But we’ll not smutch our holy claws
On such as your foul limbs!… Come, wolves! Redress
The insult done your queen! Take up the cause,
And immolate this wretch!” With which the deer
Quite disagreed: “Sire, weep not one more tear.
No need… A vision did I have, this hour;
I saw your gentle spouse in flowering bower,
Lying in joy. ‘Good friend,’ said she, ‘I pray
You not permit them, on my funeral day,
To make you weep and wail!’ And, in my vision,
She spoke with bliss about the fields Elysian,
With saints, like her, to keep her company.
‘Let the king mourn,’ she said. ‘That pleases me…’”
Scarcely had he concluded than a roar
Of “Miracle!” arose. Now gifts galore,
Instead of punishment, befell him!
Best tell the king what he would have you tell him:
Myths, fancies, lies… He’ll take the bait; however
Hated you were before, now you’re his friend forever.
VIII, 14
THE RAT AND THE ELEPHANT
There is a trait abroad in France;
A fault most French; an illness: which is
Being too big to fit one’s breeches.
How many burghers vainly pose and prance,
And do their little noble dance!
The Spaniards are no less vainglorious,
But in a different way from us;
Their vanity is, in a word,
Insane, while ours is just absurd.
Ours I can best portray in fable, thus:
A rat of negligible size
Leered as a royal elephant loped past—
Accoutred in the finest wise—
And mocked the monster’s lumbering gait, aghast
To see how all the folk, with awestruck eyes,
Admired the three-tiered beast, agape,
Watching it bear upon its back an entourage—
A pilgriming sultana, cat, dog, ape,
Parrot, duenna—all her vast menage.
How could the populace admire that hulk!
“As if,” thought he, “mere mass, mere bulk
Made some of us worth more than those with less.
Tell me, what quality do they possess
That makes you human beings delight?
Is it that giant form, that fills your young with fright?
The elephant is big, but we
Esteem ourselves not one jot less than he!”
He had a good deal more to say,
And would have done, had not the cat,
Uncaged, been quick to show him that
A rat’s no elephant, think what he may.
VIII, 15
THE HOROSCOPE
Fearing the fate that one would skirt, it
Often befalls that, rather than avert it,
One takes the path that leads to it directly.
A father had an only child, and none
But him, last of his line, and loved this son
Too much; for, acting—thought he—circumspectly,
He sought out seers’ advice. Willingly, one
Announced that, for a certain time—a score
Of years, precisely, not one more—
His much-loved progeny ought not be let
Go near a lion! Thus, a-fret,
And to forestall the fate the prophet had
Foretold the child might suffer, he
Penned him within the palace walls, forbade
One and all to allow the lad
To pass its portals. He was free
To do whatever pleased his fancy: play,
Run, saunter, all the livelong day
With his companions. At the age, however,
When young men’s instincts turn their thought
To hunting, he was told that never
Ought one like him pursue that vile endeavor.
But, though most scrupulously taught,
Man cannot change his nature; and our swain’s,
Burning with passion flowing through his veins,
Made him yearn for the pleasure of that sport.
The more he met with obstacles, the greater
Grew the desire that all had sworn to thwart
Withal, and he knew well the instigator
Of his fell prohibition!… Now, monsieur,
His father, had great wealth; and, thus, there were
Treasures about, abounding: tapestries,
Paintings galore. And in many of these
The wool and brush depict the noble mission
Of those out on the hunt, in landscapes fraught
With beasts and men. Our hero, sore distraught
At his destiny-wrought condition,
Seeing a lion there, enraged, cries out:
“Ah, monster! You it is who flout
My freedom! You, who make me live in chains
Within these shadowed walls!” As he complains
With angry shout, he casts a violent blow
Against the image of the beast. Ah, woe!
He knew not that in seeming innocence
It hid a nail. The consequence?
Wounded he lies. The poisons go
Straight to the wellsprings of his soul. The youth,
Much loved, whom even Aesculapius’s1
Art could not heal, owed his demise, forsooth,
To too much caution. Poet Aeschylus’s
Case was the same. A seer of old
Predicted—or so is it told—
That he would by a house be killed;
And, lest that prophecy should be fulfilled,
He took his bed and quit the city, sleeping
Out in a field, a goodly distance keeping
From roof and wall. Whereat an eagle, who
Was bearing off a tortoise through the air,
Looked down, seeing his head, quite bare,
Hairless, did what eagles are wont to do:
Thinking it was a rock, he dropped her there,
Smashing her shell to bits. And thus
Ended the days of our poor Aeschylus.
