Eloquent pleadings, in the tone of those
Common thieves, would-be Ciceros!”
Reasons the fraud: “King, ass, or even I—
One of us three—is like to die
Before the end, when all is done and said!”
And he was right, for Death demands his due.5
Let’s eat and drink! In ten years, one or two
Of any three of us might well be dead.
VI, 19
DISCORD
The goddess Discord, having sown her strife
Throughout Olympus’ ranks—and all
Over an apple,1 you recall—
Was banished from their midst for life,
And sent to live, instead, among
The animal called Man. The latter fairly hung
About her neck welcoming her, along with brother
(True-False by name) and father (Thine-and-Mine) as well.
Ah, what an honor that the goddess chose to dwell
Here, in our hemisphere, and not the other—
In every way our opposite—
Peopled with savages and such,
Who, marrying without the benefit
Of notary and priest, would surely not have much
For her to do. Well, be that as it may…
With Rumor as her guide, the exiled castaway
Roamed here and there, spreading her fame,
Fanning the slightest angry spark to flame,
And keeping Peace and Harmony at bay.
But Rumor soon complained, calling attention
To Discord’s lack of fixed address;
Because, when one had need of her dissension,
The search was long, and could be limitless.
And so, at length, it was decided she should be
Lodged in a permanent location, whence
She could, at proper times, dispense
Her services. But, seeing that we
Hadn’t invented convents yet, where she
Would be well housed, she took up residence
In Holy Matrimony’s hostelry.
VI, 20
THE YOUNG WIDOW
When woman loses mate, how many a sigh!
The weeping and the wailing past all measure!
But not for long. Time, winging by,
Bears off her grief and brings back worldly pleasure.
Betwixt our widows of a day
And of a year, I fear the gap is great;
So great, in fact, that one would almost say
They’re different folk. The ones, disconsolate,
Rebuff, repel; the others charm, attract.
The former… Ah, how sad they act;
All sigh—or so it seems—unable
Ever to stem their tears, promising never,
Never to laugh or love again. However.
Best not believe it! Rather read my fable—
More fact than fancy, by the way!
The husband of a fair young lovely lay
Abed, about to fly to his reward.
Close by his side, the wife cried, begged, implored:
“Wait! Wait for me! I’m coming too!
My soul would waft aloft and leave with you!”
But no. The husband left alone.
The lady’s father is a prudent man.
He lets the widow weep and groan and moan
Until the torrent ends as it began.
Then, to console her: “Daughter dear,” he said,
“You’ve wept enough. Why should you let
Grief drown your charms? The dead are dead,
And have no need of tears. While yet
The living are alive, my love, forget
The past. I’ll not suggest that by tomorrow
Marriage must put an end to sorrow;
Still, in a while, I pray you let me find you
Someone to wed (and one who’ll not remind you
Much of the first: young, handsome, well begot—
Everything, in a word, the first was not!).”
“Ah,” she replies, “in my sad state
None but the nunnery will be my mate!”
Wisely he leaves her to her mourning.
One month goes by. But by the second, she
Has started adding frill and filigree
To widow’s weeds, costume and coif adorning.
In time, Love’s band, in endless revelry,
Come home to roost: song, dance, games, laughter…
Daughter awash in Youth, father hereafter
Worries no more about her buried past,
Yet holds his tongue. No talk of men… At last,
Our widow asks—all thought now turned to love:
“Papa, where’s that young husband you were speaking of?”
VI, 21
EPILOGUE
Hereupon let us bid adieu,
Anon, to this venture of ours.
I fear long works. Rather than plumb them through
Unto their depth, best we but pluck the flowers.
Now is it time to rest, at length,
Stop, catch my breath, and spend my strength
Still left on other tasks at hand.
For so my tyrant, Love, asks that it be,
And I must yield to his command,
Quit, and change subjects presently.
Let us return to Psyche:1 Damon,2 friend,
You urge me now my brush to lend
To her joys and her woes. Perhaps once more
My talent shall warm to her destiny.
May the pains that I take therefor
Be the last that her spouse will lay on me!
· BOOK VII ·
FOR MADAME DE MONTESPAN
The apologue was once bestowed on us
By the immortals; or, if men they were—
Whoever—they, most generous,
Deserve many a worshiper
Before fine altars to their names presented.
The Sage1 who this fair art invented
Ought truly be esteemed divine.
