Fools, and flatterers, and cheats,
All perform their churlish feats
And their endless infamies.
And to these I could add those
Liars too—humanity’s
Common breed, as well one knows.
“Everyone lies,” says the Sage.
“Were it but the lowly who
Ply their lies from age to age,
We might suffer them to do
As they please. But others, too,
Of a higher, nobler state,
Willingly prevaricate.
Liars are we; liars all;
Liars great and liars small.”
Had another offered such
Observation on the topic,
I would have denied as much,
Claiming that tales—lies!—Aesopic
And Homeric serve a very
Proper purpose salutary;
And that those who lie as they
(“Proffer fictions,” rather say)
Deal in matters legendary
But lie not. Their fictions’ guise
Garbs the truth in artful wise.
Both Aesop and Homer told
Tales aplenty, never dying,
Ever young though ever old;
Tales that give the lie to lying.
For, though fictions seem to be
Oh so easy to present,
They are, on the contrary,
Not so easy to invent.
Be not like that faithless gent
Who was chosen as trustee
By a Persian merchant, who,
Going to sea, about to bid adieu,
Went to his neighbor with a hundredweight
Of iron, asking him to hold it for him.
When he returns, he does not hesitate:
“My iron, friend!” But, trying to ignore him,
The latter says: “Your iron? I regret
To tell you that it is no more.
A rat gnawed it to bits! Now, you can bet,
I scolded my domestics, but what for?
Whose fault? Rats always find a hole or two—
Or make one if they must—to wriggle through!”
Incredulous, the merchant drops his jaw,
Gapes at the faithless friend in utter awe,
Feigns to believe him. The perfidious one,
Who would deceive him, has an only son.
Our merchant, in a day or two—or three—
Has the child seized, and cordially
Invites the friend to sup with him that night.
“Ah,” weeps the father, “woe is me!
Would that I could! Would that I might!
But all is misery and deep despair!
For I am lost, alas! My son and heir
Is taken from me!” “Oh?” the merchant sighs.
“I saw a screech owl swoop down from the skies
And sweep him off to some old hovel!” “What?”
“Quite! It was yesterday, at twilight!” “But,
How can that be? An owl?… My son? He would
Have made short work of it!” “My eyes are good.
I tell you what I saw, not how or why!
Besides, how can you doubt it, or deny
That in this wondrous neighborhood,
It cannot be considered odd
That, if a hundredweight of iron is gnawed
And nibbled by one rat, surely one owl
Can bear off half a hundredweight of child!”
The father gives a knowing scowl
And sees how he has been beguiled.
The iron is returned; the offspring too.
A similar dispute concerned
Two travelers who, from voyages returned,
Would always disagree. One took the view
That everything he saw was huge, as though
He used a microscope for looking through.
He was one of that ilk whose tongues make grow
Whatever they describe: you hear them tell,
O Europe, that in Africa there dwell
Enormous monsters everywhere. And so,
Taking, he thought, a normal liberty,
This one, indulging in hyperbole,
Proclaims: “I saw a cabbage once, you know,
Big as a house, or bigger!” “Oh?” replies
The second. “As for me, I saw a pot
Big as a church, or bigger still!” “No!” cries
The first, with sneer and leer. “Oh no? Why not?
They needed,” said the other with a grin,
“A pot that size to cook your cabbage in!”
The one who lost and found his iron was clever;
The other, with the pot, was droll. Best never
Combat absurdity with truth, for it,
However false, will never yield one whit.
Spare yourself anguish, anger, and frustration:
Let your lies languish in exaggeration.
IX, 1
THE TWO PIGEONS
Two pigeons dwelt together, bound
By tender love; but one soon found—
A trifle daft—that life was bland,
And told the other that he planned
A voyage to some land unknown.
“What are you thinking of?” replied
His brother. “Would you leave my side?
What greater woe than to be left alone?
Alas, poor me! How cruel of you!
Will nothing change your heart?” he asks.
“So many dangers… And so much to do…
So many chores, so many tasks
Left yet undone… If, at last, it were spring!
At least wait till soft zephyrs bring
Us gentler time. What hurry spurs you so?
Just now, in fact, I heard a crow
Menacing, threatening with his ‘awk awk,’
That not a bird was safe. Myself, I would
Fear you were in some snare, or that you could
Be seized by some fell falcon-hawk!
And, if it rained, I should fear lest
My brother had no place to rest
His head, no food to eat, and such.”
Our thoughtless wayfarer was much
Moved by this touching speech; but still,
His disposition fickle, volatile,
And his desire to see the world, won out.
