Sees a mouse caught betwixt the lenses, trapped!
And this is what spelled war? The people laughed…
When can we French give up the soldier’s craft
For such pursuits? Mars lets us, endlessly,
Reap glorious fruits, certain that our Louis,
Making the enemy unnumbered quake
And quiver fearfully, will surely take
Victory as his ever-faithful lover;
Mistress, who follows in his steps, to cover
His brow with laurels, and our own as well.
And never do we cease to dwell
With Memory’s daughters; joyously we prize
The boon of peace, but not with feeble sighs!
Charles would know how to profit therefrom;3 how,
With valor bold, to lead his England now
To war, in order that, at length, she may
Enjoy the calm pursuits she knows today.
Could he but heal our rift, conciliatory!
What worthier hosannahs to his glory!
Was the Augustan age less valued for
The arts than Caesar’s for his feats of war?
When will peace let us spend—O Britons blessed!—
Our lives, like you, by love of art possessed?
VII, 17
· BOOK VIII ·
DEATH AND THE DYING MAN
The sage is not by death surprised;
Ready to quit this life is he,
Ever prepared, ever advised
To be resigned to its ubiquity.
Death’s time embraces time itself: all days,
Hours, minutes. Not one moment is there free
Of its dominion; every instant pays
Its tribute. And the moment when the sons
Of royal race open their eyes
To life may be the very ones
That close them evermore. One tries
To pose one’s greatness in defense;
One’s beauty, virtue, youth… Vain eloquence!
Death ravages in shameless wise.
Everything will, one day, enrich its horde.
No fact is there less secret, more deplored
Than this, yet none, I must admit,
That finds one less prepared for it.
To wit: A man, who a full hundred years
Had lived, lay dying. Still, reproachfully,
He rebukes Death, when it appears,
For bearing him off, cap-a-pie,
And, unannounced, forcing him, on the spot,
To up and leave, when he has not
Had time to write his testament. “Oh, fie!
Should one,” he asks, “be made to die
Like that, without the proper preparation?
My wife insists—and I would not dare flout her
Wishes!—that I not leave without her.
Besides, I needs must find an occupation
For my grandnephew—lazy lout!—and build
A wing on my abode… So much to do!
Why must you press me? Will you not be stilled
A while, O goddess cruel?” “Go to,
Old man!” Death cries, replying. “How
Dare you complain? Have I not given you
A century and more? I vow,
You would not find me two as old
In all of Paris, ten in all of France!
You scold and say I could have warned you, told
You when I would arrive. And if, perchance,
I had, should I suppose your will
Would be complete, down to each codicil?
Your house well built? That lad well placed?
You say you had no warning? Oh?
What of your limbs, that ever weaker grow?
Your wit? Your touch, your smell, your taste?
Senses dimmed, that the sun, though hard he try,
Could nevermore revivify!
I show you friends who, dying, waste
Away, and others quick to die.
If not a warning, what, pray tell, is that?
Would you have a still stronger caveat?
Your will, you say? The state cares little
About it, not one jot or tittle!”
And Death was right. At that age one should quit
This life as from a banquet, leaving it
With baggage readied, and, upon one’s lips,
Thanks for the host. For, how much can the trip’s
Commencement be delayed? You mutter low
Your sad laments, old man. But look and see
How many a younger man will boldly go
Running to meet his end, with bravery
And glory-crowned; certain death nonetheless,
And no less cruel!… Alas, I waste my breath.
Too indiscreet my zeal, my eagerness:
Most loath to die are those most close to death.
VIII, 1
THE COBBLER AND THE FINANCIER
A cobbler used to sing from morn till night.
It was, indeed, a wondrous thing
To watch him, hear him warble with delight,
Happier in his laboring
Than any of the Seven Sages1 were.
Close by, a neighbor—quite the fine monsieur,
Rich as a king!—sang little, slept still less.
He was, in fact (as you might guess),
The kind we dub a “financier.”
When, at the break of dawn, he dozed a bit,
All of a sudden he would hear
The cobbler’s joyous song, and it
Would rouse him. “Ha,” he grumbled, “why oh why
Has it not been ordained that we might buy
Our sleep as we buy food and drink!”
He calls the singer to his habitat.
“What do you earn each year?” he asks. Whereat
Grégoire replies, laughing, and with a wink:
“A year? Monsieur, I fear that’s not my way
Of figuring! I’m happy, day by day,
To do my tasks and, by year’s end,
Make both ends meet!” “Well then, my friend,
What do you earn each day?” “That’s hard to say.