From these examples one might well surmise
That this art acts contrariwise,
Inflicting just the opposite of what
Those who consult, and those predicting,
Hope and declare will be befalling. But
That I deny! Say I: “Tut tut,”
I cannot fancy the depicting
Of Nature’s hands so tightly tied, or ours
Bound and determined by her fateful powers.
Our destiny depends on many
Persons, and times, and places, come together;
And not, I would insist, on any
Charlatan who will guess and tell us whether
This or that will occur. Shepherd and king
Can both be born under one sign, although
One bears a scepter, one a crook. How so?
How can so strange a thing be happening?
Jupiter’s will, no doubt! But what is he?
A mindless form that deals out destiny
In most capricious wise. And how, I ask,
Can such a force perform its task
At such a distance, faithful to its mission,
Through Sun, Mars, endless emptiness? A speck
Could sway it from its course and, straightway, wreck
Its work. Besides, today Europe’s condition
Makes me ask why no horoscoper could
Foresee it, as one should have thought one would!
How can our passions, actions, that so fast
Can turn, be followed through so vast
A space? Our fate depends on them, yet they
Are ever changing. Still, these folk profess
That they can chart our life! Let no one say
That my examples show their truthfulness:
Aeschylus
and the child prove nothing, nay!
Blind and false is their art. And yet, they might,
Once in a thousand times, by chance, be right.2
VIII, 16
THE ASS AND THE DOG
We must help one another; yea, it
Verily is a law of Nature. But
An ass, one day, failed to obey it.
Why? Who can say? I don’t know what
The reason might have been, because
He was a worthy sort. Well, there he was,
That day, he and a dog, wending their way
Without a single thought in mind,
And with their master coming up behind.
The latter, suddenly, as they
Trod loping on, fell fast asleep. And so
The ass began to graze the grass, abounding
Over the pastureland, surrounding,
Feasting his heart’s content, although
There were no prickly thorns—the kind
That feast must have for ass to find
It to his liking!… Anyway, no need
To be so fussy. There he was, with feed
Aplenty, even though it lacked
Perfection!… Now, the dog, in fact,
Lay almost dead from hunger, and he said:
“Dear friend, I beg you, please, lower your head
And let me take my dinner in that basket
Hanging about your neck.” Sire Quadruped,1
Though many a time the dog again would ask it,
Turned a deaf ear, a-chomping, lest
He lose a bite. At last: “Friend, I suggest,”
He answered, “that you wait until monsieur
Awakes. He’ll not be long… He’ll not demur,
But will give you your due.” As he addressed
Him thus, a wolf came at them from the wood.
Another hungry beast! The ass turned toward
The dog: “Help! Help me!” he implored.
But, unafraid, the latter stood
His ground. “Friend, were I you, I should
Run off! Monsieur will wake… He’ll not be long…
Still, better you not hem and haw.
Now, if you’re caught, you won’t go wrong
Using your new-shod hooves to break a jaw,
And lay him flat…” During said song
And dance, Sire Wolf strangled our ass, quite dead.
Yes, best we help each other, as I’ve said.
VIII, 17
THE PASHA AND THE MERCHANT
A certain Greek there was, in eastern land,
Who plied the merchant’s trade. A pasha’s hand
Offered protection, in return for which
Monsieur was forced to pay in manner rich,
Pasha-wise—strong protectors come not cheap!—
Whence our Greek, going round about, would keep
Complaining loudly of the price. At length,
Three other Turks, of lesser rank and strength,
Come to proffer protection: they, all three
Together, would not ask so high a fee
As he was paying for a single one.
The offer pleases, and he willingly
Agrees… The pasha learns what he has done.
Those in his retinue advise that he
Wreak vengeance—with a message to be given
Forthwith to prophet Mahomet, in heaven!—
And soon, lest they indeed have time to do
The same to him, despite the many who
Could take revenge; lest soon some poison fell
Propel him to the afterlife to sell
Protection to the merchants thereabout!
Our Turk—like Alexander,1 staunch, direct—
Strides boldly to the Greek’s house. “Hear me out,”
Says he, taking a seat. “Is it correct
That you are leaving me? For so they say.
Some even would predict that foul things may
Befall me for all that! But I suspect
That this is empty talk: I look on you
And know you are not one to serve a brew
With poison laced! Enough said on that score.
As for those who advised you heretofore,
Listen. Instead of idle, boring chatter,
An apologue will clarify the matter.
“The shepherd of a certain flock there was
Whose hound occasioned great expense, because
A loaf entire would he consume each day.
