Flies from high Olympus, hurled
By the gods assembled there;
Whilst the other—twisted, twirled
Off its course—will split the air,
Hit not Man, but mountains rather…
That one comes from Jove, the father.
VIII, 20
THE FALCON AND THE CAPON
Often a treacherous voice will call to you;
Be not too hasty to obey.
Jean de Nivelle’s dog1 was no fool! Nay, nay!
Whenever called, what did he do?
He would turn tail and run away!
In the town of Le Mans, a citizen—
Capon by trade and occupation—
One day received a formal convocation
Promptly to quit his habitat, and then
Come to the master’s habitation,
Before the high tribunal that we dub
The hearth and spit. All those assembled fumbled
To hide the cause of his summation, mumbled:
“Psst, psst! Here, here! Come, come!…” But here’s the rub:
Our Norman-and-a-half2 knows why
They call, and so he lets them cry,
And chirp, and chiff their fill, but answers not.
“Obedient servant? Yes. But stupid sot?
Nay, not a jot! The ruse, the lure you
Use is not subtle, I assure you!”
So he mused as he waddled off, intent
On fleeing the tribunal. As he went,
He little knew—though clearly he suspected,
From instinct or experience—that he,
Who once had lived so fancy-free,
Was destined, next day, to be served, confected
Into a savory dish, most lavishly:
A favor he would gladly do without…
A falcon, perching near, speaks to him thus:
“What kind of coarse, indecorous,
Mindless, untutored fowl are you? Some lout
No doubt! Why, look at me! I fly about,
Hunting my prey, and then return to where
Our master waits. Do you not see him there?
Do you not hear?” “All too well, on my life!
Look! Do you not see Cook waving that knife?
Would you return if that were what awaited?
You laugh; but when they call me tenderly,
I know that I am fated soon to be
Rendered abruptly consummated.
If you as many skewered falcons saw
As I my fellow capons see,
You would not be so quick with your ‘haw-haw’
And repartee, to find such fault with me.”
VIII, 21
THE CAT AND THE RAT
Four animals—Nip-cheese the cat,
Sad-bird the owl, Gnaw-stitch the rat,
And Madame Weasel, of the lithe, sleek breast,
Each one especially unblest
With nasty temperament—all lived inside
A rotting, old, wild pinetree’s trunk. One night
A man approached their dwelling and spread wide
His snares about the tree. Next morning, bright
And early—as her wont—the cat arises,
Goes out to seek his prey… Now, one surmises
That, in the breaking dawn’s still dusky light,
He fails to see the net, and in he falls…
Wailing his woe, he squeals, he calls,
Lest, there ensnared, he languish, end his days.
The rat comes running out, surveys
The situation, overjoyed to see
Nip-cheese, his mortal enemy,
Properly tangled in the snare.
Laments the poor cat: “Ah, Gnaw-stitch, mon cher,
You, who have ever been so good to me,
Come save me from this agony that my
Stupidity alone has caused! I pray you,
Come, you, the apple of my eye!
My life is in your paws! What say you?
You, whom, of all your kind, alone I love!
Why, just now I was on my way to say
My prayers! For, by the gods above,
A pious cat am I, and every day
I pray for you! Now, be a dear and come
Nibble this net and end my martyrdom!”
“Oh?” says the rat. “And, if I gnaw
You free, what will you do for me?” “‘Do’? Why,
I swear ever to be your staunch ally,
Against your enemies, with tooth and claw!
Weasel and owl will I devour, for they
Wish you much ill! Now, s’il vous plaît…”
The rat replies with a guffaw:
“What kind of fool…! Me, save your hide? How droll!”
And off he scurries to his hole,
Only to find the weasel lurking there.
So up the tree he hurries… But, despair!
There sits the owl! What can he do? Thereat,
Attending to the pressing problem first,
Back he goes trotting to the cat,
Gnaws at the net… Chews, chomps… The stitches burst,
And Nip-cheese, wily pharisee,
Breaks free! But, at that moment, suddenly,
The man approaches, and our new allies
Take to their heels… Time passes. Then, one day,
The cat, off in the distance, spies
The rat; the latter darts his wary eyes
Around, about… The former beckons: “Pray,
Brother mine! Come give me a hug! I’m much
Distressed to see you eye your friend with such
Distrust! Can you suppose that I forget
That it was you who saved me from the net?
Why, after God, I owe my life to you!”
“And you,” rat answered, “do you think I yet
Forget your nature? Nay, it’s all too true:
You’re still a cat! Who can rely
On friendship born of need? My friend, not I!”
