Our smallest enemies can be the worst;
Second: we may escape a great oppressor
Only to fall before a lesser.
II, 9
THE ASS WITH A LOAD OF SPONGES AND THE ASS WITH A LOAD OF SALT
A donkey driver, stick in hand—
As if it were a scepter, and
Himself an august emperor of Rome,
Though but a lowly muleteer—
Was driving two beasts long of ear.
One, sure of hoof and trotting with aplomb,
Bore on his back a pack of sponges, while
The other, dawdling donkey-style,
“Crawling on eggshells,” as they say,
Was carrying a load of salt.
Up hills, down valleys… Finally, they—
Staunch travelers—reach a stream, and there they halt.
The driver knows the spot; for, daily, he
Has forded there before. And so, upon
The sponge-packed ass he mounts, and urges on
The other beast, who, stubbornly,
Doing just as he pleases (which
Most asses do!), falls in a ditch,
Beneath the water. Thrashing for a bit,
He rises to the surface, but without
A grain of salt! So well has it
Dissolved, that, now unburdened, can he flout
His master and go running off! The second,
Mimicking the example of his brother,
And like those sheep that follow one another,1
Jumps in as well. He hasn’t rightly reckoned!
Not quite! For when up to his neck he plunges,
Driver, and ass, and all the sponges
Swallow their fill! Alas, the latter,
Growing much fuller and much fatter—
Heavier too!—weigh down our ass,
Unable now to reach the shore.
Desperate our driver!… Well, it comes to pass,
As, clinging to the beast—behind, before—
He waits for certain death, that someone (who?
No matter!) saves both ass and driver too.
My moral here? That ill does it behoove
To follow, blindly, those ahead of you.
That’s really all I chose to prove.
II, 10
THE LION AND THE RAT & THE DOVE AND THE ANT
Man should serve everyone as best he’s able.
Often, however great we be,
We need the help of lesser folk than we.
The proof abounds: witness my double fable.
A certain rat—a bumbling sort he was—
Came stumbling from his hole, only to find
Himself betwixt a lion’s paws!
The kingly beast was nonetheless inclined
(At least this time) to do a kindly deed.
He let him go; most beau the geste!
Nor was it lost. Who could have guessed
That one fine day a lion would need
A rat to save his skin! And yet
It happened that our generous liberator,
Leaving his lair, got tangled in a net…
He roars, he struggles… All for naught. But later,
Who comes? Sire Rat! He sees him, hears his cries;
Nibbles one stitch; and, little wonder,
Gnaws it so well, the rest comes all asunder.
Patience works more than rage; time, more than size.1
My other tale, unlike the one above,
Tells of two beasts of smallish size: a dove—
The first—was drinking from a brook;
An ant—the second—there as well, mistook
Her distance; leaned too far; and in she fell.
Were one to look one would have seen the ant
Struggling against the ocean’s swirl and swell
To reach the shore… Alas, she can’t.
Of generous bent, the dove at once lays out
A blade of grass (so goes the story)—
A veritable promontory!—
Whereby the ant is saved… Now, thereabout,
A certain barefoot bumpkin, sling in hand,
By chance comes by; and, straightway spying
Venus’s sacred bird,2 he stands there, eyeing
Covetously his feast… But as he planned
To make said fowl his evening meal,
The ant went nipping at his heel:
Churl starts… Dove hears, flies off… Our village sinner
Watches her go, and bids adieu to dinner.
II, 11 & 12
THE ASTROLOGER WHO HAPPENS TO FALL INTO A WELL
Once an astrologer there was, who fell
By accident, one day, into a well.
“Poor fool! If you can’t mind your feet,” they said,
“How can you read the stars above your head?”
Quite by itself, this misadventure can
Serve to teach humankind: many’s the man—
Or most—who can learn much thereby.
For who amongst us does not speculate
With awe upon the Book of Fate,
Sure of our power to plumb, descry
Therein our destiny! What was that book
That Homer and his kind mistook
For truth? How did the Ancients view
What they called “chance,” what we today
Term “providence”? Well, let me tell you, you
Who think that chance’s laws obey
Some science: nay, not so! For, were that true,
We should not call it “chance,” or “fate,”
Or “fortune,” all of which negate
Science itself. As for the will
Of Him, the author of all good, all ill,
Who knows all, makes all, skillfully designed,
How can we comprehend, with feeble mind
Like ours, His mind’s divine intent?
What? Has He printed on the firmament,
Stamped on the stars, what night veils from our eyes?
