The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

by Jean La Fontaine

  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