The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

by Jean La Fontaine

  Somewhat consoled, she adds: “In sum,

  More to be pitied than condemned are they!

  Behold! Jove did not form all poultrydom

  From one design: cocks, some become;

  Partridges, others… If I had my way,

  I’d live in worthier company!

  Alas, our master does not quite agree.

  He nets us; clips our wings; then, come what may,

  He coops us with these fowl, ad hoc:

  It’s man we should complain of, not the cock!”

  X, 7

  THE DOG WHO HAD HIS EARS CUT SHORT

  “What have I done to be wronged so,

  And by my master mutilated?

  Before my fellow dogs do I dare show

  My face, in such a state abbreviated?

  Would one do this to you, O Man? You, king

  Of all the beasts?… Their king? Nay, nay!

  Rather their tyrant should I say!”

  So whined young jowl-hung Hound. Scarce listening,

  Those who had clipped his ears paid little mind

  To his sharp cries. But, though today he pined

  His loss, in time he was to find

  That he was better thus, so cropped,

  And, on reflection, would have stopped

  His sad lament. For he was of a kind

  Much given to pillaging his peers, and he

  Returned from misadventures frequently

  With ears nipped, bitten, rent a hundredfold.

  (For, growling dog—so we are told—

  Ever sports ragged ear!)1 Best to expose

  The least one can to fearsome foe’s

  Sharp fangs, lest he a solid toothhold take.

  Spike-collared now, young Hound can make

  A staunch defense, in one place concentrated.

  With no more long ears on his head than I,

  Hound will leave Wolf exasperated:

  No longer has he ears to seize him by.

  X, 8

  THE SHEPHERD AND THE KING

  Two demons, to their hearts’ content, now share

  Our lives, and have chased reason from its place

  Duly inherited. No heart is there

  That fails to render homage to this pair.

  And, should you ask what names might grace

  Them, I should answer: “Love, for one,

  Ambition, for the other.” And the latter

  Spreads widest its dominion. For that matter,

  Some even say, when all is said and done,

  That it holds sway in love as well!

  Prove it I would. But my aim is to tell

  About a king who summons to his side

  A shepherd. (Tale of days gone by, not these.)

  His flock has caught His Majesty’s

  Attention—well fed, grazing far and wide

  Over the fields, so well looked after too,

  That every year it yields a revenue

  Of ample size, thanks to the shepherd’s care.

  This greatly pleased the monarch, who

  Addressed him thus: “You would bid fair—

  Thanks to the skill with which you keep

  Your flock—to shepherd men instead of sheep.

  I dub you Sovereign Magistrate.” And so

  He stands, holding the scales of Justice. Though

  His personal acquaintanceship was small—

  Sheep, hounds, one hermit neighbor, that was all—

  Much common sense had he. No need

  For more; the rest would come. It did, indeed:

  And, since no more he needed to succeed,

  Succeed he did… One day, the hermit came

  Running, and cried: “What in the name…?

  Best heed me, friend! Beware of those

  Crowned heads! Their favor asks too high a price.

  It is a slippery prize; in but a trice

  We stray and lose our way midst regal woes!”

  The other laughed. As for the hermit, he

  Went on: “See how the courtly regimen

  Turns you already to its foppery!

  Much seem you like the fabled blind man, when,

  Dropping the whip that had hung from his belt,

  Stooping to feel about, he felt

  What he assumed was it, picked up a snake,

  Numbed with the cold, and thanked the Lord he found it,

  Wrapping his fist with pleasure round it.

  A passerby, noticing his mistake,

  Calls out to him: ‘For heaven’s sake,

  What have you there? Throw that beast down!’

  ‘Beast? This?’ he answers with a frown.

  ‘This is my whip!’ ‘Ha ha! You err!

  It is no whip at all, monsieur!

  It is a snake!’ ‘Aha?’ ‘Why will you

  Keep such a thing when it can kill you?’

  ‘Bah! Even better is this whip than mine!

  Doubtless you want it for your own!’ In sum,

  The vicious creature serpentine,

  Warmed back to life, no longer numb,

  Bit at the blind man, killed him quite.

  Such is the end, my friend, in sight

  For you as well, or worse! This I foresee!”

  “Worse still than death? How can that be?”

  Answers the prophet: “Scores and scores

  Of woeful torments will be yours.”

  And so they were. The enmity

  Of those he judged arose to plague him now;

  Woes galore, as he stood accused

  Of having thus subverted and ill used

  The powers of his office. “Look! See how

  Our judge has built a palace thanks to us!”

  The king, inspecting, curious

  To see those riches, finds none; will behold

  The virtues of the simple life extolled—

  A poor abode… “No, no! His wealth,” they say,

  “Is in his precious gems, hidden away,

  Held in a strongbox, with tenfold

  Locks to protect it!” The king opened it

  And, much to their dismay, found not one whit

  Of treasure in it: naught but shepherd’s clothes:

  Cap, shift, bag—staff and drone too, I suppose.

