The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

by Jean La Fontaine

  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