The shot discharged, than all the kin of his—
Eyes and ears at the ready, give a start,
Quitting their briar’s thyme-perfumed delight,
And, seeking refuge, they will dart
Into their underground repair. But fright
Soon dissipates; a moment later, there
They come again, devil-may-care,
More gaily than before. Do we not see
In them a picture of humanity?
Tempest-racked, our sailing men
Seek a haven, desperately,
Only to set out again.
When the same wind wrecks their ship,
Rabbit-like, they languish then,
Powerless, in Fortune’s grip.
One more common occurrence, if it please,
Would I, as an example, add to these.
When hounds, a-prowl, see fit to pick
A passage that is not their bailiwick,
You can imagine the calamities!
Those whose it is have but one thought: to chase
With hew and cry, a-growl, this blasted race
Of foul invaders from their territory.
A taste for wealth, grandeur, and glory
Makes rulers, courtiers, those of every kith
And kind, and every occupation, do
The same: we fling ourselves forthwith
On any interloper who
Intrudes… Coquettish ingénue
And author too are of such stripe no less.
Woe to the writer seeking new success:
The fewer rivals for the pie the better!
Such is the way the game is played,
And such the rules to follow to the letter!
A hundred more examples well arrayed
Could illustrate my point. But brevity
Of written word is best. In that, my guides
Are the great masters of the art. Besides,
In all the finest works something should be
Left to the reader’s own intelligence.
So must I bring this discourse to an end.
You, who were good enough to lend
The subject’s most substantial elements,
Whose modesty equals your greatness; you,
Unwilling to accept the praises due
Your name; praises you not permit,
But who defend my work from hypocrite—
Censor inept!—and time itself; your name
That honors France, more rich in fame
Than any other land… Let me admit,
At least, that, thanks to your wit, I was able
Thus to conceive the subject of this fable.
X, 14
THE MERCHANT, THE ARISTOCRAT, THE SHEPHERD, AND THE PRINCE
Escaping from the tempest’s blare and roar,
Threadbare or worse, a band of four,
Seeking new worlds—merchant, aristocrat,
Shepherd, and prince—buffeted and laid flat
By Fate, were forced—impoverished, each one—
To do as Belisarius1 once had done,
Begging each passerby a pittance that
Might help allay their poverty. To tell
The circumstances that befell
To bring these four together from their very
Diverse estates, it would be necessary
To waste much breath!… At any rate, our sad quartet
Sat by a little spring and set
About to find some means extraordinary
To cure their ills pecuniary.
The prince orated on the woes the great
Must ever suffer; whence the shepherd sought
To offer the advice that a debate
On their mischance would come to naught.
Rather they ought dispel the very thought
And seek a means, at once, that would
Advance forthwith the common good.
“What use is vain lament? None! I suggest,
Of roads that lead to Rome, work is the best.
So let us face our task!” A shepherd should
Speak thus? How wondrous that the heavens could
Invest him with such sense—mirabile!—
When one is always wont to say
That, like their sheep, their wit is limited,
And that only a crown upon the head
Confers intelligence! The others—they,
Run aground in America—agree.
The merchant knows arithmetic, and he
Will teach it for so much a month. “And I,”
Proffers the prince, “can teach the skill
Of governance.” “And me? Who will deny,”
Says the aristocrat, “that many will
Wish to learn heraldry!” (Oh yes!
As if those in the Indies trade require
A knowledge of such foolishness!)
“My friends,” replies the shepherd, “I admire
What you say, but a month has thirty days.
What would you have us eat? I praise
Your hopefulness; but hunger gnaws!
Who will buy us tomorrow’s dinner? How
Can we be sure to sup tonight? Because
That ought concern us most: the here and now!
Oh well, leave it to me!” With those
Words, his good common sense reflecting,
Off to a thicket now the shepherd goes,
Bundles of firewood collecting,
That they will daily sell until
Each is prepared to hawk his special skill.
From this adventure I deduce
That talents serve us not when deep distressed:
Nature has graced us, for our use,
With hands to work with, and to serve us best.
X, 15
Belisarius was a great captain who, having commanded the armies of the Emperor and having lost his master’s good graces, fell into such a state of poverty that he would beg alms along the highway.
· BOOK XI ·
THE LION
His Highness, Sultan Leopard, had—
With luck, they say—amassed a myriad
Of subjects: many a sheep, and stag, and bull;
Pastures, and woods, and meadows full.
