Can scarce imagine… Subtle force
Mobile and volatile… Fire’s energy
Unseen… For, if wood is the source
Of flame, can flame’s pure light not be
A symbol of the mind for me? Does gold—
Or so at least it has been said—
Not issue from the innards of base lead?
If I conceive a creature manifold
Of mind, able to feel, to judge—although
Imperfectly, withal—that need not mean
That apes can argue subtly, apropos
Of this and that. As for our kind, between
The beasts and angels, we, in twofold guise,
With treasures twain, are doubly blessed.
With one soul like the animals’—mad, wise,
Foolish as children—worldly guest
Am I; sacred, the other, flying free
With hosts angelic, through the air,
Spread vast unto infinity
Yet fitting on a single point, and there
Never to end; nay, once begun—
A strange reality, nor ever done.
In us, that daughter of the sun would seem
Only a tender, feeble beam
While children, we. But, as our reason grows,
It punctures matter’s umbrageous protection,
Piercing its shadows, to expose
That other soul in its gross imperfection.
IX, 20
· BOOK X ·
THE MAN AND THE SNAKE
A human being once saw a snake.
“Aha! Vile reprobate!” cried he.
“Here shall I now perform a courtesy
For all the human race’s sake!”
At which the vicious beast—make no mistake:
The snake, I mean, and not the man
(Although I know how easily one can
Misjudge those words!)… Our vicious beast, in fact,
Carelessly lets himself get caught.
What’s worse, the man, with scarce a thought
About his act, would kill said snake—now sacked
And helpless—whether guilty, whether not.
Still, he feels moved to give an explanation.
“Symbol of ingrates! Folly would it be
To treat with favor and consideration
Those who behave depravedly.
Die, wretch! Your anger and your fangs shall never
Harm me in any way whatever!”
To which the serpent, in his tongue, replied
As best he could: “Sire, if we tried
To punish every ingrate, our endeavor
Never would end! Whom would we spare? It’s you
Yourself, monsieur, whom you condemn.
I learned your lessons and I live by them!
Why, even now, see what you do.
My fate depends on what you think is best
For you: your pleasure, whim, self-interest…
Well, kill me if you must. But first, at least,
Listen to what this wretched beast
Would tell you, sire, in all sincerity:
‘Symbol of ingrates,’ as you say…
It’s you, not I, who earn that sobriquet!”
The man stops in his tracks. “Fiddle-dee-dee!
Your life or death: the choice is mine to make!
Nevertheless, I’m willing to submit
Our case. Let others be the judge of it.”
“That’s fine with me. So be it,” says the snake…
A cow was standing by. They put the matter
Squarely before her. “Humph!” was her reply.
“Why waste my breath on needless chatter?
Friend serpent’s cause is just. For years have I
Provided Man with wealth: he sells my milk,
My young… But he and all his thankless ilk
Profit therefrom, not me or mine. And when
Age saps his strength, it’s I again
Who nurse him back to health, who serve
His pleasures and his needs! Do I deserve
My fate: grown old, to spend my waning days
Here on this grassless plot, tied to a stake
So that I cannot even graze!
I’m sure that, had my master been a snake,
He would have shown more gratitude!… Voilà!
I’ve had my say. Adieu.” Surprised,
The man turns to the serpent: “Ha!
Babbling old crone! You must have realized
She’s lost her mind! Let’s ask that ox instead.”
“So be it,” says the snake. And so they do…
The loping, ponderous quadruped—
Listening, chewing on it—finally said:
“Man is an ingrate, through and through!
For years we bear his loads, we till his fields;
And when, thanks to our labors, Ceres1 yields
Her bounty, his it is! (And free, what’s more!
Us, she makes pay, poor beasts, as best we can!)2
And our rewards? Floggings galore!
Ah yes, ingratitude your name is Man!
He even thinks the sacrificial blocks—
On which, betimes, we bleed and die, to buy
His gods’ indulgent favors—glorify
And honor our last hours.” So spoke the ox.
“Enough!” exclaimed the man. “No judge is he!
With all his pompous, boring blather,
Sooner would he my prosecutor be!”
And so, at length, he chooses, rather,
Someone less prejudiced; to wit, a tree…
Still worse his accusations! He had been
Man’s refuge from the heat, the wind, the rain;
Joy of his flowering garden, fruited plain:
No season of the year wherein
He had not served Man’s needs. And for his pain?
Hacked down by bumpkins! Slain, not simply pruned
And left to live his life!… Accused, impugned,
Angered at his defeat, taken aback,
Man sneers: “How kind it was of me to take
The time to hear those churls!” then hurls the sack
Against a wall, and kills the snake.
Such are, alack! the powerful. They make
A mockery of reason, will not hear it.
