The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

by Jean La Fontaine

  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,