“Weep not. In but three days, gadding about,
I will, no doubt, be satisfied, and will
Return, and tell my brother, bit by bit,
The story of my travels. And, thereby,
Will he be quite as pleased as I,
Reveling in my tale; for it
Will be as if he had voyaged as well.
He who sees nothing, nothing has to tell.
But when I say: ‘I traveled there… Such were
My fair adventures…’ it will be
As if you had gone there, done them with me.”
At that, with many a tear, the voyageur
Bids adieu and flies off… A storm cloud brewing
Forces him to take refuge in a tree—
The only one he finds—and suddenly
The wind and rain are almost his undoing,
Despite the leaves’ protection. When the air
Grows calm, battered and drenched, our solitaire,
Trying to dry as best he can, flies on,
And straightway comes upon a field, all teeming
With wheat, and spies a pigeon perched—or seeming
To be!—and gazes thereupon
With hungering eyes… Flies thither… Lands… And lo!
Lies trapped! The wheat, much to his woe,
Concealed a treacherous snare. Fortunately,
It was in less than excellent repair:
He plucks, he pecks, he picks, and finally he—
Leaving some feathers here and there—breaks free,
Goes flying on, when (ah, despair!)
A ha
wk, spying his much disheveled state—
Trailing bits of the net, poor addlepate—
Readies to swoop. But then, cleaving the air,
Appears an eagle, wings outspread;
And, as eagle and hawk vie, head to head,
Our pigeon, profiting therefrom, escapes,
Finds an old hovel, lands beside it, thinking
His pains are ended; till there comes, a-slinking,
A lad who, with his sling—young jackanapes—
With one fling almost ends his days. Half-dead,
Cursing his curiosity, bereft
Of strength, dragging a wing, he turns his head
Straight for the home that he has left,
Arriving with no further woe. United,
Our two once more in joy their friendship plighted.
Lovers, O happy lovers, will you go
Traveling beyond your home? If so,
Let it be to some shore close by!
Be one another’s world, forever new,
Forever different! Who needs more? When I,
Myself, loved and when I would woo
In faithful wise my fair young shepherdess,
Serving god Cupid, never would I trade
The blessèd paths in woodland wilderness
Lit by her eyes, where her dear steps had strayed,
For all the treasures of the Louvre, or for
The heavens’ vault itself! What? Will no more
I know those moments of my youth, betrayed
By my soul’s yearnings, never now to taste
Such joys! Ah! If my heart were not afraid
To flame once more, would I no more be graced
By loving and the charms thereof?
What? Have I passed, alas, the time for love?
IX, 2
THE APE AND THE LEOPARD
The leopard and the ape worked at the fair,
Each one, before his stall, displaying
Virtues unique; the former saying:
“Messieurs, my fame spreads everywhere,
Unto the grandest of the grands seigneurs.
The king himself has come to see me! Why,
So much impressed is he, that, should I die,
He wants to use my speckled fur—
Spotted and freckle-flecked—to make a muff.”
His audience listens, looks, admires
His coat of many colors, but soon tires
Of his harangue. When they have had enough,
They leave to see the ape. The latter
Charms and delights them with his puff and patter:
“Come, step this way, messieurs,” says he.
“I’ll show you tricks and sleights galore,
Hundreds you’ve never bargained for!…
My neighbor boasts his fine diversity.
Indeed! The only problem is,
All that diversity of his
Is on his back! Mine, friends is in my head!
Your faithful servant Gille am I, related
To Dom Bertrand,1 ape to the pope—now dead
(Alas!), but no less venerated.
Here have I come—with three ships, mind you!—
To dance, to sing; to jump through hoops; to do
Antics and capers of a kind you
Never would dream! And all that for one sou!
Your money back if you’re not pleased!…” So went
Ape’s chatter… And correctly so. For me,
His was the true diversity:
Splendor of mind, not vain accoutrement!
Whereas, like leopard, many’s the noble sire
Whose only talent lies in his attire.
IX, 3
THE ACORN AND THE PUMP KIN
The Lord knows best what He’s about.
No need to search for proof throughout
The universe. Look at the pumpkin.
It gives us all the proof we need. To wit:
The story of a village bumpkin—
Garo by name—who found one, gazed at it,
And wondered how so huge a fruit could be
Hung from so slight a stem: “It doesn’t fit!
God’s done it wrong! If He’d asked me,
He’d hang them from those oaks. Big fruit, big tree.
Too bad someone so smart and strong—
At least that’s what the vicar’s always saying
With all his preaching and his praying—
Didn’t have me to help His work along!
