The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

by Jean La Fontaine

  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.