Soon many a dog draws round, a pack of those
Ignoble curs that roam the streets
And little fear a combat of the sort.
Our hound, too weak to face the whole cohort,
Perceives the peril and retreats
A step, though still intent to taste the meat’s
Delights, and barks: “My friends, no need have we
To fight! This piece is quite enough for me.
You all may have the rest.” The pack—
Mastiff and curs—attack the dinner, hack,
Rip it to bits in utter gluttony.
I think I see a city here reflected,
In which the public purse stands unprotected,
Left to the mercy of the bands
Of squires, of master merchants, who, with ample
Thievery, teach the others by example
How to delve deep their grasping hands,
Clearing to naught what once a pile had been.
Then, should some upright soul object
And—seeming frivolous—try to protect
The city’s wealth, soon is he taken in;
And, deemed by all a droll and arrant twit,
Will be the first to dip his hands in it.
VIII, 7
THE JOKER AND THE FISH
Some folk seek out the company of jokers.
Myself, I shun those laugh-provokers’
Ilk: those who think their silly wit
Transcends all art, though surely it
Falls short! For fools has God created those
Pun-makers, bad bon mot magnificos.
Now, in a fable, I shall try to fit
My wit to theirs: we’ll see if I am able.
A financier was playing host, at table,
To dinner guests. Among the latter sat
One of our jokesters, on whose platter
Lay but a few small, meager fish. The fatter,
Larger ones lay on others’ plates; whereat
Monsieur the wag holds up his dish,
And, with his lips pressed to the scrawny fish,
He feigns to whisper something in their ears;
Then, listening in turn, pretends he hears
Their answer. Clearly there was much surprise.
This, in his most mock-serious wise;
And with a sham-tormented frown,
Says he: “I asked if they had any news
About a friend bound for the Indies, whose
Vessel, I fear, might have gone down.
‘We’re much too young to know,’ they said. ‘Our bigger
Relatives would know better.’ So, I figure,
Perhaps, if messieurs would be kind enough
To give me one, I’ll ask.” Funny or not,
I don’t know how they took it. But he got
His fish: a big one, but so tough,
So old that it could easily have named
Every explorer seeking worlds uncharted
For the last hundred years; those long departed
Souls that the sea’s vast, ancient wastes had claimed!
VIII, 8
THE RAT AND THE OYSTER
A country rat—a beast of little wit—
Glutted on rustic life, decides to quit
The hearth paternal; and he leaves
His hole, the field, the golden sheaves
Of grain, to roam the country round.
No sooner has he left his home than he
Is startled by such vast immensity!
“How big this world! Why, I’ll be bound,
Here are the Apennines… The Caucasus…”
For him the merest molehill mound
Was a huge mount. And so his exodus
Continues, till, a few days hence, he reaches
One of the goddess Tethys’1 beaches,
A shore where she had laid, in grand profusion,
Many an oyster; whence our rat
Was quick to come to the conclusion
That these were oceangoing craft; whereat:
“My father,” he reflected, “was a poor,
Timid old soul, who, to be sure,
Never once ventured from his hole to seek
His fortune, unlike me! No mousey, meek
Creature am I! I’ve seen the seas’ expanse,
The deserts’ too, without a drop to drink!”
And on he rants, citing, I think,
Some learnèd magister whom he, by chance,
Had heard somewhere. For he, in truth,
Was not one of your rats of eager tooth
Who gnaw on books to grow in wisdom!… Well,
At length one of the oysters, spread pell-mell,
Opens… Yawns at the sun… Sniffs the fair breeze:
Plump, white of flesh, and seeming quite
The tender morsel. “No boats these,”2
Cries rat! “I think I’ll have myself a bite!”
He tried… Approached… Bit… But the oyster, snapping,
Trapping our traveler, caught him napping:
Shells that can open can, as quickly, close!
Two things this fable teaches: first, that those
With little knowledge of the world will be
Awed by its slightest novelty;
Second, that—as the maxim goes—
When ill intentioned, best we be on guard
Lest we be hoist upon our own petard!3
VIII, 9
THE BEAR AND THE GARDEN-LOVER
A certain mountain bear, a bear not yet
Quite fully grown—in point of fact, still wet
Behind the ears—confined in parts unknown;
A new Bellerophon,1 consigned alone
By Fate to live in woodland wilderness,
Might have gone mad, because the mind, perforce,
Cannot long live companionless.
To speak is good, and not to speak, of course,
Still better. But both, when exaggerated,
Are bad… And he, our bear, had not
A single beast to share his lot,
And thus lived sad—depressed, frustrated
By his distressing life—and would lament
Often his state, in doleful melancholy.