  “Rich tatters mine”—so said the shepherd—“you

  Who spawned nor lies nor envy, come! Once more

  I don you! Let us bid adieu

  To palaces, and shut the door

  Upon them, as if waking from a dream!”

  And, to the king: “Pardon, sire, if I seem

  Distressed. I kept my garments for the day

  When fall I must, in disarray.

  Too much I trusted; such is our condition:

  But whose head hides no sliver of ambition?”

  X, 9

  THE FISHES AND THE SHEPHERD WHO PLAYS THE FLUTE

  Tircis1, a shepherd troubadour—

  Who sang and droned his bagpipe for

  The fair Annette—whose rustic song

  Could charm the dead, one day, along

  A meadow-stream’s lush-flowering shore,

  Zephyr-caressed, was singing, whilst Annette

  Sat angling by the rivulet.

  The shepherdess, however, had

  No luck whatever; not one fish drew near

  Her dangling line. Wherefore our lad,

  Ever the gallant country cavalier,

  Sure to bring round the hardest heart

  With his boundless, melodious art,

  Assumes—amiss!—that he need merely sing

  To summon fish. He does. And this is what

  He sings: “Denizens of this spring,

  Come, leave your nymph, your naiad! Linger not

  Amid her grotto deeps. Come gaze upon

  An object rare, a true phenomenon

  Of beauteousness, a thousand times more fair!

  Fear not! Her Loveliness has no intent

  Here to entrap you in her
snare.

  Alas, her cruelty is meant

  For none but me. For you, she will prepare

  A crystal pond where, fancy-free,

  You will be served2 with much gentility

  And grace. And even if, perhaps,

  One or a few of you might, by some lapse,

  Bite of the deadly hook, and be

  Undone, ah me! my fish coquettes,

  How I myself would envy such a fate:

  To die at hands as gracious as Annette’s!”

  Blown to the winds, his honeyed words! The bait

  Lures not one fish. Therewith does Tircis cast

  A net… Wait… Pull it in, replete,

  As full as full can be! And there, amassed

  Before the shepherdess’s feet,

  Strews fish galore!… O kings, you shepherds who

  Gather up humans in your retinue,

  Woo not Man’s mind with vain conceit!

  Power is all: spread wide your nets. For then,

  Like fish, so also shall it be with men.

  X, 10

  THE TWO PARROTS, THE KING, AND HIS SON

  Two parrots—father, son—supped with the king.

  Two demigods—son, father—treated these

  Pets twain with all the care and cherishing

  That they could give. Age joined Their Majesties—

  King, prince—each to his bird in true

  And loyal friendship: fathers, heart to heart,

  And sons as well—though frivolous, these two,

  Raised up together, school-chum ingénus—

  Each one the other’s loving counterpart.

  Proud was the younger bird to be

  So honored by such royalty.

  As for the prince, Fate generously graced

  His Highness with most loving taste

  For birds; and them for him as much.

  Indeed, a sparrow—one of such,

  And something of a tease, in fact—

  Had worked the wiles of friendship to attract

  His Highness too. The rivalry ensuing

  In time proved everyone’s undoing.

  Parrot and sparrow both, one day,

  Engaging in the usual play

  Of youth, allowed their games to grow

  Into a fight. The sparrow, quite

  Impolitic, does something to incite

  The other, who, with many a blow

  Of beak, will peck, prick, pluck, continuing

  Until the poor bird, halt of wing,

  Lies all but dead. No hope was there

  Of cure, alas; and, in despair,

  The prince—indignant, blustering—

  Ordered the parrot’s death; whereat the word

  Reached the ears of the elder bird,

  Father distraught. He groans, he moans, he wails…

  But all for naught: nothing avails.

  The bark transports the feathered chatterer

  Across the lethal stream (or, as it were).

  The father, furious, as a consequence,

  Swoops down, puts out the prince’s eyeballs; whence,

  At once, he seeks a pine tree’s topmost limb,

  Savoring his revenge, though deep dejected,

  In the skies’ bosom, well protected.

  The king goes thither and calls up to him:

  “Come back, my friend! What good does it to cry?

  Hate, vengeance, mourning… Let us put them by.

  Much though I grieve, I must admit

  My son was the aggressor foul! Yet it

  Was, even more, the hand of Fate that brought

  These ills upon us! Long had it been written

  That, of our sons, one would be smitten

  Dead, and one blinded. Thus has it been wrought.

  Let us console each other. Come once more

  Into the cage that was your home before.”

  Replies the bird: “Your Highness, must you

  Think, after such fell deeds, that I should trust you?

  Fate, you say, is the villain. But, mayhap,

  Your worldly words might now entrap,

  Entice me to disaster! Destiny,

  Or providence—whatever—well may be

  The power that rules us, clasps us to its lap,

  For good or ill. But is it written, too,

  That I should end my days, as now I do,

  Atop this pine, or in the forest deep,

  Far from those sights that would but keep

  Rekindling your just rage? Kings thrive upon

  Revenge, say what you will. Best I be gone,

  And you as well. Waste not your breath, my friend.