I’d hang the acorn from this vine instead…
No bigger than my nail… It’s like I said:
God’s got things backwards. It’s all wrong…
Well, after all that weighty thought I’d best
Take me a nap. We thinkers need our rest.”
No sooner said than done. Beneath an oak
Our Garo laid his head in sweet repose.
Next moment, though, he painfully awoke:
An acorn, falling, hit him on the nose.
Rubbing his face, feeling his bruises,
He finds it still entangled in his beard.
“A bloody nose from this?” he muses.
“I must say, things aren’t quite what they appeared.
My goodness, if this little nut
Had been a pumpkin or a squash, then what?
God knows His business after all, no question!
It’s time I changed my tune!” With that suggestion,
Garo goes home, singing the praise
Of God and of His wondrous ways.
IX, 4
THE SCHOOLBOY, THE PEDANT, AND THE OWNER OF A GARDEN
A lad there was, fresh with the smell of school,
With twice the share of mischief for his years
And also, be it said, twice more the fool,
Thanks to the right that pedants have to rule
Young minds and stunt their reason. It appears
That—thieving little villain!—he would loot
A neighbor’s garden of its flowers and fruit,
Where, every autumn-time, there grew the best
Pomona had to offer, while the rest
Made do with what was left. In spring as well
Said neighbor’s garden bloomed and flowered
As generous Flora1 fairly showered
Her lavish bounty on him; truth to tell,
Each season paid him tribute… Well, one day
He sees an urchin in a tree—
One of his fruit-trees, much to his dismay—
Recklessly, unrelentingly
Climbing, attacking every sprouting bough,
Each fragile bud, harbingers here and now
Of future’s lush abundance, cracking limb
And branch. The neighbor watches him,
Aghast, and sends word to his teacher, who
Answers the call, comes with a retinue
Of tots: the orchard, teeming to the brim,
Is more in danger than it was before,
Thanks to the pedant’s gracious intervention
And to the presence (need I mention?)
Of his horde of ill-taught young charges! For,
As he says, he has brought them there to give
A lesson that forevermore
All may remember, long as they shall live.
Whereat he cites Virgil and Cicero,
And many a principle of science. So
Long did he speak, haranguing them, that they—
Damnable troop!—had time to lay
Waste in a hundred places… Whence
It follows, apropos, that I despise
All manner of unfitting eloquence—
All endless, witless “how’s” and “why’s.”
Of all this world’s most senseless creatures,
Schoolboys would be the worst, but for their teachers—
Pedants aplenty! But (ah! woe betide me!)
Neither would I have live beside me!
IX, 5
&
nbsp; THE SCULPTOR AND THE STATUE OF JUPITER
Finding it fair and passing fine,
A sculptor bought a marble block.
“What shall I sculpt, O chisel mine?
A god? A taboret? A crock?
“God shall it be! And he who bears
A bolt of lightning in his hand!
Tremble, O mortals! Say your prayers!
Master is he of all the land.”
The idol was so handsome wrought
That Jove himself it seemed. In fact,
Whoever saw it deemed that naught
But speech alone was all it lacked.
They say, scarce done, the sculptor would
Shudder before his own creation,
And that, shaking with fright, he stood
Quaking with awe and veneration.
The Poet trod our sculptor’s path
In days gone by, no less tormented,
Fearing the loathing and the wrath
Of gods his fancy had invented.
In this he was a child at best:
Children have but one care withal;
To wit, the endless worry lest
One anger or displease their doll.
The heart will follow where the head
May lead, and does so willingly.
Whence stemmed the pagan error, spread
Over a vast humanity.
The ancients seized on folly, thus:
Mad fancies that the heart dictated.
Pygmalion waxed amorous
Of the fair Venus1 he created.
Each of us deals as deal he will
To realize his dream’s desire:
Man looks on truth with icy chill,
And looks on lies with passion’s fire.
IX, 6
THE MOUSE METAMORPHOSED INTO A MAIDEN
A mouse fell from a screech owl’s beak. I should,
Myself, have let her lie, nor picked
Her up. A Brahman did. I could predict
He would; for, it is understood,
Each race has its philosophy.
And, for such creatures, truly, we
Care little. But the Brahmans, they, perceive
Them as their brothers, and presume
That the soul which, in time, must leave
A king, enters a beast, there to assume—
Be it some nit or other!—any state
That might befit the will of Fate.
Such is, at least, one of the laws whereby
They live. (Pythagoras, in fact, it was
Who would extract the meaning of such laws.)
Now then, the Brahman thought he ought comply.
And so, finding a sorcerer, he prayed
That he might cause the mouse to turn once more
Into the form that had been hers before.
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 23