VIII, 22
THE TORRENT AND THE RIVULET
The country trembled far and wide
As lo! a mighty torrent rumbled, roared,
Tumbling its waters down the mountainside
In fearsome cataracts. Ah, woe betide
The heedless vagabond who tried to ford
Those fell, forbidding depths!… Well, one indeed
Was forced to do just that; for, seeing a pack
Of highwaymen approaching at his back,
A certain traveler felt the need
To put said flood betwixt himself and them.
Thanks to his daring stratagem,
He found that he was none the worse
For fright; despite the river’s clash and clatter,
Its depth was quite another matter:
Shallow, in fact, and easy to traverse.
Now, heartened by success (though yet
Pursued), he came upon a rivulet;
So tranquil that it seemed asleep,
Easy to cross: no jagged, steep,
And craggy banks… In trots our cavalier,
Astride his horse, only to disappear
Beneath its billows—calm, but oh so deep!
Saved from the brigands now, the pair must swim
Across the Stygean waters, dark and grim.
Gushing, our torrent; hushed, our stream…
Best not judge rivers by the way they seem!
Nor men!… Beware the still, the quiet:
Dangerous, they, much though their look belie it.
VIII, 23
BREEDING
Caesar and Laridon, two brothers sprung
Of famous dogs—well formed, and bold, and fair—
Had fallen each to different households, where
One roamed the woods, the other hung among
The victuals and the kitchenware. They had
Been born with other names; but, fed
On different food, each one had led<
br />
A different life. In time, a scullery-lad
Gave the name Laridon to him who spent
His days lazing in indolent
Repast, blighting the robust constitution
Nature had given him. The other,
Hunted his prey—deer, boar—unlike his brother;
Dogdom’s first “Caesar”—noble attribution!—
His feats had made him grow in strength;
And when the time had come, at length,
To procreate, one took great care lest he
Bed an unworthy mistress, thereby spawning
An impure and ignoble progeny;
Whereas the other, casually fawning
On the first bitch to lope his way,
Peopled (if I may say) a race unfit.
French kitchen-knaves, those warders of the spit,
Produce their craven kin: no Caesars they,
But rather much the opposite.
We follow not our forebears’ path. In sum,
Time, lack of care, soon waste and ravage us:
When nature’s gifts are left unnurtured, thus,
How many Caesars Laridons become!
VIII, 24
THE TWO DOGS AND THE DEAD ASS
Virtues are sisters, I suppose;
And vices, brothers. For, when one of those—
Vices, I mean—lays hold upon our hearts,
The others follow: it was ever thus.
(So long as each, that is, without a fuss,
Can live amongst his counterparts
Under one roof.) It’s not the same at all
With virtues. No, seldom does it befall
That all of them are seen to mingle
Peaceably, lodging in a single
Creature, united hand in hand withal.
One may be valiant, brave, and daring,
But lack reflection; and we may observe
Another, wise and cautious, but uncaring,
Callous, and cold. The dog will serve
As good example. Faithful to a fault,
It’s he, of all the beasts, whom we exalt
Above the rest. Yet weak of wit
He is, and much too strong of appetite.
Witness—should you need proof of it—
A pair of hounds who, one fair day, caught sight,
Off in the distance, of a dead ass floating
Over the waves, and, likewise, noting
That it was being seaward blown. “Your eyes,”
Said one, “are much more powerful
Than mine. See, there? Is that a horse or bull?”
“What difference?” said the other. “It’s a prize,
Whichever! Both are meat! Let’s glut!
It’s a long swim, and windward; but
Let’s drink: our throats, parched dry, will make
Short order of the sea. Then, once we slake
Our thirst, that hunk will serve for many a day.”
And so they drink; and, having drunk, at first
They lose their breath… And then their life: they burst.
So too with Man: when passion comes his way
And lights a fire, his mind and soul reject
The notion that he cannot reach
His goal. He strives, he fights: to no effect!
Too vast the ocean! Power, possessions… Each
Becomes desire. “If only I might learn:
History, Hebrew, science! Ah, I burn
To understand!” But no, one life, for Man,
Is not enough. He yearns to drink the sea!
Even four times as long, his span
Would not be half as much as it should be!
And four Methuselahs, laid tip to toe,
Never could learn what mankind yearns to know.1
VIII, 25
DEMOCRITUS AND THE ABDERITANS
Ever have I abhorred the lowly thought
Of common man! It seems so error-fraught—
So unjust, so profane and rash. It gauges
Everything by itself! Witness a sage’s
Experience. Good Epicurus had
A master, wise Democritus by name.1
His countrymen all thought him mad.
(Petty minds! Ever has it been the same:
A prophet has no honor—none!—
In his own land.) When all was said and done,
They, the Abderitans,2 were fools, not he!