Why? For what purpose? So that they who write
About our earthly sphere might exercise
Their wit? Or so that we mere mortals might
Avoid the pitfalls lying ever
Ready to trap us? Or to make us lose
Faith in all joy, lest it abuse
Our senses; make us loathe whatever
Pleasures befall us, turning them to pain
Anticipated? Ah, how vile, how vain,
How evil such a thought! The heaven turns;
The stars follow their course; sun burns,
Brightens our days—perforce, day after night,
Night after day—for but the simplest reasons:
Bestow upon the earth his light,
Ripen her crops, bring round her seasons,
And keep our bodies well and fit.
As for Man’s changing fate, how, tell me please,
Can changeless heaven do aught to alter it?
You charlatans, readers of destinies,
Begone! Quit Europe’s royal courts,
You horoscoping idlers, and take with you
Those other quacks whose kin and kith you
Surely must be—those alchemists—retorts
And all!… Ah, but I rant. I mustn’t. Back
Now to my tale about our quack,
Obliged to drink deep of the well: a model
Not only of practitioners of twaddle
But, too, of gaping moonbeam-chasers, those
Who can’t see danger right before their nose.
II, 13
THE HARE AND THE FROGS
A hare, daydreaming near his lair
(For, after all, what else is there
A hare can do when near a lair?)—distressed
Beyond all measure, much depressed—
Lay pondering and fraught with fright.
“Poor fretful creatures we!” he mused,
“Much to be pitied. Never a bite
To eat
in peace. Ever refused
Life’s simplest pleasure, never free
From fear! Damnable fear! Misery me!
See? Even when I try to sleep,
Can I? Oh no! I have to keep
A watchful, ever open eye!
Many’s the counsel—canny, wise, enlightened—
Urging me not to run so frightened.
Fiddlesticks! For, though hard we try,
Is fear so easy to be rid of? Why,
I think that even humankind
Fears quite as much as I.” And thus—resigned
To quake with fevered fright at just the slightest
Shadow, the merest wheeze, the lightest
Breath that might breeze his way—the hare opined.
Soon, on his melancholic watch, he hears
A noise; not much of one, but to his ears
Such as to make him start; run, worrying,
Off to his hole, a-dart. Now, scurrying
Along a marsh, he sees, in unison,
A clutch of frogs, each blessèd one,
Flip and go diving, with a flash,
Into their grotto deeps, below. “Well, I’ll
Be dashed!” he peeps, amid the splash
And splutter; and, puffing his chest the while:
“What? Me, a terror too? My humble kind?”
And, now inclined to smile a little smile:
“However craven we, in heart and mind,
Creature more craven will we ever find.”1
II, 14
THE COCK AND THE FOX
A cock, on guard, was perching in a tree—
One of your elder, wilier cocks.
“Brother,” in dulcet tones warbled a fox,
“Peace unto you, your family,
And all your kind! That’s what I’ve come to say.
Fly down. Let me embrace you. Quick!
I’ve got some twenty stops to make today,
In every corner of your bailiwick,
To spread the news: now you and yours
Are free to go about your chores
Without the slightest trepidation.
What’s more, I’ll even help! Tonight, the celebration:
Bonfires and all! But for the nonce,
Come, brother, let me kiss you.” And the cock’s response:
“My friend, your welcome declaration
Fills me with cheer. And it behooves me
To say how much
It moves me.
Double the joy, indeed, when such
Fair tidings come from you yourself. No doubt
That pair of hounds I see, about
To join us, are the couriers sent to bring
Official word of this fair happening.
They’re almost here… Yes, I’ll come down. Then you and I,
And they, and all of us, can kiss and kiss!”
“They?” cries the fox. “That is… Bye-bye!
I mustn’t miss my calls. We’ll try
To find a better time to toast all this!”
And off he runs in fright, frustrated.
Laughing, our crafty cock, elated,
Watches his flight. Revenge was never sweeter.
What greater pleasure than to cheat the cheater!
II, 15
THE CROW WHO WANTED TO IMITATE THE EAGLE
An eagle—sacred bird of Jove—
Soaring the sky, went swooping, dove,
Snatched up a sheep and bore him off. Hard by,
A crow looked on with envious eye—
Though less robust, not one whit less the glutton!—
Thinking he too might snare his share of mutton.
Circling above the flock, said crow surveyed
The five score sheep below, and made
His choice; it took him not a trice
To find the finest, plumpest of the lot:
A fresh young lamb, fit for the sacrifice,
Food for the gods. “Ah, tender tot!”
Observed our ravening bon vivant. “I know
Not who it was that suckled you. But what
A specimen you are!… That being so,
Prepare to be my meal.” Wherewith the crow
Swoops low to seize him… Sheepdom’s pride is not,
Alas, an easy prey: more does he weigh
Than, say, crow’s usual cheese! Besides, unsheared,
His fleece is thick as Polyphemus’ beard,1
All snarl and knot!… Alackaday,
Claws caught, stuck fast, there will he stay
Until the shepherd comes. He frees him, takes him
Home to his children, caged, and makes him
Naught but a silly pet!… Ah! What fools we,
Not to resist the lure of mimicry,
To ape our betters. Whence, infer:
Best know our limits; petty thieves should be
Content with petty thievery.
