The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

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The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 14

by Jean La Fontaine


  Eager to live in peace, embraced and swore

  That neither one would, evermore,

  Feed on the other’s chicks. “I give my regal

  Word,” vowed the latter; and the former hooted:

  “Owl’s honor!” And Minerva’s bird1 went on:

  “Do you know mine?” “No…” “Then I fear, anon,

  Your solemn promise will be mooted:

  Should they survive, for all your good intent,

  It will, I think, be but an accident.

  A king you are; and kings, like gods, make no

  Distinction in their subjects; so

  Woe to my young if you should find them.” “Well,

  In that case,” said the eagle, “tell

  Me what they look like; even show

  Them; they’ll be safe. I guarantee.” The owl

  Replied: “My babes? They’re beautiful, the very

  Picture of pure perfection aviary,

  Unlike their peers, mere vulgar fowl.

  That’s how to recognize them. Nor

  Must you forget, lest evil Fate, a-prowl,

  Visit my nest with you, darken my door.”

  It happened that God gave the owl a brood.

  One night, when she2 was off in search of food,

  The eagle, soaring in his flight,

  Passing a rocky crag (or maybe

  Some hoveled cranny), chanced to catch a sight

  Of many an ugly—hideous!—hatchling baby,

  Tucked in a nest, pathetic, and with quite

  The most shrew-like of chirps.3 “Surely,” he thought,

  “Such misbegotten wretches, so ill wrought,

  Are not my friend’s! Let’s eat!” He ate…

  Now, when an eagle eats, he neither pities,

  Pardons, nor spares. The owl, disconsolate,

  Returned… Gawked… Squawked: “What? All my pretties,

  Dead?” Yes, a pile of spindly legs and feet

  Lay as their sole remains.4 “Ye gods,” she hoots,

  “Punish this miscreant, this king of brutes,

  This cause of my despair!” “But why entreat

  The gods?” somebody asks. “Foreswear your wrath;

  The fault is yours, fell aftermath

  Of common folly: namely, to assume

  Our offspring share our fair, delightful features.

  See? You misled friend eagle, whom

  Your brood struck as the frightfulest of creatures!”

  V, 18

  THE LION GOING OFF TO WAR

  The lion, bent on action military,

  Convoked his council for deliberation

  In session extraordinary,

  Then sent his marshals through the nation

  To tell his subjects of his plan.

  Each one, unto a man (or beast, that is),

  Agrees to use his gifts as best he can:

  The elephant, that back of his

  To carry the equipment, and his strength,

  To launch the first attack; the bear, at length,

  To lay the siege; the fox, to act

  With subterfuge; the monkey, to distract

  With tricks… Then someone says: “The ass and rabbit1

  Have no good use; best send them home. The one

  Is nothing but a simpleton;

  The other has the nasty habit

  Of turning tail in fright!” Says lion: “Nay!

  The ass can be our trumpet. With his bray

  He’ll terrify the enemy; whereas

  The rabbit, with that speed he has,

  Can be our courier.”

  Wise the king, to have refused.

  Even the least have skills: let them be used!

  V, 19

  THE BEAR AND THE TWO COMPANIONS

  Two churls—an impecunious pair—

  Went to a furrier to persuade him

  That they were sure to slay a certain bear

  (The king of bears, in fact!); that once they’d flayed him,

  He would do well to have the skin. “We swear,

  You’ll reap a fortune from it! Why,

  Fur enough is there in it to defy

  The bitter chill; enough to line

  Not one but two fine cloaks of your design!”

  Not even Dindonneau,1 who prized his sheep,

  Will sing their praise with an affection half as deep

  As do they for “our bear,” “our skin.” For “theirs”

  It is already, not the bear’s!

  So, promising to bring it round next day

  Or two, they haggle, hit upon a sum:

  “Agreed!” And off they go to fetch their prey—

  As yet uncaught, but anyway…

  Indeed, they find him; see him come

  Loping headlong to meet them! Now, struck dumb,

  They lose all thoughts commercial, peer around,

  Think only how to save their skin from him!

  One climbs a tree, up to the topmost limb;

  The other, numb with fright, nose to the ground,

  Lies down, quick as a wink; makes not a rustle;

  Breathes not a breath; moves not a muscle.

  For somewhere he has heard it said

  That bears will not attack those lying thus…

  Well, Seigneur Bear, properly credulous,

  Is fooled: he sees a body, thinks it’s dead.

  Still, to be sure, he comes and, with his muzzle,

  Sniffs at the nose, gives it a nuzzle.

  “Yes,” he decides, “it’s dead, methinks.

  It must be, seeing how much it stinks…”

  And off he goes. Our huckster up the tree

  Comes down, runs over, greets his friend with glee,

  Happy to see he’s none the worse for fear,

  Saying: “Well now, when do we skin it?…

  And what was that he whispered in your ear,

  Pawing your head?” The other: “Ha!… ‘Compeer,’

  He said, ‘don’t sell the bearskin with the bear still in it!’”2

  V, 20

  THE ASS DRESSED IN THE LION’S SKIN

  An ass, dressed in a lion’s skin—

  Though quite the worthless beast—in so dissembling

  Terrified all who saw him decked therein

  And filled the woods about with fear and trembling.

