Even a wren weighs more than you can bear.
And when the slightest breeze that, by the by,
Ripples the water’s face, down must you bow;
Whereas my broad and mighty brow,
Caucasus-like against the sun and sky,
Defies the storm. For you, see how
Each gust is like a northwind blast; for me,
Mere zephyr. Now, had you the luck to be
Born in my shadow, nothing need affect you,
Safe from the wind’s tempestuous whim,
Beneath my overspreading leaf and limb.
For I, the mighty oak, I would protect you!
But no! Denied by Nature’s harsh neglect, you
Grow by the dank dominions of the wind.
Poor wretch!” “Monsieur,” replied the reed,
“It’s kind of you to be so sore chagrined
On my account. I thank you. But, no need!
I fear the winds far less than you, my friend.
You see, I never break; I merely bend.
Till now, indeed, you have withstood
Their frightful force unbowed. So far so good.
But wait. We haven’t seen the end.”
As thus he spoke, from out beyond
The far horizon, like the crack of doom,
There looms the fiercest offspring ever spawned
From deep within the Northwind’s womb.
Oak holds… Reed bends… Wind blows… Then more and more,
Till it uproots the one who, just before,
Had risen heavenward with lofty head,
Whose feet had reached the empire of the dead.
I, 22
· BOOK II ·
AGAINST THOSE WITH TOO DIFFICULT TASTES
If I, at birth, had had bestowed on me
The talents that the Muse Calliope1
Promised her lovers, still should I devote
Them to the fictions that good Aesop wrote:
Fiction and verse go ever hand in hand.
But I am not one of Parnassus’2 band
Beloved—alas!—able with grace to weave
Those tales of his into resplendent fable.
Some there are who can do it, I believe.
But, though I try, not I. Let one more able
Attempt as best he will. Still, heretofore
Have I lent to the wolf a language new,
And to the lamb, his interlocutor.
In fact, even more have I dared to do,
Endowing trees and plants with speech. Now, who
Would not deem this an act of rhetoric’s
Enchantment? “True,” critics will say.
“But you speak splendidly of five or six
Mere children’s tales!” “Children’s tales, eh?”
O censors! Shall I, then, assume I should
Write some in style more grave and pompous? Good!
Here is one… Back in days of yore,
The Trojans, after ten long years of war—
Proud Troy beset—have yet withstood
Each battle fierce the Greeks have waged on them,
A thousandfold attacks without success,
And who, war-worn and tiring, acquiesce
To an inspiring stratagem,
One by Minerva wrought: a wooden horse
Of monstrous stature and form passing rare,
Takes up within its flanks—perforce
Most spacious!—wise Ulysses, hiding there
With the bold Ajax, brave Diomedes,
Whom the Colossus—thus concealing these
And all their troops—would introduce
Into the city, there to loose their rage
Upon her very gods, and, by this ruse,
Thus confer honor on its sage,
Industrious, and wily fabricators…3
“Enough!” will cry one of my castigators.
“Your sentence is too long! Please, take
A breath! Besides, for goodness’ sake,
Your horse and its heroic phalanx are
More unbelievable, by far,
Than are a fox and crow,4 whose voice—the latter’s—
The crafty former deftly flatters.
For you the style is much too noble.” “Oh?”
Then this, perhaps… A jealous shepherdess—
Fair Amaryllis—yearning for her beau,
Alcippe, thought that naught caught her distress
But sheep and hound. Young Tircis, though,
Slips ’twixt the willows and hears her address
Fair Zephyr, praying her to whisper to
Her love… “No, no! That line will never do!
Ending with ‘to’? No! Not permitted!
Clearly would it have benefited
From more attentive care!” So growls my scold.
Damnable critic! Will you hold
Your tongue? Can I never complete
My tale? How dangerous, how bold
It is to seek a manner meet
To please you and your ilk! Fie! I decry them!
Nothing I do will ever satisfy them!
II, 1
THE RATS IN COUNCIL ASSEMBLED
A cat—one Nibblelard1 by name—had spread
Much misery and devastation
Throughout the rodent population:
Many a rat, alack, lay dead
And buried; whereas those still left—the few—
Daring not leave their hole in terror, grew
Hungrier by the day. Sire Nibblelard—
He whom the people Rat, ill-starred,
Considered more a demon than a cat!—
Went whoring off one night; and while he plied
His mate with amorous tit for tat,
The remnants of his raticide
Met in a corner and discussed
Their fate. “We have one hope! Just one!” So cried
Their dean, indeed the most august,
Most thoughtful of the lot. “We must
Attach a bell, hang it about
His neck, lest there be any doubt
When he comes out for war. Then shall we be
Able to flee!” They all agree:
“Here, here! An excellent suggestion!