Not all who feed on Man are fine seigneurs:
The gnat remains entrapped; the wasp flies free.
II, 16
THE PEACOCK WHO COMPLAINED TO JUNO
The peacock, once, went grumbling his lament
To Juno: “Goddess, hear my discontent.
Reason enough have I for my displeasure.
This voice you gave me, shrill beyond all measure,
Makes all of Nature quiver, quake, and quail.
Whereas you made the nightingale—
Poor, puny creature that he is!—
Able to please—nay, captivate—with his.
His song alone pays homage to the Spring.”
Vexed, Juno answered: “Oh, you envious thing!
You, with your silken, rainbow-splendored tail,
Shimmering, halo-like, about your head!
You, jealous of the nightingale?
His voice? You? You, who strut, and preen, and spread
Those beauteous hues? Why, we would think that we
Were in a jeweler’s shop, to see
Such finery as yours! Is there
A beast who, there below, would dare
Boast that he pleases more than you? I doubt it!
To each some special trait, some quality:
But no bird has them all, no doubt about it!
Lightness of wing, the hawk; the eagle, bravery;
The gift of prophecy, raven and crow,
To warn Man of impending woe…
Yet one and all find nothing wrong
With what I’ve given them to sing their song.
So stop your whining, lest I punish you:
Leave you your voice… and pluck your feathers too!”
II, 17
THE CAT METAMORPHOSED INTO A WOMAN
A man was much enamored of his cat.
Her gentle beauty was a joy to see;
Her meow, sweet, soft as meow could be;
And he, the maddest of the mad! Whereat,
By dint of prayer, and charm, and spell
Pronounced, with many a tear, around her,
Monsieur besought the powers so well
That, one day, he awoke and found her
Turned to a woman; and, that very
Morning, our sot voluptuary
Made her his wife. Not passing fond
Of her, as he had been before…
No, now a burning lust he bore
His belle—a yearning far beyond
All bounds! Nor ever lady had—
However lovely—awed her lad
As much as did this newly mated
Beast-turned-to-wife becharm her mad,
Passionate spouse, who, addlepated,
Coddled, caressed her, and she him.
That night, all catly guise grows dim,
And he deems her a woman truly,
No more in any wise a cat,
Until, as they are lying, duly
Plying their pleasure on the mat
Of natted straw, a mouse—nay, two or three—
Comes for a gnaw and nibbl
e thereupon,
Disturbing thus their wedded bliss; whereon
Up jumps the wife, unthinkingly…
Lunges… Misses her prey… But when the mice
Return, as soon they do, she stands in wait,
And they, undaunted by her cat-free state,
Are leapt upon and, in a trice,
Done in: for they, thereby, excite
The more milady’s appetite.
Our nature has such power, such strength,
That, once the twig is bent, at length,
Despite the years, it follows its due course,
Mocking, quite, all our vain attempts by force
To alter it: flail though you may
With lash and pitchfork, you will never
Change it in any way whatever,
Nor could your cudgels win the day.
Habit will not be held at bay:
Slam shut the door: without ado, it
Opens a window and climbs through it.
II, 18
THE LION AND THE ASS OUT HUNTING
The king of beasts decided, one fine day—
Feting his birthday, so the story goes—
To hunt some prey. (We can, of course, suppose
That he would not hunt sparrows, say,
Or such; but rather that he had in mind
Fine stag and deer, and boar of finest kind
Perforce!) And so, to help him trap his fare,
It was the ass who, as His Highness’ choice—
He of the brash, stentorian voice—
Would serve as trumpet with his brassy blare.
Concealed with bough and leaf, it was agreed
That he would bray and bellow. For, indeed,
Thus would those beasts who dared, though great their awe—
Unused, as yet, to this hee-haw—
Come fleeing, each one from his lair or den.
He did… They did… Alas! For when
The air resounded with his frightful sound,
Animals, taking to their hooves, all round,
Bounding and leaping, here, there, everywhere,
Found themselves, straightway, in the lion’s snare.
“My talent won the day, n’est-ce pas?” “My ass,”
The lion scoffed, “naught can surpass
That bray of yours! Why, if I didn’t know
What a crass twit you are, I would have been
Terrified too!” Our ass, although
Deeply offended by King Lion’s mot,
Thought it was best, to save his skin,
Simply to let the matter go.
II, 19
THE WILL EXPLAINED BY AESOP
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 7