He swore to have her: “Come, let us foreswear
This place,” said he. “Come, let’s be on our way.
A prophet has no honor, as they say,
In his own land! So let’s go find
Adventure somewhere else!” But, disinclined
To follow him, the other answers: “Nay,
Go ply your quest. Myself, I’ll stay behind,
And vow here to remain, asleep, until
Return you shall, for soon return you will.”2
And so departed our ambitious
Voyager (or ought one say “avaricious”?),
Arriving in a day or two at that
Especial place, the habitat
Where Fortune, that most curious deity,
Oftenest dwelt; that is, the court. There he
Remained a time, attending when the king
Rose and retired3… Alas, in short,
Though he was everywhere, did everything,
Still, never could he yet consort
With Fortune. “Strange,” he thought, “that she comes here
To lodge with this and that compeer,
But not with me! I’ve heard the admonition
That those at court abhor too much ambition.
Methinks such a report is true.
And so, adieu messieurs! Messieurs, adieu!
Pursue your dreams! For me, no doubt Surat,4
Rich-templed city on the Indies’ shore,
Is where Dame Fortune stays most often at.
We’ll see!” No sooner said than done. Once more
Our voyager embarks… He who, the first—
Soul of stout bronze—set sail thereto, athirst
For wealth, over the yawning chasm, bore
A heart of diamond! This conquistador,
More daunted by the risks—rocks, tempests, calms,
Pirates no less!—now overcome with qualms,
Thinks more and more of home, yet soon
Reaches the Mogols’ realm. But there, Madame’s
Minions insist: “If you would have her boon,
Japan is now the most favored of places
Where she bestows—nay, strews!—her generous graces!”
So off he goes… The sea, bored with his whim,
Having had quite enough of him,
Will teach him what the savage knows, to wit:
Keep to your home and cherish it!
Alas, quite worthless, likewise, was Japan.
“Never should I have ventured, I admit:
Wise now, but what a fool when I began!”
And when, returning whence he came, he sees
Land, home, and household deities,
With tears of joy: “Happy the man,”
He cries, “who stays close by his hearth, each day
Cooling that foolish passion that would surely
Carry him off, lead him astray!
Better to listen, safely and securely,
To tales of court, seas, and the whole array
That fortune dangles, rich, before our eyes,
Rather than seek them in a futile race
Spanning the earth! No more the merry chase
For me!…” As thus he moans, and sighs his sighs,
Reviling Fortune’s evils without number,
He finds her sitting at his friend’s front door,
And him, whom he had left before,
Still sleeping in his bed, deep in his slumber.
VII, 11
THE TWO COCKS
Two cocks had lived in peace; but then
There came upon the scene a hen,
And there they were, at once, at war!
O love! For you, Troy fell; though not before
The blood of gods had tinged the Xanthos1 red!
Long, too, this pair did battle. Word would spread
Through all of cockdom, and from far and near
Their crested kinsmen would appear,
To watch the pandemonium…
Ah, many a fair-plumed Helen will become
The prize of our triumphant chanticleer;
While in defeat the loser—glowering, glum—
Presents a very different story:
Skulking in ignominious retreat
To hide his shame, he mourns past loves, past glory;
Loves that his rival, gloating on his sweet
Success, enjoys before his jealous eye!
Each day he beats his flanks, sharpens his bill,
Flails with his flapping wings against the sky,
Feeding his rage, preparing for the kill…
He might as well have spared himself the trouble.
Perched proud, above the battle’s rubble,
Puffed up, the victor cocks his “doodle-doo…”
A vulture hears his braggart cry,
Comes, swoops with taloned claw… Now, pride, good-bye!
Glory, farewell, and loves, adieu!
Well, don’t you know? The other bird,
As fate would have it, has the final word.
Back flirting with the coop’s fair belle, the latter
Takes up where he left off, again.
(No need to tell you how much chitter-chatter
Babble the ladies, hen to hen!)
Such are the ways of Fate: our boastful prattle
Often destroys us though we’ve won the battle.
VII, 12
THE INGRATITUDE AND INJUSTICE OF MEN TOWARD FORTUNE
A merchant plied the seas with rich success.
On many a voyage, though the mighty gales
Bellow to take their toll, yet naught avails:
Rock, shoal, abyss—none works its greediness
Upon his bales. And though, from all his friends,
Neptune and Atropos1 demand their due,
Fortune smiles on our merchant and defends
His ships, brings them to port. And all those who
Share his endeavors—partners, brokers too—
Are honest men and cheat him not… Thus did
He sell his sugar, cinnamon,
China no less. And they who dwelt amid
Folly and luxury had well begun
To swell his fortune, fill his coffers. One
Measured his wealth in double ducats, such
That gold rained at his merest touch.