  Yes, absence surely puts an end

  To hatred and to bitterness.

  But it, alas, cures love no less!”

  X, 11

  THE LIONESS AND THE SHE-BEAR

  A mother lioness whose cub had been

  Snatched from her den—a hunter was the thief—

  Stood roaring, groaning out her grief,

  Raising such an unholy din

  Over the silence and the dark of night,

  Despite the woodland’s charms, that all the beasts therein

  Lay wide awake, try though they might

  To fall asleep. At length the she-bear, in their plight,

  Decides to help. Approaching, chin to chin,

  “Tell me, madame,” she asks, “those others…

  Every whelp your claws and jaws did in…

  Didn’t they all have fathers, mothers?”

  “Certainly!” “Well, if they could hold their tongue

  Whenever you were wont to kill their young,

  Then tell me, if it please you, why

  Won’t you be good enough at least to try?”

  “What? Me? Be still?” thunders the beast, in anguish.

  “Still? When I’ve lost my only son?

  Bereft of all my hope… Undone…

  Old and abandoned, left to languish…”

  “Whose fault, madame?” “Whose? Fate’s! She loathes my very name!”

  Ah yes! It’s Fate who always takes the blame.

  Poor mortals, you who blithely go

  Charging the heavens with your every woe:

  Consider Hecuba1 and all her sorry lot,

  Then thank those gods instead for what you’re not!

  X, 12

  THE TWO ADVENTURERS AND THE WONDROUS WRIT

  The road to glory is not strewn with flowers.

  I need no better proof than Hercules,

  Who had no rivals for his powers,

  Either in fable or in history’s

  Recounting. Yet, from ancient marveled land

  Of deeds phantastical, one comes to hand—

  One whom a wondrous writ had sent

  To seek his destiny, and to enrich

  Himself… It happened that, as off he went,

  He and a comrade, fortune-bent,

  They came upon a pole on which,

  Placed high, there was a placard, graven thus:

  “O doughty knight, brave and adventurous,

  If you would see what never cavalier

  Has seen, you must not tarry here,

  But cross this torrent. On the other shore

  Will you see, lying there before

  Your eyes, an elephant of stone. And if

  You carry it atop the lofty cliff

  That here defies the skies with haughty brow,

  With but one breath, then shall you see

  What I have promised you, assuredly.”

  The friend—no stalwart, he, I vow1—

  Demurs. “What folderol is this?

  If runs the river deep as it runs swift,

  And if my reason be not much amiss,

  Even were we to cross it, why then lift

  An elephant? No doubt it is confected

  In such wise that no man can be expected

  To raise it up more than four paces hence!

  But
bear it, in one breath, so high?

  How can mere mortal satisfy

  The harsh demands of such a task immense?

  Unless the elephant were, to be sure,

  A pygmy dwarf, a miniature

  Fit to be hanging from a stick! If so,

  What honor would the like procure? Ah no,

  The writ is but a riddle meant

  To gull a child. My time were better spent!

  The elephant is yours!” And off he goes…

  Our reasoner now gone, the other throws

  Himself into the waters, eyes shut tight,

  Undaunted by the torrent’s might

  And depth… Reaches the other side, and there

  Beholds the elephant… Takes it… Climbs high…

  And lo! spread wide beneath the sky,

  A vast expanse… A city!… With a blare,

  The beast trumpets a signal. Armed men come

  Running! A lesser swain would be struck numb

  And flee. But not our cavalier, content

  To die a hero! To his wonderment,

  Suddenly he would hear: “Long live the king!”

  And they crowded around him, clamoring

  Not threats, but praises for His Majesty!

  With just a trace of coquetry,

  He agreed; though the crown, he said,

  Would weigh a trifle heavy on his head.

  (Sixtus2 had said the same—are papacy

  And royalty such woes to bear?—

  But soon would bare his own duplicity!)

  Blind fortune favors those who blindly dare.3

  The sage, consulting wisdom, often brooks

  No long delay, but leaps before he looks.

  X, 13

  DISCOURSE

  FOR MONSIEUR LE DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD 1

  Often I muse, as I watch Man behave

  In myriads of ways, that he

  Acts like an animal; and royalty

  As well: a king is quite as much the knave

  As are his subjects. Nature placed

  Into each creature a mere grain, a taste,

  At least, of mind’s ethereal

  Essence: its matter immaterial.

  Let me prove here that it is as I say.

  As earth gives ear to each new morn,

  Lying in wait for the first light of day—

  Or, simply put, when the sun, barely born,

  Casts its first rays over the moist expanse;

  When it is night no more and day’s advance

  Has scarce begun, I climb atop a tree

  By woodland’s edge, and eagerly,

  New Jupiter, from my Olympian stance,

  At unsuspecting rabbit, running free,

  I hurl my thunderbolt.2 No sooner is