For more we cannot do!” The only question:
Who? Who will bell the cat?2 “Not me!”
Cries one. “I’m not so stupid!” “Nor am I,”
Assures another. Likewise all the rest.
And so they bid their brilliant plan good-bye,
As one by one they leave. Meeting recessed.
(Like many a conclave I have seen expire
For want of one brave canon, monk, or friar.)
Advisers by the score abound
At court to give advice. But set
About to act, and you can bet
There’s no one anywhere around.3
II, 2
THE WOLF PLEADING AGAINST THE FOX BEFORE THE APE
A wolf charged that a certain reprobate—
A fox: in point of fact, his neighbor—
Had robbed him; whence, before the magistrate—
The Ape—they went, though lawyerless, to state
Their claim. Never did Themis1 labor
(So Ape recalled) upon a case
More complicated; and His Grace,
Unaided quite, and unabetted,
Tossed and turned on his bed of Justice, fretted,
Sweated through all their arguments.
When they had done with pleas, replies,
Proof, reproof, prosecution and defense,
All proffered with tempestuous cries,
The judge, apprised of each one’s precedents
Felonious, told them: “Friends, I know you
Both are inclined to fraudulence. And so, you
Both shall be fined! You, wolf, because you bring
This suit, though no one filched from you a thing;
You, fox, because, though you did not commit
The crime this time, you have engaged in it.”
Our judge was of a mind that, to indict
A blackguard, right or wrong, was always right.
Some persons of good sense have considered the impossible and contradictory nature of the Ape’s sentence to be worthy of censure; but I have made use of it only because Phaedrus did so; and that, in my opinion, should resolve the question.2
II, 3
THE TWO BULLS AND A FROG
A pair of amorous bulls stood vying
Over a heifer both would woo and service.
“Misery me!” a frog sat sighing,
Eyeing their combat—timorous, nervous;
Whereat one of her croaking kin
Queried: “Good gracious, why the fuss?”
“Why?” cried the frog. “For us, that’s why! For us!
One of those two is sure to win;
And when he drives his rival out,
Far from their green and flowering fields, what then?…
Then he’ll come stomping over swamp and fen,
Trampling our reeds! And us as well, no doubt!
Tomorrow we’ll be dead. And why? Because here, now,
Two bulls are fighting for some silly cow!”
Frog’s dread predictions come to pass.
When bull, defeated, seeks their dank morass,
Twenty compatriots an hour will croak
Their final croak: a crushing fate!
Alas, ’twas ever thus. The little folk
Have always paid for follies of the great.
II, 4
THE BAT AND THE TWO WEASELS
A bat into a weasel’s lair went flying
Headlong, whereat the latter—need I mention,
No friend of mice!—ran up with the intention
Of making bat her meal, and crying:
“What? Do you dare appear before my eyes?
You, who, like all your kin, despise
Myself and mine, and seek to tyrannize
And do us in? A mouse you are, I warrant,
Or I am not a weasel! Speak! What say you?”
“What? Me, a mouse?” replies the bat. “I pray you
Not believe tales that vile, abhorrent,
Lying deceivers spread about me! Nay, you
Need but see how the Maker made me! Why,
Look at my wings! I am a bird!
Long live my brethren of the sky!”
Her reasoning the weasel heard
And found convincing; thus the bat,
Set free, bestirred herself to quit
The weasel’s hostile habitat…
Two days go by and, daft, our twit,
Unkeen of eye, goes plunging recklessly
Into another weasel’s nest; one who
Loathes birds. The mistress of the manor—she
Of pointed snout—comes loping thereunto,
About to munch a tasty bat repast.
At which the latter cries, standing aghast,
Staunchly protesting: “What? You think I am
A bird? Me? Heavens! Use your eyes, madame!
What makes a bird? Its feathers, no?
But none have I! Not me! And so
A mouse I am! Huzzah for mice!
May Jupiter lay Catdom low!”
Her wit thus saved her life, not once, but twice.
Many, like her, of fickle blazoning,
Will scoff at danger, sneer with scornful eye.
The wise man knows when best to cry
“Long live the League!” “Long live the king!”1
II, 5
THE BIRD WOUNDED BY AN ARROW
Mortally wounded by a feathered dart,
A bird laments his pain, pours out his heart,
Tortured the more with guilt for his condition:
“Barbarous Man! You pluck our wings
To rend the air with those infernal things
And make us authors of our own perdition!
Well, don’t be quick to mock and chide.
Cruel race, you really have no right to laugh:
One half of Japhet’s progeny provide
The weapons for the other half.”
II, 6
THE MASTIFF BITCH AND HER FRIEND
A mastiff bitch, about to bear her litter,
Not knowing where to lay her pressing load,
Implores a friend, who says she will permit her,
Presently, to make use of her abode.
