IX, 15
THE TREASURE AND THE TWO MEN
A man in dire distress pecuniary—
“The Devil,” as they say, “lodged in his purse”1—
Had watched his fortunes monetary
Dwindle, in time, from bad to worse;
Until, in such a state of destitution,
He thought, indeed, the best solution
Would be to hang himself. Said he: “So what?
Hunger will kill me if the noose does not.”
But, frankly, he was ill inclined
To such demise: it was not quite the kind
He had envisioned as his lot.
So hanging it would be… Well, to that end
He finds himself a hovel; brings a cord;
Looks for a well-placed nail; goes to suspend
The noose… Ah, but what’s this? The wainscoat board
Gives way! It falls apart… It crumbles…
Suddenly, from within the wall, out tumbles
Treasure untold! A golden hoard!
He scoops it up. How much? Who knows?
Enough to end his woe! And off he goes…
The one whose gold it was returned anon;
Gazed at the wall in shambles; looked around
In anxious wonderment and found
That all his riches, thereupon,
Were gone!2
Whereon the miserly recluse,
In deep despair, and seeing there the noose—
Waiting for any neck to settle on—
Hanged himself on the spot, consoled a bit
That he’d not been obliged to pay for it.
The gold, the noose: both found someone to use them.
Avarice, greed: no miser, but that rues them
After a while! For him, what benefit
Of all his hoarded wealth? No joy, no pleasure…
Heirs, thieves, the earth itself, consume his treasure.
And what of Fate’s wry twist? That goddess makes
What seem to be the oddest of mistakes—
Intentional, of course!—to please
Her taste for eccentricities!
This time she had a mind to see
A man hang by the neck; and she
Saw one indeed. Which of the two?
No matter. Either one would do.
IX, 16
THE MONKEY AND THE CAT
A cat and monkey—known respectively
As Ratter and Bertrand1—two neighbors were,
Sharing one habitat and one seigneur:
As generous a platter as could be
Of mischief-making beasts! No fear had they
Of any who might chance their way.
Wherefore they were, I guarantee,
The cause of anything that went awry.
Bertrand was quite the thief; and, as for Ratter,
Mice and cheese were his bailiwick, the latter
Especially… One day our rogues, close by
The hearth, watched as some chestnuts roasted. Why,
How tasty those would be to steal!
For two good reasons: first, to make a meal,
And then, for the mere joy of doing ill.
Says Bertrand: “Brother, you can show your skill
By pulling those fine chestnuts from the fire.
If God had made me fit to do it
Myself, I vow I would hop to it!
They would be ours by now!…” “As you desire,”
Replies the cat. No sooner said than done.
Delicately our Ratter brushes here
And there an ember, paws first one,
Softly, gently coaxing it near…
And then another, and another…
As all the while his knavish brother
In crime gobbles them up, leaves none for his
Accomplice, who most angry is
When comes a serving wench and sends them fleeing!
So too with princes, who, with all their being,
Sweat in the provinces, unquestioning,
All for the profit of some king.
IX, 17
THE KITE AND THE NIGHTINGALE
The kite—bird of rapacious race—
Leading the village youth a merry chase,
Spreading his terror round, had pounced upon
Spring’s nightingale, who, woebegone,
Pled for her life: “What can you want with me?
All voice and precious little meat!
Listen, I’ll sing my famous melody.
Everyone loves it; so will you. You’ll see…
About Tereus1… Love… Deceit…”
“Tereus? Is that something good to eat?”
“Eat? No! He was a prince, whose passion
Burned me in most unseemly fashion!”
“Oh? And what’s that to me?” the kite replies.
“Who cares? Of all the foolish things…!
Here I am, starving, and you rhapsodize!
Enough!” “But sir, I sing for kings!”
“Then save your fancy tales till you get caught
By bloody royalty!” he screeches.
“We kites don’t give your art a second thought:
A hungry belly has no use for speeches.”2
IX, 18
THE SHEPHERD AND HIS FLOCK
“What? Can it be? Again he feasts
On one of my poor stupid beasts!
They were a thousand—more!—and still
They let the wolf gobble the one he wanted!
(They always will, I fear!) Unchecked, undaunted,
He snatched my poor dear Robin for the kill:
My Robin Mutton, who, for but a crumb,
Followed me round the town, who would have come
Anywhere in the world with me.
Alas! When he would hear my pipes he could
Be a good hundred paces off, yet would
He smell me and come running! Misery!