But, as it would by chance befall, he
Did have a human neighbor, an old gent
Who lived close by and who, as well,
Bemoaned his fate, for it befell
That he too found his life a chore. Monsieur
Loved gardens, though, and tilled his with a passion:
Goddesses Flora and Pomona2 were
His divine mistresses; in priestly fashion
He served them both. “My gardens,” he opined,
“Are fine! But why can I not also find
A faithful friend?” Do flowers speak?
No! (Only, that is, in my fables…) So,
Bored with his life, off will he go,
One morning; quits his silent friends, to seek
Another’s company. The bear,
Of like mind, leaves his lonely lair
Behind, sets out… By a coincidence,
The pair meet at a crossroads, whence,
Alarmed, monsieur—a-quiver and a-tremble—
Knowing not where to flee, decides that best
Would it be were he to dissemble.
(Not unlike what a Gascon does, now is it?)3
Our bear, scarcely more self-possessed,
Awkwardly says: “What say? Come visit!”
Answers the man: “Seigneur, I pray you might
Do me the honor, rather, to come share
My country fare—fruit, milk: not what Sire Bear
Would feast upon to slake his appetite,
Surely! But yours it is!” The beast agrees…
They make their way, as friendly as you please,
Until, at length, when once they reach
The old man’s house, each is a friend to each.
Now, better silence than a co
nversation
Empty of sense: the bear says little. Still,
The pair enjoy their new relation:
Bear would go hunting, while monsieur would till,
And hoe, and plant. What’s more, Bear will fulfill
Another occupation: chasing those
Blasted and buzzing insects from the nose
Of his companion—flies, that is—when he
Lies dozing… Till, one day, one of their race
Lights in the middle of the old man’s face.
The bear tries, unsuccessfully,
To chase him off… Despairing, he rips free
A paving-stone. “I have you now!” he cries,
Hurling it at monsieur, ending the fly’s
Vexatious life, and crushing his friend’s head.
He has good aim but little mind. Quite dead,
The old man cold and lifeless lies.
Beware the well-inclined but stupid friend:
A clever foe is safer in the end.
VIII, 10
THE TWO FRIENDS
In Monomotapa1 there dwelt
A pair of loyal friends and true,
And who such strength of friendship felt
That what one owned, so owned the other too.
(Friends in that land, it seems, were quite as blessed
As we!) At length, as golden day’s demise,
One night, lets sleep enfold them in their rest,
One of them wakes, alarmed, and hies
Himself straightway to his friend’s mansion, shakes
His varlets free of Morpheus’s
Torpid embrace.2 Surprised, the other takes
His purse in hand, presently trusses
His trusty blade, and asks: “Good friend, what do you
Here? And at such an hour? I never knew you
To be a man to shun his sleep and run
About when one ought be abed! But why?
Have you gambled your wealth away? Then I
Shall give you mine!… Has anyone
Defamed your honor? Come! My sword is yours!…
Or are you loath to lie uncomforted
Without a woman fair to share your bed?
You may have one of my slave paramours!”
“No,” says the other, “nothing that you mention,
Much though, friend, I am touched by your attention.
Rather it was a dream I had, wherein
You seemed to have a look of sad chagrin.
Great was my apprehension lest it be
The truth, so I came running here to see.”
Reader, which of them loved the more?
The question is well worth our reasoning.
A true friend is a sweet and tender thing:
He plumbs your heart to learn what you yearn for,
Spares you the shame of asking him
To grant your need, your wish, your whim.
Dreams give him quite a turn; the woes thereof
Fright him indeed when they concern his love.
VIII, 11
THE HOG, THE GOAT, AND THE SHEEP
A sheep, a goat, a fatted hog were going
Together in one cart, off to the fair;
But not to take their pleasure there,
Or watch the tricks that Tabarin1 was showing!
The driver had but one intent.
According to the tale, he meant to find
A buyer for his beasts. As thus they went
Their way, poor Friar Swine cried, groaned, and whined
As if a hundred butchers chased behind—
Deafening clamor!—while the other two,
Quiet and well behaved, surprised at his to-do,
Were wondering at his shouts for help. “From what?
No earthly harm can come to us!”
The driver asks him: “Why the bloody fuss?
We can’t hear ourselves think! Please! Keep it shut!
Do like those other two. It’s easy. Try it.
If they don’t raise a rumpus, why should you?
Look at the sheep. He’s nice and quiet.”
“Stupid, you mean! Believe me, if he knew
What he was in for, he’d be screaming too!
Likewise that other ‘nice and quiet’ so-and-so.
Both of them think they only go
To leave their load: one, wool; the other, milk.
That may be true. I wouldn’t know.
But as for me and all my ilk,
No milk, no wool… Just meat! Ah, woe!