Some more, some less… The problem—and it surely
Is one: without it, I would do just fine!—
The problem is that sometimes I do poorly,
What with these blessèd holidays of mine,
Each time the priest finds some new saint to fete!”
Laughing at his simplicity, his host
Offers a most untoward riposte:
“My friend, today you can forget
Your problems, bid them au revoir!
Here are a hundred crown! Save them, and let
Them serve you well in time of need!” Grégoire
Gapes at the sum and thinks he sees
All of the coins that centuries
Had struck for mankind’s use! Posthaste
He took his leave, quick as you please,
And raced back to his hovel. There, he placed
His fortune underground, deep in the earth.
Alas, there with his wealth went all his mirth!
No more, now, will he sing. No more
Has he the joyous voice he had before;
For now his are the cares that fortune brings.
No more his peaceful slumberings:
By day, on guard against some predator;
By night, alarmed each time the cat would make
A sound, convinced a thief had come to break
Into his horde! At length he flies
Off to monsieur—unwakened now!—and, flinging
The hundred crown before him, cries:
“Here! Take them! Just give back my sleep, my singing!”
VIII, 2
THE LION, THE WOLF, AND THE FOX
Decrepit, bent with years, and racked with gout,
The lion, most intent to find a cure
Against old age, sent word throughout
>
The country’s length and breadth. Now, to be sure,
Unwise it is to tell our kings
That there are simply certain things
That no one—none—can do! And so, in time,
Doctors of every stripe, from every clime,
Came to his side to ply their quack ideas,
Their nostrums, and their panaceas.
Only the fox, in fact, remained
At home, abstaining, and refrained
From coming to put forward his opinions.
Thereat the wolf, one of the lion’s minions—
One of those few admitted by his bed1—
Seeing his colleague absent, said
Much ill of him; whereat the monarch sought
To smoke him out and have him brought
Thither at once… Renard, arriving there,
Sure that the wolf had wrought the whole affair,
Addressed the king: “Your Highness may
Have thought—or been informed!—that I
Care naught for his well-being. Nay, nay!
Sire, au contraire! Good reason is there why
I come so late. Embarked was I upon
A pilgrimage to holy shrines, thereon
To pray for your good health! While gone, indeed,
I met many a sage. They all agreed
That warmth is what you lack, with age long fled.
A wolf’s skin, steaming hot, is what you need:
‘Best from the beast flayed whilst alive,’ they said…
Sire Wolf would make a splendid dressing-gown.”
“Bully idea!” approved the Crown…
Thus was the former slain, skinned, hacked to bits.
The latter supped on what had been
Said wolf, and wearing what had been his skin.
Courtiers—toadies, hypocrites:
Your prattling, tattling tongues cause woes untold.
Nor is there anyone who benefits:
The ills you do return to you fourfold.
Yours is a most precarious living:
Unsure, unsafe, and unforgiving.
VIII, 3
THE POWER OF FABLES
FOR MONSIEUR DE BARILLON1
When one is of the quality
Of an ambassador, can he abase
His taste to face the mere frivolity
Of lowly tale? Ought I offer the grace
Of my lighthearted verse to such as you?
And, should it take a grandiose air,
Would you deem it audacious so to dare?
You have, I fear, much more to do
Than to resolve the arguments
Of Weasel and of Rabbit. Hence,
Read them or read them not. No matter,
So long as we not have a platter
Full of all Europe’s bane and woe!
Let us from earth’s four corners be
Beset by many an enemy:
Agreed! But, that the friendly status quo
Between the English king and ours grow cold,
That morsel can I not digest! Behold
Louis! Is it not time for him to rest?
What other Hercules would be so bold
As to combat this Hydra?2 Must she test
His strength with yet another head? If your
Graceful and supple wit can but procure
For us, with your tongue’s eloquence,
A change of hearts, and peace assure,
Then shall I, as a sacred recompense,
Sacrifice a full hundred sheep to you!3
A hundred, hear? No paltry count
For such a one as dwells on Mount
Parnassus!4 Meanwhile, entre nous,
Do me the honor of accepting here
My incense—proffered true, sincere—
And this mere fable, offered too:
These verses that I dedicate
Most fittingly to you as well. I will
Not explain why, lest such praise irritate—
Though most deserved—and lest you take it ill.
In ancient Athens, peopled by a race
Given to vain frivolity, disgrace
And danger reigned. An orator, distressed,5
Hastening to the tribune, there addressed
The populace. With tyrant’s vehemence,
And booming loud his voice intense,
He sought to touch their hearts republican.