‘Why do you not give him away?’
Some would suggest. ‘Surely our village sire
Would take him for his use, whereas for you
Two or three smaller dogs—curs—would require
Less food to eat, and they would do
Three times the work.’ Yes, it was true,
His had a threefold appetite.
But what, alas, they failed to see
Was that, if his jaws ate for three,
They also had three times the bite
When wolves attacked the flock… The shepherd did
As they suggested though, got rid
Of his, and took three mongrel pups instead,
All of whom, much more cheaply fed,
Were also more inclined to bid
Adieu when danger reared its ugly head!
The flock suffered the consequences, friend,
And so will you if you select
Such rabble to protect you in the end.
If you would be more circumspect
You will return to me!” Well, in effect,
This our Greek did… Now, I expect you
Perceive my fable’s reasoning:
Better it is to count on one strong king
Than many a petty princeling to protect you!
VIII, 18
THE VALUE OF KNOWLEDGE
Betwixt two burghers there arose
A row. One, quick of wit, was poor;
The other, rich, but much the boor.
The latter, twitting, clucks and crows:
Surely his bookish rival owes
The likes of him respect, and should—
If he, indeed, had any sense—
Pay homage to his opulence.
(“Sense”? Hardly! Rather say “foolhardihood!”
For why revere mere wealth without
Real worth? It’s meaningless.) “So, brother,”
Brashly the lout would taunt and flout
The other;
“Doubtless you think yourself my better; but
How often do you have your friends to dinner?
What good are books? Will reading fill their gut?
The wretches just grow poorer, thinner;
Up in their garrets, garbed all year the same;
No servants but their shadows! Fie! For shame!
The body politic has little use
For those who never buy. Wealth and excess—
Luxury, in a word—produce
The greatest deal of human happiness.
Our pleasures set the wheel a-turning:
Earning and spending; spending, earning.
Each of us, Heaven knows, must play his part:
Spinners and seamsters, fancy beaus and belles
Who buy the finery the merchant sells;
And even you, who with your useless art,
Toady to patrons ever quick to pay.”
Our bookman doesn’t deign respond:
There’s much too much that he might say.
But still, revenge is his, and far beyond
Mere satire’s meager means. For war breaks out,
And Mars wreaks havoc round about.
Homeless, our vagabonds must beg their bread.
Scorned everywhere, the boor meets glare and glower;
Welcomed, the wit is plied with board and bed.
So ends their quarrel. Fools take heed: knowledge is power!
VIII, 19
JUPITER AND THE THUNDERBOLTS
Jupiter, from heaven’s vault,
Watching, as our every fault
Seemed to go from bad to worse,
Said one day: “I must replace
That annoying human race
And restock the universe.”
So he called on Mercury:
“Go down to the depths of hell,
And, among the Furies fell,
Find the cruelest of the three…”
Then, in tones distressed and heated,
Turning toward humanity:
“Race that I have too well treated—
Cherished much too lovingly—
Perish now!” (Scarcely completed,
His plan would be modified.
O you kings who can decide,
Thanks to him, our mortal fate,
Do as he did: moderate,
Too, your anger; let the night
Counsel you!) At any rate,
Fleet of wing and sweet of tongue,
Mercury flew down among
Hell’s vile denizens; and he
Found the sisters’ darksome trio1—
Megaera, Tisiphone,
And the cruelest of the three: oh,
Fierce Alecto, pitiless!
Her he picked, and she, so proud
That he chose her heartlessness,
That she arrogantly vowed
On the head of Pluto, that
Hell would be the habitat,
Henceforth, of all humankind.
Jupiter was quick to find
Far too harsh that furious vow,
And at once sent back to Hades
This most fearsome of the ladies.
Still, he knew he had, somehow,
To make show of his displeasure—
Even if in modest measure—
With his offspring. So he hurled
From his hand a thunderbolt,
Aiming at a faithless world.
It gave but a modest jolt—
More a fright than anything—
So ill aimed and badly guided
That it landed, simmering,
In a spot where none resided.
(Fathers feign their punishment!)
Mankind fancied it could, thus,
Turn once more to scurrilous,
Vile behavior decadent.
All the gods voiced their dismay,
And the storm clouds’ master swore,
By the Styx, that he, straightway,
Would make other storms, and more
Sure to hit their mark. They laugh.
“But you are a father, sire,
And you ought, in your behalf,
Let another form the fire
Of your thunder!” Vulcan was
He who undertook the cause.
Bolts of two kinds he confected:
One—sure, never misdirected—
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 21