The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine
Page 14
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