Hounds, horses, carriages were his; and when
He claimed to fast—at least, eat sparingly—
His meal would be a feast for poorer men.
“How comes it that you live so fancy-free?”
Questioned a friend. “How comes it? How, indeed!
I owe it to my skill that I succeed
Where others fail! I owe it all to me,
Myself, and to the talent I possess,
To know when to invest, when not—more, less,
Now, later—how, in short, my store
Of wealth were best used.” And, by profit moved
(Or hope thereof!), he risks that wealth once more.
This time, however, fate reproved
His venture rash. One ship, ill fitted, bore
The first wind’s blast, sank presently.
Another, ill armed, was by corsairs caught.
A third came safe to port, but no one bought
The wares he would purvey. For luxury
And folly had gone out of style.
Still worse, his brokers worked their guile
To cheat and cozzen him. Thus he,
After his life luxurious,
With pleasures fraught, now lives in poverty.
No hounds, no carriage now! “Why live you thus?”
Asks a friend. “Why? The fault is Fortune’s!” “Oh?
If luckless you must be, at least be wise.”
It was good of his friend so to advise.
But did he heed him? Who knows? All I know
Is that, when Fortune smiles, Man takes the credit.
Our merchant and so many
more have said it.
One fails? Ever the same old song:
Fate is to blame, for Man can do no wrong.
VII, 13
THE FORTUNE-TELLERS
Opinion often owes its life to chance;
And that, in turn, is what gives birth to taste.
This prologue might, in truth, be based
On folk of every sort and circumstance:
Prejudice, intrigue, stubbornness are what
Lie at its source. It is a torrent, but
Must run its course. Justice, for good or ill,
Counts not. Forever has it been, and will
Forever be… A certain hovel-dweller
Once plied the trade of fortune-teller.
Parisians sought her sage advice on all
Manner of things. Did it befall
That one had lost some trifle? Or did one
Want a new lover? Did a wife
Consider that her husband’s life
Was lasting overlong? Was overdone?
Was there a jealous woman? Nasty mother?
For such details—and many another!—
They rushed to seek the counsel of our seer,
Who always told them just what they would hear,
Whose art consisted of a few sly tricks,
Several high-sounding terms, some lucky guesses,
All boldly poured into the mix.
In short, many a client fain professes
That she works miracles. And though, for sure,
Her ignorance, one carat less than pure,
Prevails, yet still an oracle is she.
Said oracle dwells in a hovel, where
She fills her purse most copiously,
Able thereby most handsomely to share
Her fortune with her spouse, and even buy
A noble name for him, and quit the sty
Unfit that was their home. For she, no less,
Has bought a house. A new proprietress
Will henceforth occupy the hovel… Well,
What happens? All our sibyl’s clientele
Flocks to the old abode, hoping to find her—
Women, young varlets, fat men, demoiselles—
All come to have her tell their fates, but mind her
Not when she states that she is very
Ill versed in matters visionary.
“Me? Read your fortunes? I can scarcely read,
Or sign my name!” “So?” they insist.
And she earns ducats by the score—indeed,
More than two lawyers would, hand over fist!
The atmosphere could be to blame:
Broom, battered chairs, things that would make one guess
She was, in fact, a proper sorceress.
Were she to speak the truth, this same beldame,
In room thick-carpeted, would be much mocked;
Here, they believe all her mind can concoct.
As for the first, she is hung out to dry.
The sign it is that builds the trade;
And many a lawyer’s fortune vast is made
By his long robe, though it fit all awry.
Hordes hang upon his words! Ask me not why!1
VII, 14
THE CAT, THE WEASEL, AND THE LITTLE RABBIT
One morning, not without a certain malice,
Dame Weasel—she of ruse and guile—
Invaded a young rabbit’s palace.
The master of the manor, all the while,
Was off amid the thyme and dew
Paying the Dawn his court (a rendez-vous
D’amour!), and it was with great ease
That weasel came and settled in,
Installed her own household divinities.
Rabbit—once he has turned his cap-a-pie’s,
Nibbled, taken his morning spin—
Bounds to his underground domain; therein
Sees weasel at the window, snout protruding.
“Ye gods of the ancestral roof! What’s this
I see? I fear much is amiss!”
Cries the evicted host, concluding:
“Out, Madame Weasel, and be quick about it!
If not, I’ll send for rats from far
And near! And then, my dear, it’s au revoir!”
She of the meager muzzle sneers: “I doubt it.
The land belongs to those who took it first.
