If Aesop’s fame in Greece was true,
An oracle was he; and thus,
Alone, he had more wisdom, entre nous,
Than the whole Areopagus.1
I try to prove it by the present
Tale: may the reader find it pleasant.
A certain man had daughters three,
All of them different as could be:
A drunk, the first; a vain coquette,
The second; and the third, worse yet,
Consummate penny-pincher, she.
As law required, he made his will,
Leaving to each an equal share,
Adding thereto a codicil
Stating that, when no more was there
In their possession, each one should bestow
Her part upon his wife, their mother. So
Be it… In time, he dies, lies dead.
They rush to read his testament, to know
What each one has inherited.
Alas, they study it in vain;
For how could anyone explain
The statement in the will that said
They were to give their portions to their mother
When naught they had? How can one give another
What one, indeed, owns not? What was
The man’s intent in adding such a clause?
A myriad lawyers are consulted, who
Consult a myriad laws thereto
Pertaining, but who, in the end, confessed
They had no notion what the father meant,
And who proceeded to suggest
That it would be far better—best—
Were all three simply to consent
To share the whole estate. Their mother should
Receive one-third from each (unless she would
Choose an annuity, payable from
The day her husband died). In sum,
The matter thus resolved, one forms three lots:
In one, the drinking-halls, the bowls, the pots,
The tables spread to serve the trellis-juice,
The scullery slaves, the silverware,
The casks of fine wine flowing free…
In short, whatever fits the use
Of drunkenness and gluttony.
The second holds the things that coquetry
Demands: the city house, fine furnishings,
Wenches to tress the hair, to sew the tunics,
Robes, precious jewelry, necklaces, rings,
The eunuchs…
And, in the third, the household properties,
The farm, the flocks, the pasture-lands—
Asses and varlets, hooves and hands
To till the soil… When, at length, these
Three lots were constituted, it was thought
That, were it left to chance, each sister might
Not receive what, indeed, she would have sought.
They ought, instead, do what was only right:
To wit: select the lot that brought each one
Most satisfaction. And so was it done.
The populace of Athens, great and small,
Hailed the solution. Of them all,
Aesop alone objected. For, thought he,
After so much debate and folderol,
The distribution was the contrary
Of what the will prescribed; and, were
The testator alive, that Attic sir
Would scorn it, most assuredly!
“How can it be that you, a race so proud
Of its incomparable intellect,
Should so bemuddle, so becloud
A dying man’s last will, so disrespect
His testament!” With that he told the crowd
Assembled how he understood
The document. To each he would
Give what she wanted least, and what would be
The most unsuited to her quality.
To the coquette, the drunkard’s stock-in-trade;
The flocks and plough-beasts to the tippling maid;
And, to the one who, niggardly,
Saved every sou, pinched every pence,
He gave the coiffing-wenches. Thus
The Phrygian2 solves the testament’s
Demands most vague and most ambiguous,
Stating that it is obvious
That all will sell forthwith their useless lot
And, with the money they have got,
Will find themselves fine husbands, and, straightway,
Enrich their mother, for no more will they
Own wealth bequeathed unto them, that before,
Had all belonged to their progenitor.
The people were confounded—nay,
Astounded—at how one man could be more
Wise, more sagacious, and more shrewd
Than the assembled multitude.
II, 20
· BOOK III ·
THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THE ASS
FOR M. D. M.1
Art is mankind’s firstborn inheritor:
To ancient Greece we owe the fable—or
The apologue. But still, although the field
Has been well harvested, yet will it yield,
To those newly arrived, their share to glean.
The tale proffers vast lands where none has been
Before—lands uninhabited; and these
Offer our authors new discoveries
Each day. Let me relate one here to you,
One that Malherbe told to Racan.2 The two,
Rivals of Horace, and each one an heir
Of his sweet lyre; the pair, Apollo’s fair
Disciples. Or, to put it better yet,
Our masters… One day, when alone they met
To share their thoughts, Racan asked: “Sire, I pray you,
How ought I live my life? Tell me, what say you,
You who have lived so many a passing year?
What shall I do? What shall be my career?
You know my talents, my abilities,
My birth. Which is the best to choose of these:
A country life, a charge at court? Or should
I, rather, lead a life at arms? Each would
Present its charms and its unpleasantnesses:
War has its joys; and marriage, its distresses.
The choice is not my own alone. I must
Content many another too, not just
Myself: the court and all, my family…
In a word, everyone.” “Misery me!”
Malherbe cried. “You say you must satisfy
Everyone? Well, you shall have my reply,
But listen to a story first, I pray.