One day a lion cub was born next door,
In neighboring realm. Once all the celebrations
And de rigueur congratulations
Had run their course, the Sultan, sending for
The wily fox, his Grand Vizier—
Cunning politico and old campaigner—
Told him: “My friend, I know you fear
That newborn prince. But nothing could be plainer:
He’s not a threat. His father’s dead,
Poor orphan! We should pity him instead!
He’ll have his paws full with his own concerns.
If he can just hold on to what he’s got,
He’ll thank his lucky stars, and not
Have time to plot new conquests.” “Sire, one learns
Politically,” the fox replied
With shake of head and accent snide,
“Whom not to waste one’s pity on! You should
Do one of two things: either be his good
And faithful friend, or kill him now. Because,
Once he has grown his teeth and claws,
We’re done for! That’s the end! I’ve cast
His horoscope: his signs all point to war.
No peril that he’ll shrink before;
No foe more fierce, no friend more staunch and fast!
So, you decide: friendship or death!”
The Grand Vizier wasted his breath.
The Sultan was asleep; sleeping as well
Were all his subjects, while the young cub grew
To lionhood, as cubs will do.
And when he did… Too late! Ah, then
The tocsin peeled the country round! But when
The Sultan called the Grand Vizier, the latter,
&nb
sp; Sighing, complained: “What does it matter
How many a fine alliance we can muster!
They’ll come in droves, all bluff and bluster—
And just devour their share of sheep!—while he
Has three allies, and only three:
His vigilance, his courage, and his strength.
Appease him, sire… Some modest sacrifice…
A few fine lambs; a bull or two. The price
Is worth it if we save the rest.” At length,
The Sultan spurned the Grand Vizier’s advice.
His state, and neighbor states as well,
Brothers-in-battle, promptly fell
Before the lion. Struggle as they might,
His strength was more than all their might could quell.
The Grand Vizier, I fear, was right:
Unless you nip the lion in the bud,
Prepare to be his friend or shed your blood.
XI, 1
THE GODS WISHING TO INSTRUCT A SON OF JUPITER
FOR MONSEIGNEUR LE DUC DU MAINE
Jupiter had a son whose soul divine
Bespoke his heavenly origin.
But childhood has no serious design,
And our young godlet’s only cares therein
Were but to love and please. For reason
And love defied time, swift of wing—
Time who, alas, brings round too fast each season:
Precocious, he was touched by Flora’s1 spring,
This young Olympian, and by her laughing
Glances, delighting in her pleasures, quaffing
Her tender feelings: tears, sighs, everything
That love and joy bestowed. Now, being a son
Of Jupiter, this godly one
Ought to have had a spirit, by all odds,
And gifts divine, second to none,
Unlike the scions of our lesser gods.
Indeed, he seemed to act as if his soul
Had been, long since, accustomed to the role
Of lover; for, in fact, quite perfectly
Did he perform. Still, Jove desired that he
Should be instructed properly. Wherefore,
The heavenly progenitor,
Assembling all the gods before him, stated:
“For years have I governed and regulated
The universe alone; but now, with more
And more of you I wish to share
My tasks. Thus I look on my son to bear
Much of my burden, and therefore, desire
That he—my blood, much worshipped everywhere—
Learn all the arts and every skill acquire,
So that he might deserve a place
Among the gods’ immortal race.”
The master of the thunder scarce had done,
Than all those present, every one,
Agreeing, much applauded his intention.
His son was of a temperament
That, to learn everything did not present
Even the slightest apprehension.
Declared the god of war: “I, for my part,
Shall educate him in the art
Of combat, which, I need not mention,
Has moved our heroes, numberless, to spread
Our empire wide.” “And I,” Apollo said—
Learnèd and fair-haired god—“I shall instruct
Him in the art of lyre well plucked.”
At which, clad in his lion skin,
Hercules says: “I shall impart
To him the virtue of self-discipline;
The force to quell the Hydras2 of the heart—
Passions, venomous monsters, vices all.
From me shall he learn to forestall
Fleshly delights, to tread that road untrod
By most, and that will lead our youthful god
Along the path of honor.” When, next, came
The turn of Love—Cupid by name,
Venus’s son—he said that he, no less,
Would teach him all he needed. And I guess
He did so. For, what qualities
Does one need other than to love and please?
XI, 2
THE FARMER, THE HOUND, AND THE FOX
Wolf and fox: untoward neighbors, they! For me,
I shall not build about their bailiwicks.
One of the latter had unceasingly
Ogled a certain farmer’s hens; though he
Was much endowed with wily tricks’
Deceits, none would avail: try as he might,
Despite his artfulness a-prowl,
He had not found a way to reach the fowl.
The danger and his boundless appetite
Would each suffice to foil our fox.
“Ah! Quite the paradox!” he cried.