Nobody listened; wherefore he began
To have recourse to stratagem
Rhetorical, better to nettle them:
Violent figures, true and tried, that might
Excite the most lethargic souls, affright
And awe them. Thus he called upon the dead
To speak, thundered his warnings dire and dread…
Blown on the wind, they disappeared. No one
Was moved one whit by what he said.
The empty-headed beast deigned to heed none
Of such devices, often used.
Everyone, rather, worried, much bemused
By childish frets and fights. Our orator
Decides to turn to metaphor.
“Ceres,”6 he says, “with Eel and Swallow, went
Abroad one day; came to a river, wide
And deep. The three were most intent
On getting over to the other side.
Eel swam across and Swallow flew.
And so did they succeed.” “And Ceres?” cried
The people. “Why,” the orator replied,
“She flew…” “Flew?” “Yes, Ceres went flying too…
Into a rage, that is! Because of you!
Oh? Are you more concerned with children’s tale
Than with your country’s woe and bale?
Why ask you not what Philip does?”7
Chastened, the populace, agog,
Is wakened by his apologue:
His lowly fable sets them all abuzz.
In this, we are Athenians, all of us.
And if, even as I am writing thus,
“The Ass’s Skin,”8 this very minute
Were told me, I should revel in it.
Though old our world, however one construes us,
Still, often, like a child must one amuse us.
VIII, 4
THE MAN AND THE FLEA
How often, with our tiresome, irksome prayer,
We importune the gods! We seem to feel
They’ve little else to do but, eyes a-peel,
Pay heed to every mortal, everywhere.
Even the lowliest of the lot! As though
The merest jot and tittle here below
Ought move lofty Olympus quite as much
Or more than, say, the Trojan War or such!
A case in point: a flea, big as a louse,
Took up its lodging in a bumpkin’s blouse
And bit his back. “You ought, O Hercules”—
So mused the sot—“rid earth of plagues like these,
This springtime scourge! And you, O Jove… I wonder
Why you don’t purge their race in my defense!”
To kill one flea—O human impudence!—
He would enlist all heaven’s might and thunder!
VIII, 5
WOMEN AND SECRETS1
Nothing is there that weighs so heavily
As someone’s secret. Women, more than men,
Find it impossible to bear. (But then,
If truth be told, I guarantee,
Many’s the man who, though a “he,”
Acts like a “she” in this regard!)
To put his woman to the test, a man,
One night, lying beside his mate, began
To yelp in pain: “Ah, help!… O fate ill-starred!
What’s this?… I… Oh! Ye gods! I’ve laid
An egg!” “An egg?” queried the wife. “Just so!”
Replied the man. “A fine, fresh egg! But oh!
Please keep my secret! I’m afraid
&
nbsp; Lest people jeer and tell me I’m a hen!”
Naive, to say the least, the wife
Believed him, swore upon her very life
Never to breathe a word. But when
Daylight has dawned, her resolution
Pales with the fading shades of night; and then—
True to her female constitution—
She jumps from bed and promptly hies her
Straight to her neighbor, to apprise her.
“Commère, you can’t imagine what befell! You
Never will guess… Well, let me tell you.
Only, however, if you promise not
To tell a soul, or I’ll be beaten!… Well, you
Never… My husband laid an egg!” “He what?”
“Yes, and a big one! But I beg
You not tell anyone!” “How can you doubt me?
I can keep secrets! That’s one thing about me!”
Whereat the wife of him who laid the egg
Went home. The other, though, yearns, burns to spread
The news; and so goes here, goes there,
Into a dozen houses, where
The story grows. Because, instead
Of just one egg, she tells of three.
Nor was that all: another made
It four, in fact. (Still in a whisper, she—
Though now, no matter, I’m afraid:
The secret was no more!) And on and on,
Until our layer—O phenomenon!—
By day’s end, lo! a hundred eggs had laid.
VIII, 6
THE DOG WHO CARRIES HIS MASTER’S DINNER AROUND HIS NECK
Our eyes cannot resist fair damsels’ beauty,
Nor are our hands proof against gold;
Few can guard treasure, self-controlled,
And faithfully perform their duty.
Entrusted with his master’s meal, a hound
Carried the pittance home each day, hung round
His neck, more able to resist than he
Would like when faced with tasty fricassee.
But such he was; so be it. Yet
We would be far more prone to let
Temptation lure us—curiously—
When we draw close to wealth. Strange! We would preach
Temperance to our dogs, but cannot teach
The same to our own human kind.
Well, as I said, this hound was so inclined.
Just then, a mastiff passes… Sees the dinner…
Covets it… But the hungry sinner,
Much though he yearns for it, will find
It is to be no easy prey.
The hound lays down his load so that he may
Better defend it. Now they come to blows…
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 19