The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

by Jean La Fontaine

  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…