  But soon—ah woe!—a bit of ear

  (His own, I mean) chanced to appear

  From under his untoward disguise: it

  Gave him away; Martin the miller1 spies it,

  And, quick to realize it’s all a trick,

  Puts him to work, turning the mill.

  Amazed are those, thinking him lion still,

  Who marvel that Martin, with but his stick,

  Can bend a lion to a miller’s will!

  Many in France today are able

  To prove the wisdom of this fable:

  Seeing their jaunty garb we gaze, impressed;2

  But little are they, or less, undressed!

  V, 21

  · BOOK VI ·

  THE SHEPHERD AND THE LION & THE LION AND THE HUNTER

  Fables are not what they appear to be.

  The merest animals can, pleasingly,

  Instruct by deed, not dull advice: we swallow

  Gladly their tales, whence must the precepts follow.

  To teach, to please… Such is the aim twofold

  Behind these fictions. For, if truth be told,

  To do no more than entertain, to tell

  A story for the story’s sake seems, well,

  A trifle frivolous. And of those many

  Fabulists known to fame, there are not any

  Who waste their breath on empty ornament1

  That has no useful, serious intent.

  Phaedrus was so concise that some are prone

  To criticize his fashion. And our own

  Aesop, the earliest, had been still more

  Pithily brief with his en
fabled lore.

  But one there was—a certain Greek2—whose verse,

  Even more elegant and terse,

  Made him stand out with pride above the rest.

  For, all his fables did he tell, compressed

  In but four lines! Good? Bad? May the well-versed

  Be judge. Let’s take a tale that Aesop, first,

  Related, then the latter. (One, a shepherd

  Paints; one, a hunter.) As for me, I’ve peppered

  Slightly my telling. But no matter. Thus:

  In Aesop’s tale a shepherd, much a-fuss,

  A-fume at losing many a lamb and ewe,

  Decides to catch the thief. What does he do?

  Assuming someone of the wolfly race’s

  Foul inclination, off he goes, and places

  Traps roundabout those creatures’ lair. But then,

  Before he turns to leave the den:

  “O sovereign of the gods,” says he, “I pray

  You let me see my popinjay

  Caught here and now before my eyes.

  And if I have the final laugh,

  I promise you the fattest calf

  In solemn sacrifice!” As thus he cries,

  Out stalks a lion from the den! Half dead

  With fright, the shepherd, once again: “Forget

  The calf, good god! An ox! An ox, I said,

  Is yours if only you can get

  This animal to leave and let me be!”

  There’s Aesop’s tale. Now for his imitator:

  A hunter—something of a perorator,

  Boastful, brash—lost his dog: fine pedigree,

  Good stock… Suspecting that the hound had been

  Consumed, and that he now was lying in

  A lion’s belly, asked the hunter: “Where,

  Pray tell, does that fell thief reside? It’s my

  Intent to punish him forthwith!” “Out there,

  Off by the mountain,” said a shepherd. “I

  Pay him one sheep a month. That’s how and why

  I’m able to go anywhere I please.”

  As thus they speak, exchanging repartees,

  Voilà! The lion saunters by. Our braggard,

  Cringing now, turning pale and deathly haggard:

  “Jupiter!” cries, “I beg you show me some

  Close place to hide; if not my life is lost!”

  Courage is courage when the cost

  Is high. “Some call for danger: let it come,”

  Our poet says, “and off they fly, struck dumb.”

  VI, 1 & 2

  PHOEBUS AND BOREAS

  One early autumn day, Northwind and Sun

  Noticed a traveler, who was, happily,

  Well clothed against the weather. Everyone

  Knows that in autumn—surely you agree—

  Prudence is a necessity:

  It rains; the sun comes out; and those

  Who venture forth see Iris’s hued bows

  Spanning the sky, sign that they best had don

  A coat or cloak. (Which is why, once upon

  A time, the Latins said one should be wary,

  Come autumn, of this most capricious

  Time of the year.) Now then, our solitary

  Traveler, decked in his judicious

  Garb, was well clad in coat well lined

  Of fabric tough, well woven. “Ho

  And hum!” gruff Northwind puffed. “He thinks he’ll find

  Protection from what I’ve designed

  To send his way! Doesn’t he know

  There is no clasp, no button strong enough

  To hold against the breaths I blow! One huff,

  And devil take his cloak! Indeed,

  It might be quite the joke to see! What say?”

  “Fine!” answered Sun. “We really need

  Not blather on, though. Rather, s’il vous plaît,

  Let’s bet which of us will be first to get

  Our friend to doff his coat.” “Agreed!”

  Phoebus1 goes on: “I’ll even let

  Your storm clouds veil my rays. So, you begin.”