A miller and his son, one market day,
Went off to sell their ass; one of them, old—
The father, that is, if you need be told—
The other, if my memory serves, a young
Lad of some fifteen years. Betwixt them hung
The ass, suspended, hooves together bound.
For thus, they thought, he was sure to be found
Fresh and in finest fettle. As the pair
Carry him, chandelier-like, to the fair,
The first to come upon these rustics twain—
Poor dolts!—looks, gazes, gapes, cannot restrain
Himself, and bursts out laughing, giddily,
Crying: ‘What is this arrant lunacy?
The biggest ass is surely not the beast!’
The miller heard him and straightway released
His load; thought how absurd it was to bear
His ass; unbound his hooves, laid him down there
Upon the ground. Said ass, if truth be known,
Preferred the former travel, and, with groan
And moan in his patois, he hees and haws.
The miller paid him little mind, and was
Quick to instruct his son to mount the ass,
Walking on close behind. Just then, there pass
Three merchants, much displeased at what they
see.
The eldest tells the lad: ‘What infamy,
To ride and let the graybeard walk!’ Thereat
The lad dismounted and the miller sat,
Agreeing, on his ass, until there came
Three damsels, one of whom cries: ‘Oh, for shame!
To make that poor child limp whilst you go sprawling,
Playing the fatted calf, like bishop lolling
About!’ Sneering, the miller gave a laugh
And said: ‘Methinks you will not find a calf
As old as I! So go your way!’ A few
More pleasantries pass back and forth thereto…
Convinced that he is wrong, our nincompoop
Lifts the lad, sets him on the ass’s croup.
Soon yet another troop comes by. ‘Poor ass!
Look at his mindless masters! Oh! How crass
To beat him half to death! No doubt they will
Sell his skin at the fair! Poor imbecile,
To slave for such a heartless pair!’ ‘Zounds! I
Think one is daft to try to satisfy
Everyone and his brother!’ cries the poor
Miller. ‘Still, I shall do my best, for sure.’
So both dismount. The ass, alone, lopes on…
‘Goodness me! What an odd phenomenon!’
Chortles a passerby. ‘Is beast or man
The more fit for such travel? Which one can
Better withstand the rigors of the road?
Their soles grow thin, but lest they discommode
Their ass, they let him walk! When Nicolas
Pays court to Jeanne, he rides upon his ass!
So says the song3… And these? Dumb asses three!’
Miller agrees, returns this repartee:
‘Yes, I’m an ass. But if it please you all
To praise me or to blame me, let befall
What will withal. From now on I shall heed
My head!’ He did so, and did well indeed.
As for you, lead a town or country life,
At arms, at court, wherever. Take a wife,
Be a monk, work… Whatever I advise you,
You can be sure, someone will criticize you.”
III, 1
THE LIMBS AND THE STOMACH
The subject of the fiction wrought
Herewith might have been royalty:
His Bellyship, Sire Stomach,1 ought
Be taken as a simile.
For, when he feels a need, the body too
Will feel it… Well, one day the limbs withdrew
Their fealty; resolved, for good and all,
That they, each one, would no more be in thrall
To him, and do his bidding. They decided
To live the regal life and, like him, deign
Do nothing. “Why, without us,” they derided,
“What would he live on? Air! We sweat and strain
Like pack beasts! And what have we for our pain?
Not a crumb! We slave so that he may glut
To his content and fill his royal gut.
Best we lie idle, following
His own example.” So they do. The hands,
The arms, the legs, ignore their lord’s demands,
Tell him that they will now do not a thing,
And that he must fend for himself. But soon
They would repent and sing a different tune.
The poor would languish, poorer still; no new
Blood reached the heart; weaker and weaker grew
Each limb, until the rebels found
That he upon whom they had frowned
As a mere idler, did, to their dismay,
More for the public good even than they.
Such is a portrait of the royal power.
It takes, it gives, in equal measure. Our
Labor sustains it; and, in turn,
It nourishes us: merchant, magistrate,
Artisan, ploughman, soldier too—all earn
Their livelihood therefrom. Indeed, the state
Depends on them. Menenius2
Portrayed the situation thus:
The Roman people, malcontent, commenced,
In days long past, to rail and rant against
The Senate, saying that it and it alone
Possessed the Empire—honors, dignity,
Wealth—whereas nothing had they for their own
Save taxes, war, and misery.
Already had they quit Rome’s precincts, bent
On seeking out some other government,
When he, citing this apologue, explained
That each was like a limb. Thus they remained,
Fulfilled their duty, willing and content.