Poor Robin Mutton!… Oh!… Ah me!…” When he—
Guillot—finished his funeral oration,
Praising the memory of the dear deceased,
He turned in righteous indignation,
Face to the flock, each high and lowly beast,
Down to the meekest lamb, haranguing them
To close ranks, foil the wolves’ foul stratagem,
For only they could keep the foe at bay.
“Hold fast!” he orders them, and they
Promise upon the honor of their race
Not to retreat, let come what may.
“We would snuff out the life of that scapegrace,”
They say, “that villain gluttonous
Who took poor Robin Mutton thus from us!”
So swore each solemnly upon his head.
Guillot believed them, praised them. But before
Night fell, one untoward mishap more
Occurred, and all at once the whole flock fled.
Not a wolf this time, but a shadow merely…
Alas! Unworthy soldiers cost you dearly.
They vow to fight unto the end,
Risk all. But let the slightest woe impend:
Despite your shouts and brave example, you
Will see their courage bid a brisk adieu.
IX, 19
DISCOURSE
FOR MADAME DE LA SABLIÈRE 1
Iris,2 how I would sing your praises, nor
Would it be difficult; but oft before—
A hundred times—you would refuse to let
My verse so do! How many a vain coquette—
Most, indeed!—yearn for all that flattery
That man will set before them, eagerly
Paying it heed. I cannot fuss or fret
Over their humor: belles, kings, gods will be
Ever moved by that nectar! Any wonder?
Praise is that draught the poet-race prepares
To serve unto the master of the thunder
And all earthly divinities. Yes, thei
rs
It is. But, Iris, it is not for you.
No. You want nothing of this brew,
This heady heavenly liqueur;
And in its place, instead, you much prefer
To let chance offer a libation:
Subjects a hundredfold—philosophy,
Pleasantry, science, leaping fancy-free,
To, fro, in deep or shallow conversation.
Even things that worldly society
Does not believe, or mocks. No matter.
From wondrous whimsy to the idlest chatter,
Discussion is a flowerbed, in which
Flora3 will spread her treasures rich.
The bee lights where she will, sips, sucks… Thereat, her
Honey’s store springs from everything she touches.
That said, pray pardon me if now and then
In this, my verse, I too sup wide. For such is
My wont. So do I sip now, when
I touch upon a subtle question, new
To philosophic speculation—do
You know whereof I speak? Be not distressed
Thereat… Well then, what do I mean?
Only that some there are who will protest
That every animal is a machine,
No more; that everything within its breast,
Its head, is moved by springs—or so to say!
No soul, no choice, no sentiment;
Naught but a clock, ticking away
In even pace, blindly, with no intent.
Open it, and you find wheels, gears, the lot!
No mind; a simple mechanism, what!
From one wheel to the next the thought is sent
In a mechanical, unfeeling fashion!
So think these folk. An animal might feel?
Sense? Suffer? Love? No, no! “It is a wheel
Moving a wheel that moves a wheel… No passion,
No will!” “Then what are we?” you ask. Much more!
This is how good Descartes explains it. For,
Among the pagans, surely he
Would be considered a divinity—
This mortal ’twixt the human and the holy.
(As is, between mollusk and man, the lowly
Pack mule and such!) To wit, this is
His thought: “Of all the animals God wrought,
I have, beside the gift of thought,
The knowledge that I think.”4 Now, follow his
Reasoning, fair Iris: “If beasts, indeed,
Did think, they would—be it agreed—
Not think of thinking: thought per se.”
Descartes goes further and denies that they
Can think at all—think what we may, you, I.
Yet, when a ten-point stag, the hunters’ prey,
Hears, in the wood, their blatant cry;
Tries to outrun their blaring horn,
Seeking in vain to mask his tracks—forlorn,
Heavy with years—and spies another, younger
Stag; falls behind him, panting and outdone,
He leaves him to the hounds’ and hunters’ hunger!
What reasoning to save his life, for one
Who, some would fain insist, has none!
Then back he goes to flee, feinting and dodging,
And with a hundred ruses lodging
Inside his head; all worthy of the great
Chieftains of old, and of a better fate!
When he lies slain, at last, those who pursue him
Flay him with honors rendered to him.
Consider too
The partridge, who—
Seeing her hatchlings in a posture fraught
With danger, still unfeathered (hence
Unable to go flying thence,
Fleeing their death)—though much distraught,
Will feign that she is wounded, drag a wing,
And lure hunter and hound, thus succoring
Her brood: the fowler thinks the dog has caught
The bird; but she laughs, flies aloft, whilst he
Watches with gaze bemused, shamefacedly.
There is a northern land we know5
Where one and all, in primitive
And utter ignorance, still live
As live they did, long, long ago.