  And so begin he does. Cheeks puffed with rain,

  He growls, blasts, bellows, and with hellish din

  Blows roofs from housetops, howls his hurricane

  Over the seas, until many a boat

  Sinks to the bottom too! All for a coat!…

  The traveler parries every thrust,

  Wrapped tighter with each gust, obstinately,

  Till Northwind must admit, at length, that he

  Has failed in the allotted time. And just

  As he abates, Sun dissipates the shroud

  Before his face; and, from behind the cloud,

  Burns down upon our cavalier—though not

  Even with all his strength!—who, hot

  And sweating, doffs his garment in due course.

  One can do more with kindness than with force.

  VI, 3

  JUPITER AND THE FARMER

  In days gone by Jove had a farm to rent,

  And, to announce it, Mercury was sent

  Hither and yon. Soon buyers were arriving

  To make their offers, all the while contriving

  To bargain, as buyers will do. “The soil,”

  Said one, “is much too rocky. All my toil

  Would render little.” Likewise spoke another,

  About another fault or other.

  And so it went until one buyer—bold,

  But not too well-endowed of wit—declared

  That he, indeed, would be prepared

  To pay the price. But then he told

  The god that it was only on condition

  That Jupiter permit him to command

  The air, according to his own volition,

  And that, as soon as he had lease in hand,

  The seasons would bestow upon his land

  Warm weather, cold, wet, windy, dry—as he

  Demanded. Jupiter agrees. Contract

  Is signed. Our man, according to his pact,

  Plays ruler of the air, and presently

  Fancies a climate just for him: wind, rain,

  Whatever… Nor could his neighbors complain,

  For they, in fact, were as untouched by it

  As the Americans—nay, not a whit!

  Most pleased they were, and for good reason:

  Theirs had been a most fruitful season—

  Rich of grain, lush of grape—however,

  Not for our tenant, who rails and decries

  The failure of his all-too-rash endeavor,

  Vowing, next year, better to rule the skies.

  Alas, to no avail! His field

  Lies barren, while his neighbors’ yield

  Fine fruits… Before the monarch of the gods

  He goes, confessing his audacity.

  Jupiter kindly, gently nods…

  No doubt, a providential destiny

  Knows what is best for us better than we.

  VI, 4

  THE COCKEREL, THE CAT, AND THE LITTLE MOUSE

  A little mouse—a mouselet, say—had had

  A close escape. Here’s how the tad

  Explained it to his mother: “Yesterday,

  I had just crossed the hills—the ones around

  Our state—and I was trotting on my way,

  Just like a strapping ratlet, bound

  For foreign climes, when, suddenly, I found

  Two animals before me. One looked gracious,

  Gentle, and mild; the other seemed pugnacious,

  Frightful. Its voice was sharp. It had a bit

  Of flesh stuck to its head; and, by its side,

  A funny kind of arm that it

  Flapped up and down, as if it tried

  To rise up off the ground. Behind, spread out,

  It had a tail.” The little mouse, no doubt,

  Had seen a cockerel; though, to hear him tell her,

  It might have been some d
esert dweller

  Fresh from America’s exotic waste!

  “It flailed and flailed,” he said, “and raised

  A din that even I—brave, heaven be praised!—

  Found terrifying. So I turned and raced

  Back home, cursing the beast. If not

  For him, I’m sure I could have got

  To meet the pleasant one. His coat was soft

  As ours, with spots; long tail; ears quite a lot

  Like rats’… Calm look, bright eyes…” Mother mouse scoffed:

  “You think he likes our kind, that one?

  You say that, had the other not begun

  His clack and cackle, chasing you away,

  You would have joined him for a chat?

  Lucky you didn’t! That’s all I can say!

  Sweet though he seems, that hypocrite is Cat!

  His race has vowed, by all the powers,

  Eternal doom on us and ours!

  The other one has no occasion

  Ever to prey on those of our persuasion.

  Who knows? One day we may, by hook or crook,

  Make him our dinner. But, for Cat,

  We are the ones he eats, and that is that!

  Never, my child, judge folks by how they look!”

  VI, 5

  THE FOX, THE APE, AND THE ANIMALS

  A lion, monarch of the country round,

  Had reigned throughout his life. In time, he died.

  The animals assembled to decide

  Which one amongst them should be duly crowned.

  The Keeper of the Royal Diadem—

  A dungeon dragon—brought it forth. Each one

  In turn tried the tiara on, but none—

  Not one—could make it fit. For some of them

  It was too large (those small of head); for some,

  Too small (conversely, large); some too there were

  With horns!… In sum, no one in creaturedom

  Succeeded. That is, not until monsieur

  The ape tried too, just for the fun of it…

  He tugs, contorts, screws up his face… The clown

  Performs such monkey mischief with the crown

  That, in the end, behold! A perfect fit!

  Impressed, the beasts elect him, pay their court,

  Honor him with respect, with genuflexion…

  Only the fox, a most cynical sort,

  Regrets the consequence of their selection.

  Hiding his feelings, though, he comes before

  His Highness, says two flattering words—no more—

  Then: “Sire, there is a treasure trove close by.

  By royal right it’s yours. But only I

 

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