Strange cause for war between us, when
It wasn’t yours to start with even then!”
And on and on, with logic, she rehearsed
Her argument. “And even if this were
A kingdom, I should like to know, monsieur,
What law, in perpetuity,
Bequeathed it to your kind and not to me!
Why Jean, the son or nephew of Guillaume,
Or of Pierre? Why rabbits all,
I ask, and not, perhaps, say, one named ‘Paul’?”
“Custom,” Jean answered, “made this place our home,
Father to son, each generation.”
Weasel suggests: “Why must we squabble more?
Rather let’s take our case before
The saintly Friar Cat for arbitration.”
One of Raminagrobis’1 clan, said cat—
Ascetic, sleek, fat, and well furred,
Well versed in law—frequently heard
Such litigation. Jean agrees. Thereat
They both approach the holy habitat
Of His Grimalkinship. “Come closer, please,
My children. Else,” says he, “I cannot hear.
I’m deaf. Old age has wrought infirmities
Galore upon me!” So the pair draw near.
When thus he sees both well within his reach,
Our pharisee whips out a claw at each,
And, with a look of saintly cheer,
Solves their complaint with but a pair of swallows.
From which, perhaps, you’ll find it follows
That petty princes, if they be astute,
Should not ask kings to settle their dispute.
VII, 15
THE SNAKE’S HEAD AND TAIL
The snake has two extremities—
Her head and tail—and both of these
Are enemies of Man. On high,
The Fates view both with happy eye,
Content to see the harm they do.
Well, once upon a time, these two
Disputed over who, indeed,
Should lead.
Since time began it always was the head
That led;
And thus the tail discussed her case
Before the gods: “Must it be ever so?
Must she alone decide how far I go,
While I just follow on apace?
No, no! It’s time that I resist her:
I’m not her servant, I’m her sister!
Thank heaven for that! Why must I be
The black sheep of the family?
My sting is no less venomous
Than hers. So, tell me, why the fuss?
Tail does as well as head can do.
I kill as fast, don’t you forget it!
Treat us the same, and let me, too—
At last—be first. It’s up to you.
Grant my request; you won’t regret it.
I, too, was born to be a leader;
So let her follow, and let me precede her.”
The gods, in cruel compliance, nod consent:
Often their kindness does more harm than good.
Vain wishes? Best ignore them, as they should.
Not this time, though. The tail, now newly bent
On leadership, but lost in blind bewilderment,
Slithers—aft, fore—to no avail;
Goes bumping into walls, trees, men, and more,
And leads her sister to the Stygian shore.
Governments that act likewise, likewise fail:
Tails can’t lead heads. And thereby hangs the tale.
VII,
16
AN ANIMAL IN THE MOON
While one philosopher abjures
The senses, claiming that Man is their victim,
Another is there who assures
That never have they duped or tricked him.1
Both are correct. Philosophy is right
When it avers that human sight,
Like all our sense, deceives. But if one makes
Adjustment for the distance of the thing
Observed, and what surrounds it, reasoning
Too on the nature of the eye, one takes
A different stance: the senses tell us true.
One day I shall, with not a few
Examples, prove my point. For now, but one.
Here below, when I gaze upon the sun,
What is its shape? Its size? That body vast
Seems but three feet around. But were I cast
Aloft, to its abode, how then
Should I perceive the orb of nature? When
Only one’s hands can calculate its sides,
Angles, the ignorant assume it flat:
I know, however, that this image hides
An object full and round; an object that
Stands still, with earth circling about it. Thus,
Although illusion would make fools of us,
It cannot, for our head denies
The vision offered to our eyes.
I do not let a view illusory
Decide what is, rather than what must be:
Our sight deceives, our hearing is too slow.
When water bends a stick—or so appears
To do—my reason straightens it. And so
Too, like my eyes, even so with my ears.
True, the sense lies, but tells the truth no less.
If I believed my eyes I would profess,
As many do, that there is, on the moon,
A woman’s head! Is there? Not so! When we
See from afar its surface, roughly hewn—
Here hills, there plains—the light, in shadowy
Design, can often make us see
Creatures a-plenty: man, or bull,
Or elephant! In England, recently,2
There was, precisely, such a wonderful
Occurrence. When the telescope was set
A new beast was perceived, one never yet
Seen on the lunar sphere! There rose
A volley of “huzzah’s,” “ah’s,” “oh’s,”
From every throat; and one and all would bet
That this momentous change most surely meant
That one ought now expect some huge event.
A war, perhaps, among the powers that be?
The king—monarch enlightened—comes to see
The monster for himself… Gazes enrapt…
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 18