At any rate, the town, united
In its opinion, thereupon invited
Hippocrates, officially,
To come restore his reason. “Ah,” they said,
Weeping, “Democritus has lost his head.
He reads too much. Indeed, we would
Esteem him more if less he understood.
‘The worlds,’ he tells us, in his witlessness,
‘Are infinite and limitless.’
And he avers, as these worlds he discusses,
That they may be full of Democrituses!
Not content with such dreams, he will digress
And speak of atoms, born of his dulled brain,
Phantoms unseen; and though he will remain
Here below, still he measures out the skies.
He knows the universe and yet knows not
Himself. He used to harmonize
Disputes, resolve them. Now he occupies
His time with babbling tommyrot
And speaks but to himself. Come, please,
Mortal divine!” The good Hippocrates
Had little faith in their opinion. Still,
He came… As fate would have it, he arrives
Just as the arrant imbecile
(Or so think the Abderitans) contrives—
Seated beside a brook, beneath a tree,
Holding a brain and eagerly
Observing, studying its maze—to find
The seat—head? heart?—wherein the mind
Of man and beast resides. Before him
Many a volume lies; and when his friend
Draws near, although not meaning to ignore him,
He scarcely sees or greets him. In the end,
Since sages have no time for pleasantries,
Frivolities, and such, Hippocrates
And he spend many an hour debating
The problems of the mind. When these
Are done, they turn to contemplating
The question of morality’s
Demands. No need for me to go
Into detail. I think my tale will show
How poor a judge the populace can be.
And yet, I find it rather odd
That I read somewhere recently
That its voice is the voice of God!3
VIII, 26
THE WOLF AND THE HUNTER
O monster, you who view our boons God-given
As a mere speck bestowed on you by heaven;
You, rash desire ever for more and more;
You, mad wish to acquire! Will you ignore
The lessons that my moral tales contain?
Will you be deaf to what I preach, in vain,
As to a sage’s wise foresightedness?
Will you not say: “Enough! Time it is now
To live, enjoy…” I pray you tell me how
I may persuade you! Now! Enjoy!… “Oh, yes!
I will!” “Oh? When?” “Tomorrow.” Why delay
Until tomorrow? Are you sure that death
Will not come meet you on the way? Each breath
May be your last. Enjoy your life today,
Lest, like a hunter and a wolf, you do
What they did in this tale. The former slew
A buck—easy to slay. When passed a fawn,
It took as little time to lay him low,
Spread on the grass, beside the buck. Whereon
A boar appeared, monstrous, superb. And, though
The modest prey was quite enough—a buck,
A fawn—our hunter yearns to try his luck
Only once more… A Stygian denizen,
However, stands there too: the deadly Fate
Whose task it is to end the days of men—
And beasts—to cut life’s thread… Time and again
She tried, intending to abbreviate
Said boar’s existence, but each time relented,
Until a blow brought down the prize. He lay
Dying before the hunter, uncontented
Quite with his kill. What? Not enough? Nay, nay!
A victor’s appetite wants ever more!
Our archer spies a partridge strutting past—
Scarcely a prey worth yearning for!—
Just as it happens that the boar
Catches his breath, summoning up his last
Vestige of life. And, as the archer, bending
Tight his bow, aims, the beast attacks, leaps, rending
His body limb from limb, avenged. The bird
Thanks the beast. But you have not heard
The rest, addressed to those of covetous,
Gluttonous bent. A wolf comes skulking by,
Looks on the tragic scene with gloating eye:
“O Fortune! I shall pay your generous
Boon with a shrine! Four bodies! What
A feast is mine! A banquet! But
Best I not eat them all at once. With four,
One a week ought to last a month—buck, boar,
Fawn, man—unless I figure ill. In two
Days will I start. For now, why not just chew
The bowstring, wrought from gut! Ah! That fine smell
Is unmistakable!” He leaps… At that,
The string shoots one last arrow, lays him flat,
Pierced through, and kills him to a fare-thee-well…
Back to my text; the moral here is this:
Enjoy! Neither my wolf nor hunter be!
One of them died of gluttony,
The other one, of avarice.
VIII, 27
· BOOK IX ·
THE FAITHLESS TRUSTEE
Thanks to Memory’s daughters,1 I
Many an animal have sung.
Had I chosen from among
Other heroes, by the bye,
Lesser glory might be mine.
In gods’ tongue Wolf speaks to Hound
In my works, wherein are found
Beasts of every stripe, design,
Playing diverse roles as best
They can play—mad, wise, no matter!
(Though much less, I fear, the latter
Than the former!) For the rest,
Others, as diversely dressed,
Occupy my stage, pell-mell:
Tyrants, ingrates, knaves as well,
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 22