The humans, that is; for the beasts are very
Adept in deeds constructionary.
Stemming the rivers, streams, they show how skilled
They are, thanks to the dams they build,
Bridging from shore to shore the swelling flood.
Solidly too, with log, then mud,
In layers placed. Nor do these beavers shirk
Their tasks; the older make the younger work
Unceasing. They who, in that state ideal
Of Plato’s, spread the commonweal,
Are amateurs compared to these
Amphibious beaver families.
In winter they can raise their houses, scurry
Across the streams on bridges quickly laid;
Whilst men, if they would do so in a hurry,
Have no recourse, I am afraid,
For all their wit, except to swim.
Madame, some are there who will still
Despise the lowly beast, consider him
A mere machine, body devoid of will,
Lacking in thought, empty of mind.
Not I! I am not so inclined
To do, and pray you listen to a story
Told by the Polish king,6 hero enshrined,
Whose very name alone rings glory,
Bulwark against the Turk. Now then,
He tells (and kings tell true!) how war’s disorder,
Over the years, has turned his border
Into a battleground: of beasts, not men!—
Renard’s descendants—passing through
Their blood, father to son, their legendary
Enmities, with such skill in military
Craft brought thereto, that they, indeed, outdo
War’s humankind practitioners
(Even in times contemporary!), using
Ambushes, spies, scouts, sorties, choosing
A myriad strategies, as connoisseurs
Of warfare (that foul daughter of the Styx,
Mother of heroes) with the clever tricks,
Ruses, wiles, taught by common sense
And much perfected by experience.
Ah! Could the Acheron7 but give
Homer to us once more, that he might sing
Their exploits! Could our own Descartes but live
Again, how would his reasoning—
Rival of Epicurus, he!—explain
All these examples? How? He would maintain,
As I have said, that, with but spring
And such does nature bring about these deeds
In beasts; that memory depends
On matter physical; and, to those ends,
The animal, impelled to action, needs
No more than that: an object, seen before,
Returns, goes searching through the store
Of past experience for image placed
Therein; whereon another path is traced
To bring it back. All that, without
The help of thought. But we, no doubt,
Act differently. Will it is, and intent,
That spur us on; not instinct, not the mere
Object itself. I speak, I persevere,
I sense in me something intelligent
That causes my machine to move, succinct
And definite, and yet distinct,
Separate from the body; but the latter
Bends to its all-embracing rule.
How? Why? Ah, that precisely is the matter
To be resolved! I see the tool
Obey my hand and do its bidding. But
What guides my hand? And who or what
Is there to guide the heavens’ rapid course?
Is there some angel handling all those
spheres?
A spirit lives in us, a mind, a force
To wind the springs and turn the gears
Whence comes our thought. But how? Not mine,
The answer! Only in the breast divine—
God’s bosom—will we find it; and if I
Must speak sincerely by the bye,
Even Descartes could not respond to this.
He and I, on that point, agree.
But what I do know, fair Iris,
Is that the spirit that moves Man to do
The things he does is not the one that you
Have seen moving my animals in these
Examples: it is his Humanity’s
Alone, to grace his body’s sacred shrine.
That said, we must no less consign
More to our animals than to mere plants!
Plants breathe as well, but in no circumstance
Could they do what my beasts have done!
Now, how would one explain another one?
THE TWO RATS, THE FOX, AND THE EGG 8
Two rats seeking a living found, one day,
An egg; discovery most bountiful
For hungry rats. For little need had they,
Small as they were, to find a bull
Or ox! And so each goes to eat his share
When, all at once, there comes a stranger there—
Renard the fox!—encounter very
Untoward and most unsalutary
For our rat pair! How to protect their prize?
To carry it betwixt their forepaws would
Be feat undoable, nor could
They roll or haul it homewardwise:
A task impossible and perilous.
Whereat necessity—’twas ever thus!—
Provides them an expedient. One lies
Flat on his back. Our heroes are
Close to their nest, nor lurks the miscreant far
From it or them… Supine, the rat—mere mite—
Takes the egg on his belly, clasps it tight
Lest our Renard come snatching, snagging,
To make it his, when lo! the second, dragging
The other by the tail, heads right
For their abode, though not without a few
Jostles and jolts, and missteps one or two.
Now, after that, tell me that beasts do not
Show thought! No less than little children, who
Do so before their minds have got
Awareness of the self! Still, I would say
That beasts do not think in the way
That we do, surely, though I must
Deny that they are but machines. Their mind?
Who knows? The merest speck of dust,
Atom invisible, refined
To its quintessence… Bit of light that we
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 25