Farewell, fair world! Home, hearth, good-bye!”
Our Friar judged his case with subtle eye;
But, truth to tell, that wouldn’t change his state:
Complain, lament, moan, perorate—
When pigs are going to fry, they’re going to fry.
Wiser is he who tries to be blind to his fate.
VIII, 12
TIRCIS AND AMARANTH
FOR MADEMOISELLE DE SILLERY1
I had left Aesop for a time
To woo Boccaccio with my rhyme:
But a divinity demands
To see, upon Parnassus’ height,
Fables once more, wrought by my hands.
To answer “no” (although one might
Be so inclined), without good reason,
Would, I fear, be the sheerest treason
To gods divine! Especially
Those whose great beauty makes them reign
Over our will. Now, to explain:
Mademoiselle de Sillery
Is she who chooses that Sire Crow,
Sire Wolf, et cetera, again
Speak in my verse. I say “amen,”
For none is there who dare say “no”
To her commands! To say her name
Is to say all! And, should she claim
That my contes are not clear, then, oh!
Who would deny or counter it?
Even those wits most exquisite
Find certain works beyond their ken.
Let us return to fables then,
That neither tax nor try her wit.
First, let us bring on shepherds. Later, we
Shall rhyme once more the fabled colloquy
Of wolf, and sheep, and such. So be it. Well…
The shepherd Tircis,2 to his shepherdess,
Young Amaranth, declared one day: “Ah, yes!
If you, like me, but knew that fell
But pleasant pain, that pleasing woe
That harms and charms, then, truth to tell,
You would find nothing sweeter here below!
I pray you let me teach it to you.
Fear not, for no ill will it do you!
Truly, would I deceive you? Nay! How could I?
You, whom I love with all my heart! Nor would I!”
To which fair Amaranth replies:
“What is this pain called? Does it have a name?”
“Love!” “Ah! A pretty word! What is its guise,
That, if I have it, I might recognize
The feeling in me?” He, quick to exclaim:
“Compared to it, the kingliest of pleasure
The dullest seems! How can you measure
The joys it brings? You forget everything!
Are you alone in wooded wilderness,
Taking your leisure, musing on a spring?
Alas! You stand reflectionless,
And see one image only, following
Wherever you may go. No eyes have you
For any other…” “Oh?” “A shepherd boy
Lives in the village, and you blush with joy
To hear his voice, see him come into view.
And when you think of him, you sigh;
You know not why, but sigh you do,
No less…” “Ah, yes!…” “And, though you flee his eye
And would fly from him lest you err,
Yet you desire him, and wish that he were
Your swain!” Cries Amaran
th: “My, my!
Is that the pain you prattle on about?
No need, you know! I know it well!”
“You do? Ah!… Then…” Tircis, no doubt,
Thinks he has won. Until the belle
Happens to tell our would-be beau:
“Yes! Shepherd Clidamant makes me feel so!”
The former well-nigh died of shame and spite.
Many a man is such a one:
He pleads his case as best he might,
But others profit from what he has done.
VIII, 13
THE LIONESS’S FUNERAL
Queen Lioness, King Lion’s consort, died.
Subjects came flocking to his side
To offer their commiseration,
Proffering words of consolation
That only made him grieve the more.
His Majesty announced throughout the nation
The regal obsequies arranged therefor;
Proclaimed the place, the hour, the day.
The royal provost-marshal corps
Would tend to protocol… Now (need I say?),
Courtiers, one and all, appeared in force.
The lion’s den (no other church, of course,
Do lions have!) resounded with his frantic,
Frenzied lament. His toadies, too,
Doing just what good toadies always do,
Vented their woe in echoes sycophantic,
Each in his own patois, expressed
With much éclat and beating of the breast.
In short, a perfect image of the court:
A land whose people—be they sad or gay,
Indifferent, unconcerned, blasé—
Become whatever suits their prince; comport
Themselves as he requires; contort
And grimace, monkey-like, at his command;
Or, like some lizards, at his every whim,
Alter their colors to conform to him.
The court, a veritable wonderland:
A thousand bodies with a single mind;
Men? No: mere springs the king has but to wind!
But I digress… Now then, of all those present,
Only the deer was disinclined to shed
The slightest tear: his wife and son were dead,
Slain by the queen in manner most unpleasant!
Her death avenged them… Tattlers even said
He laughed!… Well, quoting Solomon the Sage,
“No greater danger than a monarch’s rage,
And, verily, the lion’s most of all!”1
(The deer, however—not a reader, he—
Knew little Holy Writ, as I recall…)
“Vile beast!” the Lion thundered, angrily.
“How dare you laugh at our distress!
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 20