“Scum of the earth, that peasant mocks
Me with impunity! Here, there, I’ve tried
Everything, everywhere… My mind invents
A hundred wiles, whilst he—crass boor—
Turns all to profit in the safe, secure
Peace of his humble residence:
Capons and hens amass his gold!
Indeed, the young and tender even fall
Betwixt his jaws, whilst I—brave fox—with all
My stratagems and ruses manifold,
If I can catch even one of your old,
Tough cocks, my joy is limitless! Oh, why,
Why did Jove call me from on high
To ply the foxly trade? By those who live
On the Olympian heights and by the shore
Of River Styx, I swear to give
A reckoning!…” As in his heart he swore
Revenge, he chose a night with poppies spread,
When one and all lay sleeping deep abed.
The master of the house, varlets, his hound
As well, hens, chickens, capons… everything
And everyone slept in a sleep profound.
But our besotted farmer, faltering,
Had left the hen house door ajar!
The thief skulks round the spot, creeps in… Bête noire,
He slaughters its inhabitants, casts wide
His carnage… Come the dawn, inside, outside,
Proof of his villainy lies far
Afield: bodies lay bloodied everywhere!
The Sun came rising from the deep, but he,
Gazing upon the devastation there,
Near dipped in horror back into the sea.
Such did Apollo, rancorous
Against the prideful son of Atreus,1
Strew corpses round before no less a sight,
Slaying in but a single night
Most of the Grecian host. So too
Proud Ajax,2 the impatient-souled,
About his tent, intemperate, slew
Sheep and goats in a hecatomb untold,
Thinking thus to cut short the life
Of his rival Ulysses, and the bold
Friends who bestowed the trophy of their strife.
Our fox, a second Ajax, nemesis
Of fowldom’s race, scoops up his fill
And leaves the rest to moulder where they will.
The farmer, when he comes on this
Chaos of utter mayhem, has no choice
But to raise loud his most accusing voice,
Sputtering at his minions and his hound:
“Accursed vile beast remiss! Fit to be drowned
And little more! Where was your warning, cur,
When first this crime began, when first you learned
Of it?” “And you, dear master? Why, monsieur,
Did you not, as the only one concerned,
Avoid it as you could have done? Instead,
The door stood open. You? You lay in bed,
Sleeping! Tell me, what blessèd interest
Had I—mere hound!—to interrupt my rest!”
Our hound argued convincingly.
His words would be most apropos
; In master’s mouth no less. But no,
Only a simple hound was he,
And the poor wretch was lashed, just so.
Now, as for you, worthy progenitor
(A rank that I myself have scarcely sought),3
Be last to bed, shut tight the door.
For, be it said, if you have aught
That you esteem of passing value,
Folly it is, I fear, to go to sleep
And trust another’s eyes to keep
Your watch. Whatever ought be done, so shall you
Do it yourself. Best you alone see to it
And not leave someone else to do it.
XI, 3
THE DREAM OF THE MAN FROM THE MOGOL LAND
A certain Mogol had a dream. In it
He saw, in the Elysian Fields,1 a rich
Vizier blessed with a joy—pure, infinite;
Then saw another land in which
A godly hermit stood, surrounded,
Verily, by hell’s fire, in such cruel wise
That even those by misery confounded
Gazed with much sad compassion in their eyes.
The dream astounded him; was quite contrary
To what one might deem right! Had Minos—he,
Judge of the nether climes—quite possibly
Erred in his retributions customary?
In awe, the dreamer woke. “There ought
Be some good explanation,” so he thought.
A soothsayer told him: “Friend, I read
The truth behind your dream; forsooth, you need
No further seek. It shows the gods’ opinion:
In life your rich vizier—that courtly minion—
Sought solitude; whilst your ascetic sort
Yearned in his heart to toady at the Court.”
Should I dare add a word, I would but try
To sing, in gentle and bucolic mood,
The treasures unalloyed that solitude
Offers to those who love it, as do I;
Gifts heaven-sent, in rich abundance: pure
Solace of unspoiled pleasure, quiet retreat,
Refuge from city’s bustle! When will your
Cool leisure-shades let me partake your sweet
Repose, far from the world of town, of men,
Of court? Perhaps the Muses—sisters nine—
Will come and lodge within my bosom then,
And let me learn the heavens’ dark, mute design—
Taciturn, but writ on the stars!—whereby
Our destinies, unknowing, intertwine!2
Or, if too grandiose that scheme, then I
Will dwell at least by stream and brook, and fill
My book with flowering banks! So? Clotho3 will
Not weave my life with threads of gold brocade;
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 28