveliest friend--his mother. That touched her. Hitherto he had been to her but a thing her daughter loved. Her eyes filled.
"My poor, warm-hearted, motherless boy," she said, "pray for my husband"s safe return."
So now two more bright eyes looked longingly seaward for the Agra, homeward bound.
_II.--Richard Hardie"s Villainy_
Richard Hardie was at that moment the unlikeliest man in Barkington to decline Julia Dodd, with hard cash in five figures, for his daughter-in-law.
The great banker stood, a colossus of wealth and stability to the eye, though ready to crumble at a touch, and, indeed, self-doomed; for bankruptcy was now his game. This was a miserable man, far more so than his son, whose happiness he was thwarting; and of all things that gnawed him, none was more bitter than to have borrowed 5,000 of his children"s trust money, and sunk it. His son"s marriage would expose him; lawyers would peer into trusts, etc.
When his son announced his attachment to a young lady living in a suburban villa it was a terrible blow, but if Alfred had told him hard cash in five figures could be settled by the bride"s family on the young couple, he would have welcomed the wedding with a secret gush of joy, for he could then have thrown himself on Alfred"s generosity, and been released from that one corroding debt.
He had for months spent his days poring over the books, fabricating and maturing a false balance-sheet. Suspecting that the cashier was watching him, he one day handed him his dismissal, polite but peremptory, and went on cooking his accounts with surpa.s.sing dignity. Rage supplying the place of courage, the cashier let him know that he--poor, despised Noah Skinner--had kept genuine books while he had been preparing false ones.
He was at the mercy of his servant, and bowed his pride to flatter Skinner, and soon saw this was the way to make him a clerk of wax. He became his accomplice, and on this his master told him everything it was impossible to keep from him. At this moment Captain Dodd was announced.