It has a charm that can entwine
About our mind, keep it attentive,
Or bind it, even, in its thrall,
Leading our hearts and spirits on with all
Manner of fictions’ tales and tones inventive,
Quite at its own sweet will… O you,
Olympe,2 whose mastery works in like wise—
If, at times, my Muse raised me to the skies
To dine among the gods—pray deign to do
Honor to her and cast your eyes
Here, on her gifts. Favor, today,
Her games my mind chooses once more to play
For its amusement… Time wipes clean, destroys
Everything; but, with the respect it owes
Your generous support, your counterpoise
To Time’s destruction, my verse shall oppose
Those ruinous years. Yes, every author knows
That, to survive Time’s demise uneffaced,
His art must boast the suffrage of your taste.
You it is who confer the beauteous worth
On all the lines to which my pen gives birth.
For who better than you is versed in grace
And beauty? Fair of tongue, of face,
Of glance… First among women by your very
Nature, conceived in charm extraordinary!
Oh, how my Muse would love to sing apace
Of all your sweetmost qualities!
But I resist; for surely these
Require a master more expert
Than I to trace your beauty’s just dessert.
Me, I must be content merely to praise,
Happy, Olympe, would you but raise
Your voice to grant my last-born, favorite
Offspring the privilege of your protection.
For I dare hope a second life from it,
Most worthy of the world’s inspection,
Even should envy crass deem
it unfit.
Myself, I merit not this favor though:
Fable it is who seeks it; and you know
The power her fiction has on us.
And should my verse be happy-fated, thus
To please you, then might she, Fable, deserve
A temple of my building, there to serve
Her faithfully… But no! For, be it known,
Shrines would I build, madame, to you alone!3
THE ANIMALS ILL WITH THE PLAGUE
Long years ago a blight attacked
The world: a blight whose very name gives cause
For fear and trembling; one that was
Invented by the gods and sent, in fact,
As punishment. The Plague—for why should one
Not call it by its name?—waged war
Upon the beasts. Each day saw more and more
Enrich the waters of the Acheron.1
Some lived, but all were touched. And even they
Who somehow managed to survive
Found little life in being alive:
No appetite could whet their palates… Nay,
Foxes and wolves shunned young and tender prey;
Turtledoves spurned their mates: no love,
No joy was there, nor any hope thereof…
The lion, thereupon, held council. “Friends,”
Said he, “it’s clear, I fear, that heaven above
Repays our sins. To make amends
And cleanse us of this scourge, the worst
Sinner amongst us must, in sacrifice,
Be offered to the gods. That is the price
Their wrath demands. Indeed, past ages cursed
With such disaster did as much. Let us
Confess our wrongs with candor; me, the first:
Myself, the vicious, gluttonous,
Rapacious creature that I am!
How many a blameless sheep and lamb
Did I devour! And for what crime?
No crime at all! What’s more, from time to time,
I ate my share—as I am wont to do—
Of shepherd too!
Yes, sacrifice myself I will; though best,
Perhaps, I wait until the rest
Of you confess as I have done, lest we
Not put to death the guiltiest.”
To which the fox replies: “Your Majesty,
Your charity and thoughtfulness
Are much to be admired. Nevertheless,
You err. So, you ate sheep? What sin is that?
Vile beasts! Your royal jaws exalted them!
As for the shepherd… Well, it’s tit for tat.
I dare assert, ad hominem,
That he—one of that misbegot
And evil race that thinks it can
Subject us all, the race of Man—
Got what was due him and deserved his lot.”
So spoke the fox, to many a loud huzzah
And sycophantic “oh” and “ah”…
As for the tiger’s and the bear’s confessions—
Others’ as well, of fierce and fearsome breed,
Down to the lowest mastiff—none paid heed
To their outrageous, heinous, foul transgressions.
Rather it was by all agreed
That they were saintly souls!… The ass, at last,
Appeared. “I must confess,” said he,
“That one day as I trotted past
A cloister green, some devil tempted me
(My hunger too, and opportunity!),
And I went nibbling through a swath of grass:
A tongue’s width, little more, but still…”
Ah! When they heard him, cries of “Kill him! Kill…”
Rang out against our scurvy, ragtag ass.
Whereat, a slightly lettered wolf it was
Who, heaping evidence aplenty on them,
Citing them chapter, codicil, and clause
(“To eat another’s grass! Are there no laws?”),
Proved that his sin had brought this plague upon them!
Well, die he must! Our courtiers judge us black or white:
Moral? The weak are always wrong; the strong are right.
VII, 1
THE MAN WHO MARRIED A SHREW
If it were true that, in this life,
Goodness and beauty travel hand in glove,
Tomorrow I would find myself a wife.
In truth, there’s precious little love
Between the two, nor has there ever been.