Everything, everyone exists to do
Their will. (Snakes too!)
You go to speak the truth? They jeer it.
“Yes,” you say. “Well then, what to do withal?”
Speak at a distance… Or don’t speak at all.
X, 1
THE TURTLE AND THE TWO DUCKS
A turtle, none too quick of mind,
And tiring of her hole, was quite inclined
To roam the world and visit lands far-flung.
(A common wish, especially among
The lame, or slow of limb, confined
To lodgings that they come to hate,
Such as our tortoise friend.) At any rate,
Two ducks1 she prattled to of her ambition
Assured her they could bring it to fruition:
“Our highway is the sky, and we
Can take you where you’ve never been.
We’ll fly you to America! You’ll see
Kingdoms, republics, peoples never seen.
Imagine what you’ll learn. You’ll be
Just like Ulysses, traveling far and near.”
(Ulysses? Who would think to find him here!)
No sooner does she answer “Yes!”
Than, there and then, the ducks prepare
Their transport for our pilgrimess—
A simple stick. Each bites one end: “Now, there!”
They say. “You bite the middle.” She complies.
The ducks advise: “Hold tight! Take care!”
And up they rise, high in the air,
Much to the wonder and surprise
Of those below, who see her, hou
se and all,
Hanging between two ducks! “Come look!” they call.
“A miracle! The Turtle Queen is flying
Heavenward!” “Queen!” she boasts. “There’s no denying…”
Those words would be her last. Poor fool! She should
Have kept her big mouth shut! Instead,
She opened it, and now it’s shut for good,
As she lies—dashed to pieces—proud, but dead.
A babbling tongue, vain curiosity,
And witlessness: one family!
All of a kind, all kith and kin
And all of them, in time, will do you in.
X, 2
THE FISHES AND THE CORMORANT
No marsh was there, nearby or out beyond
For miles around, no pool, no pond,
Wherein a certain cormorant had not
Levied his due of fish! Full well,
Indeed, he dined upon that clientele
For many a pleasant year. But what
To do, alas, when, with the chill
Of age, that bill of fare treated him ill?
Now, cormorants fend for themselves.
But ours, clouded of eye, no longer delves
Deep in the waters, as when he was younger;
And, having neither net nor line,
Languishes, deeper yet, in hunger.
Necessity, that doctor of design
And ruse, found him a useful stratagem.
Spying a crayfish by a shore: “Ahem,
Ma soeur,” he says, approaching. “Please, be good
Enough to warn those in the neighborhood
That I have woesome news for them.
Their end is near! For, I have heard it said,
Next week the master of this pond intends
To fish it clean! All of your friends,
I hear, are soon to end up dead!”
The crayfish scuttles off to spread the news.
Much the alarm and many the to-do’s
Among the fish, whence the assembly sends
An emissary to our bird.
“Seigneur, how do you know that what you heard
Is true?… And, if it is, what can we do?
Is there no remedy?…” “Yes, but just one:
Flee to some other place, or be undone!”
“Some other place? But how?…” “I’ll carry you,
One at a time, to my retreat, that none
Can find but God above and me!
A spring that, in her artistry,
Nature wrought with her hands, unknown to that
Cruel traitor known as Man! Secure will be
The nation Fish in its new habitat!”
Deceived, the fish believe him. Day by day,
And one by one, off to his hideaway
He spirits them: a spot shallow and clear,
Amidst the rocks, where, for his pleasure,
Cormorant—hypocrite compeer—
Consumes them at his whim and leisure.
Thus did he teach them—high the price, I fear!—
Not to trust those who eat their fellows! Still,
What difference, cormorant or man? The latter,
Sooner or later, would have gulped his fill!
Belly for belly: man’s, bird’s, wolf’s… No matter.
X, 3
THE MONEY-BURIER AND HIS FRIEND 1
A most close-fisted miser had amassed
Great wealth; but he was puzzled, very,
As to his choice of a depositary,
One who would keep it safe and hold it fast.
(Dull-wittedness and avarice are kin!)
Thought he: “Find such a one I must.
My house is not a proper place wherein
To store my pelf. I cannot even trust
Myself not to purloin—oh, heaven forfend it!—
A coin from time to time; aye, even spend it!”
“Oh?” would I ask him. “Can it be
You think of spending as self-thievery?
Folly, poor friend, it is; pure foolishness!
Best learn: wealth is not wealth unless
We put it to some useful end; if not,
It’s but a useless burden.2 What?
Would you toil for your fortune, pile your gold,
Waiting to use it (‘By and by… Anon…’)
Until that day when, rich but old,
You’ve nothing left to spend it on?”
Many a trusty soul he could have found,
Who would have proven equal to the task
Should he have merely thought to ask.