III, 2
THE WOLF TURNED SHEPHERD
A certain wolf there was who, by and by,
Began to look with jaundiced eye
Upon his luck: his catch of ewes
Was growing slimmer day by day.
Thought he: “I think it’s time I play
The fox!” And he reviews the “don’ts,” the “dos”
Of fox’s feigning craft. Soon will he don
The shepherd’s garb (his rustic smock),
Fashion a staff, tootle a drone… And on
And on he’ll forge his fraud. To dupe the flock
Gladly would he have written on his hat:
“Guillot the shepherd!1 Me!” Well, for all that,
With crook betwixt his paws, this sham Guillot
Stealthily creeps apace, pianissimo…
Meanwhile Guillot—the real Guillot, that is—
Lay sleeping on the grass with his
Sheepdog, asleep as well; and, sleeping too,
His silent pipes… Likewise the sheep—
Or most of them—lay fast asleep.
The hypocrite, false through and through,
Decided what he had to do
To lure the hapless ewe into his lair;
To wit: add human voice to human air.
And so this wolf in shepherd’s clothing makes
A vain attempt to speak… The woods around
Roar—not with shepherdly, but wolfly sound!
What’s more, each one at once awakes:
Sheep, shepherd, dog… And wolf, undone,
Is set upon by everyone.
Entangled in his smock, our pharisee
Can neither fend them off nor flee.
Wherefore beware! Frauds, hear my caveat:
Let wolf be wolf; that’s what he’s ablest at!
III, 3
THE FROGS WHO ASK FOR A KING
The frogs, in realm aquatic,
Made such a hue and cry—
Grown tired of their condition democratic—
That Jupiter on high,
In gesture duly altruistic,
Bestowed on them a system monarchistic.
In short, a king befell them (literally!),
Out of the sky: calm as could be,
Clearly a pacifistic sort, serene,
But who, in falling, made a noise so harsh,
So loud, that those of swamp persuasion—green,
Timid, and none too bright—hid in the marsh,
Amid the reeds, betwixt, between,
Daring not gaze upon this creature
Whose every feature
Bespoke some fearsome and gigantic being.
He was, in point of fact, a log;
A limb, whose weighty air, there in the bog,
Awed the first frog to poke her head; who, seeing
Our ponderous giant,
But being a trifle more defiant,
Approached in fear… A second… Then a third…
And soon the whole marsh-dwelling herd,
Grown so familiar… Bolder… Bolder…
That there they were, lo! perching on his shoulder!
King Log, compliant, uttered not a word.
At length they prayed to Jupiter; implored,
Begged, pe
stered him: “Good god, give us
At least a king that moves!” Olympus’ lord,
This time, sends them a crane, who—ravenous—
Kills, eats, and gulps them down apace.
Race Frog complains. Jupiter answers thus:
“What can I do? Who told you to replace
The government you had before?
Frankly, you should have kept it! Furthermore,
You got a king as kind as you could get.
Be happy now with what you’ve got,
Wicked though he may be. If not,
The next, mayhap, may be more wicked yet!”
III, 4
THE FOX AND THE GOAT
Renard—that crafty captain, he—
Was going abroad in company
With friend the goat, him of the well-horned head;
Who, stupid (as is often said),
Can see no farther than his nose—
Unlike our fox, to humbug born and bred…
At any rate, the story goes
That one day, parched and dry, the pair descended
Into a well to quench their thirst.
That done, the question was how they intended
Thence to ascend! Said fox: “Let me go first…
You, lift your fetlocks high, and lean them
Over against the wall, your head between them:
I can climb up your back and hoist
Myself right out, then pull you free.”
“Ah, by the blessèd hairs of my goatee!
Bully!” the goat, impressed, rejoiced.
“Felicitations! Who but you
Would think of such a thing! Not I!”
And out climbs fox… then bids his friend adieu.
But not without a sermon, by the by,
Urging him to be patient. “Why,”
Says he, “if only heaven had been
As generous with judgment, to your mind,
As with those whiskers, to your chin,
I daresay you’d have been much less inclined
To jump, without a thought, into that well!
Well, bye-bye!… Me? I’m leaving now
On other business. Anyhow,
Keep trying!… And remember, as they tell,
It’s best to look before you leap!”
Quite so. For as we sow, so shall we reap.1
III, 5
THE EAGLE, THE WILD SOW, AND THE CAT
The eagle, in a hollow trunk, had fixed
Her nest atop the tree. Below,
A sow made hers; and, in betwixt
The two, a cat. Eagle and sow would go
About the business of their motherhood,
Undisturbed. But the cat soon would
Bring their calm to a deadly end.
She climbs up to the eagle, says: “My friend,
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 8