When all is said and done, the latter bitch
Returns, requests her habitat; at which,
“A fortnight more,” the mother begs her. “Please!
Two weeks! My pups can scarcely walk!”
Whereat the other, touched by all her talk—
To make our story short—agrees.
Said time elapses, and again
The friend would claim her home, her room, her bed.
“Never!” the disingenuous quadruped
Replies, fangs bared. “I’ll vacate only when
You think you’re big enough to kick us out!”
Needless to say, her pups had grown quite stout.
Lend to the wicked and regret it!
(Alas, that’s what this tale’s about.)
You’ll ask it back but never get it:
You’ll fight, you’ll sue…
Do what you might, do what you do;
No matter: give a finger… and
They take a hand.
II, 7
THE EAGLE AND THE DUNG BEETLE
One day the eagle, gone out hunting, came
Upon a rabbit, Maître Jean by name,
Who, homeward fleeing, lest he be
Snatched up, went flying. As he flew,
A beetle’s nest came into view—
A beetle of the dung persuasion, he.
Surely no need to ask if such
A refuge might protect him very much!
No other though… And so he nestles in.
The eagle readies her attack, swoops low…
“Oh, oh!” the beetle cries. “Ah no!
Avast, you bird of kingly kin!
You could, my regal friend, sweep off with ease
My neighbor, my compère, my guest.
But would you so flout the civilities?
Spare him, or take me with him, if you please!”
Jupiter’s bird was unimpressed.
Silent, she cuffs the beetle with her wing,
Stays his tongue, bears off Maître Jean forthwith.
The insect, chafing at this scornful sting,
Wings to her nest, finds all her kith—
Her unhatched eggs, her hoped-for progeny—
Pricks every tender shell, spares not a one.
Home flies the eagle, sees her brood undone,
Unto the skies bemoans her misery.
Enraged, her groans die on the breeze, for she
Knows not on whom to swear revenge. And so,
For one year must she bear the weighty woe
Of mother wronged. Comes the next year,
She builds a higher nest. Our beetle waits,
Biding his time. But when the eggs appear,
Their fates are sealed! Our rabbit now, I fear,
Is well avenged! The eagle contemplates
Her loss, wails, fairly ululates!
Six months, the woods sleep not too well!
Ganymede’s bird1—or so they tell—
Betakes herself on high, to Jupiter.
Beseeching him to succor her,
This time she lays her eggs upon his lap,
Assuming that they will, mayhap,
Be well defended, in consideration
Of their long-standing intimate relation:
Who would be bold enough to strike? None did.
Wherefore the bug changed his attack,
Dropping a little round and black
Turd on the tunic of the god, amid
The eggs the bird had laid…
Jupiter went
To brush it off and, in so doing, sent
All the eggs breaking in a heap, whereat
The eagle, at his carelessness,
Threatens to quit his court—no more, no less!—
Renounce the world, and follies such at that.
The case is judged. The beetle pleads his cause.
The eagle loses; but, despite the law’s
Decree, the foes will not listen to reason.
Jupiter must impose a sentence; thus
Eagle will now perform his amorous
Endeavors in the winter season,
While marmot-like, he of dung beetle race,
Sleeps his long sleep, and never shows his face.
II, 8
THE LION AND THE GNAT
“Begone, vile bug! Scum of the earth, away!”
So cried the lion to the gnat;
Whereat the latter warned him: “That
Means war! You think that sobriquet
Of yours, that title, frightens me? You, ‘king’?
The bull is mightier than you;
And yet, my friend, I make him do
My bidding, at the slightest sting!”
His brazen words still echoing,
The hero—trumpeter and cavalier
In one—goes falling to the rear,
Pauses, then sounds the charge, and does
What gnats do best. That is, abuzz,
He makes straight for the lion’s neck.
The king fumes, froths, and, rearing for the fight,
Glares, roars, sets all the forest folk affright,
Cowering in their lairs. And why? Because a speck—
The puniest of flies, a mite,
A midge—nettles him here, there, everywhere.
At length the brash attacker makes his way
Right up the lion’s nose. Despair!
In agony and utter disarray
He lashes out in rage… Bites, claws…
In vain: invisible, the enemy
Reveling in his mastery,
Laughs at the lion’s efforts—nay, guffaws
To see him flail his deadly paws
And flashing tail against his bleeding flanks,
Until, at last, he lies done in, undone.
Victorious, the gnat gives thanks,
Trumpets his triumph, gloriously won,
All round about the woods. But as he goes,
He meets a spider’s web—O woe of woes!—
And in a trice his fate is sealed.
Now, what’s the moral here revealed?
In fact, I see a double lesson. First:
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 6