Instead he chose to trust the ground:
With faithful friend he digs, buries it all…
Later he yearns to view his hoard; but there
Finds nothing but the hole! Suspicions fall—
As fall they ought!—on his compère.
“More coins,” he tells him, “must you help me hide.”
Whereat the latter—gulled, green-eyed—
Restores the stolen fortune to the spot,
Intending, later, to come steal the lot.
Our miser, though, this time is wary;
Now he remains his own depositary,
No more to bury but to spend his treasure.
Friend thief, returning at his leisure,
Finding the booty gone, stands foiled, defeated.
How handily the cheat, in turn, is cheated!
X, 4
THE WOLF AND THE SHEPHERDS
A wolf of most humane complexion—
Here below quite the rarity—
Indulged, one day, in a profound reflection
About the conduct cruel that he
Engaged in—of necessity, of course.
“Oh, how they hate me!… Who?… Perforce,
Everyone, I’ll be bound! Ah! Woe is me!
The dogs, the villagers, the hunters all
Hound me to death! Their howling call
Rises to Jupiter himself, confounding
Him with their ‘Tally-ho’ abounding.
Such is the reason, I allow,
Why, in the wilds of England now
The wolf has disappeared. There is
A price upon that head of his.
To any peasant who can count, he
Represents a most handsome bounty!
And if a naughty child raises a fuss,
His mother threatens him with one of us!
And all for some rotting old sheep, or some
Foul, snarling dog, or some scum-ridden ass,
Victims of my carnivorous taste! Alas,
Alack! I fear the time has come
To change my diet. Not the merest crumb
Of meat—alive or dead—shall pass
My lips! From this day forth, nothing but grass,
Though it may kill me! For, is it not worse
To be so loathed throughout the universe?”
Just then he saw a lamb fixed to a spit,
Roasting, and shepherds making free with it,
Chewing and chomping on its flesh. “Oh, my!”
Says he. “How wrong I was to vilify
Myself for killing them, and yet
Their guardians and their hounds, before my eye,
Treat themselves to lamb en brochette!
What kind of fool was I? No, gods above!
What they can do, I can do more thereof!
So? Lambkins will come by, and I should let
Him pass, unskewered? And the mother who
Suckles him? And his father too?…
Oh no!… Ho, ho!” he chuckles… You can bet
Our wolf spoke true. Where is it written
That our race feasts on beasts—un-conscience-smitten—
Who sup as in the Golden Age they did,
But that, contrariwise, we still forbid
That they eat us—hacking us, carving,
Boiling us to their taste? The wolf is wrong,
O shepherds, only w
hen he is not strong.
Must he live hermit-like? Must he die starving?
X, 5
THE SPIDER AND THE SWALLOW
“O Jupiter, I pray you hear my plea,
Once in your life! You who, somehow,
With some new, secret childbirth mystery,
Knew how to spawn my mortal enemy,
Pallas,1 a-borning from your brow!
Procne, I’ll have you know—a-flit,
A-flutter, grazing sea and skies—
Flies up before my wondering eyes,
Comes to my house and, plundering it
(Damned bird!), makes off with all my horde of flies!
Mine, do you hear? My own! Why, but for her,
My web would be chock full! I spun it
Of strongest thread—not some mere gossamer!—
So tough that it holds fast each mother’s son it
Lures to its grasping snare!…” So went
The spider’s rather insolent
Harangue: she, weaver extraordinaire
Of erstwhile artful tapestries; now spinner
Of webs wherein to catch her dinner.
“The swallow,” she complains, “is always there
To seize, upon the wing, my insect fare,
Both for herself and for her sputtering brood,
Filling, with much solicitude,
Their gaping beaks!…” At length—now but a head
And feet that have no further use, in fact—
She sees her web, straightway ransacked,
As mother swallow, wings outspread,
Carries the whole thing off, intact,
Trailing poor spider, dangling from a thread.
Jove sets two tables for each living kind.
The strong, the clever, and the quick of mind
Sit at the first; the small, bereft,
Sit at the second, glad to get what’s left.
X, 6
THE PARTRIDGE AND THE COCKS
A partridge had been placed to feed
With one of the most raucous flocks
Of ungallant, uncouth, and rowdy cocks,
Ill-bred exemplars of their breed.
Now, laws of hospitality decreed
(Or so she thought!) that, being a lady, she
Ought to be treated civilly
By those well known for amorous inclination…
Not so! Not only did they not respect her;
Often, so great their state of excitation,
That with their piercing bills they poked and pecked her!
Troubled at first, in time she saw
Our cocks have at each other, beak and claw,
Fighting amongst themselves. “Ah,” she opined,
“Such are, I fear, the customs of their kind.”
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 26