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The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

Page 28

by Jean La Fontaine


  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;

 

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