Thus, if among the people feminine
Beautiful souls in bodies fair
Are altogether far too rare,
Don’t be surprised if I eschew them:
Too many men I’ve seen whose wives undo them.
Marriage holds little charm for me; and yet, it
Tempts most of mankind, although most regret it.1
To prove my point: a tale is told
About a certain gentleman
Who, married to a harridan—
A jealous, penny-pinching scold—
And harried by her carpings unrelenting,
Found himself all too soon repenting.
For her, do what one would, nothing was right.
Awake too soon… To bed too late… And how…? And who…?
And here’s a how-de-do!… And black was white,
And white was black!… At length, the shrew
Exasperates the help; and husband too.
Fed up with insult and recrimination
(“Monsieur does thus… Monsieur does so… Monsieur
Does this and that…”), monsieur has quite enough of her,
And sends her on a long vacation,
Back to the country and her kin, among
Goosegirls and swineherds of a gentler tongue
And milder mien. In time, when she
Is thought to be less cross and crotchety,
He brings her home. “I trust you spent
A pleasant time,” says he, “in rustic sport,
Tasting the joys of innocent,
Bucolic life.” The wife’s retort:
“Oh, quite! Save for the fact that people there
Are even lazier than here! ‘Shame! Shame!’ I said,
‘You let your flocks go roaming everywhere!’
But did they care? Oh no! Instead,
They said I was a meddlesome
Old crank!” “Ah so, madame… If you offend
Mere strangers, who need only spend
An hour with you each day, think of the martyrdom
Of servants and of spouse—days, nights on end!
Off to the country, wife! Again, farewell!
And if I bring you back—or fancy to!—
May I pay for my sins in endless hell,
With two wives, woman—both of them like you!”
VII, 2
THE RAT WHO WITHDREW FROM THE WORLD
Putting aside all life’s travail,
A certain rat—so goes a tale
Of Eastern inspiration1—
Fleeing the worldly drudgeries,
Took refuge in a fine Dutch cheese
To live in solitary contemplation,
Digging himself, by dint of claw and tooth,
A peaceful habitat—
Bed, board, and all. For God, forsooth,
Rewards those folk—and lavishly, at that—
Who dedicate their life and limb
In perfect piety to Him.2
Now, one fine day, grown big and fat,
The pious soul receives an emissary—
Several, to be exact—from those of Rat persuasion,
Abroad on mission expeditionary
For help against an imminent invasion:
Ratopolis is under siege; the Cat—
Cruel enemy—are everywhere!
“Penniless, sir, we come with hat
In hand, to beg what little you can spare,
To save the Rat Republic; just enough until
>
Our foreign aid arrives, as presently it will.”
“Dear friends,” replies the Solitaire,
“Worldly concerns are mine no more.
Besides, what can you ask a holy hermit for?
All I can do is pray for you, and then
Pray yet again. And so I will. Amen.”
Whereat our saintly interlocutor
Turns on his heel and shuts the door.
Well now, I ask you, can you figure out
Just whom my rat-tale is about?
A monk, you say? Nay, nay! One of those Turks—
A dervish. Is there any doubt?
Our monks? Not so? Ours only do good works.
VII, 3
THE HERON & THE DAMSEL
Long of beak, in long neck ensleeved, one day,
The heron, long of shank, wended his way
I know not where, padding beside
A stream, its waters clear as when the weather
Shines fairest. Madame carp gamboled together
With her compère, the pike, and plied
A thousand arabesques. The heron might
Have profited therefrom—easily!—for,
Blithely, the fish drew close to shore.
But he thought best to wait till appetite
Made its demands. He had a regimen
That he chose not to violate. But when,
Again, he felt its pangs a moment later,
Our overproud procrastinator,
Approaching, found that now the only fish
Swimming around were tench, from deep within
The murky depths; frankly, a dish
He would not take much pleasure in,
Scorning it like that rat of Horace’s,1
Waiting for better. “What?” he says,
“For me, a heron? Vulgar tench? I say!
What kind of worthless popinjay do they
Take me for!” Whence he found some gudgeon, but
Disdained them too, in highest dudgeon. “What
Kind of mean meal is that for me? Should I
Open my beak for gudgeon? Why,
No, by the gods!” He opened it for less.
At length, no fish at all came swimming by,
And he bemoaned his belly’s emptiness,
Happy, indeed, to find a snail.
Risk not the good that you could lose to get
Something that you think better yet.
Not for mere herons do I tell my tale.
Humans, I pray you listen to one more,
To prove that I do not ignore
The lessons that I learn by studying you.
A damsel once there was, but too
Haughty and proud, I fear, for she
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 16