him or sing his praises, but you cannot ignore him. He is of those that
die hard. Be as fastidious as you will; make up your mind to recognize
only those who are, without any manner of doubt, beyond and above all
others; however few the names you keep, Rabelais' will always remain.

We may know his work, may know it well, and admire it more every time we
read it. After being amused by it, after having enjoyed it, we may return
again to study it and to enter more fully into its meaning. Yet there is
no possibility of knowing his own life in the same fashion. In spite of
all the efforts, often successful, that have been made to throw light on
it, to bring forward a fresh document, or some obscure mention in a
forgotten book, to add some little fact, to fix a date more precisely, it
remains nevertheless full of uncertainty and of gaps. Besides, it has been
burdened and sullied by all kinds of wearisome stories and foolish
anecdotes, so that really there is more to weed out than to add.

This injustice, at first wilful, had its rise in the sixteenth century, in
the furious attacks of a monk of Fontevrault, Gabriel de Puy-Herbault, who
seems to have drawn his conclusions concerning the author from the book,
and, more especially, in the regrettable satirical epitaph of Ronsard,
piqued, it is said, that the Guises had given him only a little pavillon in
the Forest of Meudon, whereas the presbytery was close to the chateau.
From that time legend has fastened on Rabelais, has completely travestied
him, till, bit by bit, it has made of him a buffoon, a veritable clown, a
vagrant, a glutton, and a drunkard.

The likeness of his person has undergone a similar metamorphosis. He has
been credited with a full moon of a face, the rubicund nose of an
incorrigible toper, and thick coarse lips always apart because always
laughing. The picture would have surprised his friends no less than