The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

by Jean La Fontaine

  Nor shall I lie midst ceilings, walls, inlaid

  With wealth. But will my slumber be less deep?

  Less calm my rest? Less pleasure-blessed my sleep?

  Nay. I will keep my vow, to nature made:

  Carefree, my life; and, with my final breath,

  Free of remorse as well when I face death.

  XI, 4

  THE LION, THE APE, AND THE TWO ASSES

  Wishing to learn morality,

  The better to be governing,

  Lion bade Ape be brought to him, that he,

  Master of Arts, give lessons. “O great king,

  If every prince would truly reign

  Wisely,” said Ape, “he must prefer

  The well-being of his whole domain

  To love of self—a quality, seigneur,

  Commonly spoken of, and whence have sprung

  All the worst faults one finds among

  Our kind. And, if you seek to disinter

  That vain emotion, sire, I fear you may

  Find it is not the work of but a day.

  To quell it is no easy task, and Your

  Majesty most august must first abjure

  All folly and all conduct base, unjust.”

  “So be it,” said the king. “I trust

  You can give me examples to ensure

  That I do as I ought.” “All species,” said

  The magister, “—and I put ours ahead

  Of all the rest—every profession,

  Deems and esteems itself the best expression

  Of all wit and intelligence. Ill-bred

  And vile are all the others! Indiscretion

  Is all their sorry lot. And so it goes.

  But love of self makes us praise all of those

  Who share our ilk; for, in so doing, we

  Raise ourselves to the very apogee.

  Thus it will be construed from everything

  I say, that here below ability

  And seeming talent are mere posturing—

  Grimace, cabal, the art of valuing

  Oneself: a skill that those, in truth, possess

  And use the more who know, forsooth, the less.

  To prove my point… The other day I walked

  Behind a pair of asses. As they talked

  And talked, each one in turn outdoing

  The other in the praises that came spewing

  Forth from their lips for those of ass persuasion,

  I followed and took the occasion

  To listen, and I heard one say: ‘Monsieur,

  How stupid is that “perfect” beast called Man!

  How mindless of him to confer

  Opprobrium upon our name! How can

  He so besmirch, belittle us by saying

  That some dull-witted twit “is but

  An ass!” Oh, boundless insult! What?

  How dare he call our laugh, our talk, “mere braying”!

  No! Man, alas, it is who brays his sorry

  Speeches, and we, masters of oratory!

  And yet, he thinks he is our better! Bah!

  Enough of Man! We understand

  Each other, and can one much more demand?

  As for your heavenly song, whose sweet éclat

  Is fairer than the nightingale’s, I swear

  You rival—and surpass!—the great Lambert!’1

  The other ass concurs and heaps like praise

  Upon his brother. Thus, in many ways,

  Does the pair scratch each other where

  They itch; but, not content to leave it there,

  They take their message to the city gates,

  Where each one lauds and celebrates

  His fellows, and himself thereby. I see

  Many today among the powers that be—

  Of human, not of asses’ states—

  Raised up to excellence by Destiny,

  Who, if they dared, would trade their fate for one

  More glorious still, second to none!

  Pardon me if I say too much. No doubt

  Your Majesty will not be one to flout

  A confidence. Now have I duly done

  As he requested; of the ample

  Folly that love of self engenders, I

  Think I have given him a good example.

  As for the conduct base I spoke of, my

  Sample must wait: that is a longer story.”

  So spoke the Ape. We know not if, in fact,

  He dared discuss that other category.

  No fool, our magister had too much tact:

  Too delicate it was, and why take chances?

  Who can say how a lion might react

  To talk like that, under the circumstances?

  XI, 5

  THE WOLF AND THE FOX

  Why, when it comes to artifice and wile,

  Does Aesop, that great fable bard,

  My master, hold the fox in such regard?

  Is not the wolf as full of guile

  When faced with peril, or when he

  Plies his attack against an enemy?

  Fuller, in fact! I think I could

  Argue the matter, in all likelihood,

  If I so chose. But, for the moment, I

  Shall tell a tale with which to justify

  That high regard for Sire Renard… One night,

  As, in the moonlight, he was passing by

  A well, he looked and saw, down deep, the bright,

  Round fullness of the moon’s reflection,

  And thought the orb, upon inspection,

  To be a cheese. With bucket after bucket

  (For two there were) he tried to drain

  Said well, hoping thereby, in time, to pluck it.

  No luck… Famished, he takes the buckets twain,

  Sits in the one suspended high, descends—

  Soon disabused, dismayed!—and spends

  Many an anxious moment, chastened now,

  And wondering what to do! For, how

  To rise, unless another hungry one,

  Fooled too, decides to do what he has done!…

  Two days go by, and no one comes… Two nights

  As well, taking Time’s customary bites

  Out of the silver-browed celestial sphere.

  Renard grows desperate. Then, at last,

  The wolf, a-thirst, comes ambling past.

  “Compère,” cries fox, “see what I have down here:

  This luscious cheese that Pan himself has pressed

  From Io’s very milk!1 Why, were

  Jupiter out of sorts, this dish would stir

  His appetite, I vow! I’ve saved the rest

  For you! Now, see that bucket? Come, get in it.

  I put it there with you in mind.”

  The wolf, too readily inclined

  To be undone, complies. In but a minute

  Down does he come; up goes the fox; no doubt

  Leaving the wolf to ponder his way out.

  But let’s not mock him: Man, no less,

  Is easily led by the ear;

  Only too willing, we, to acquiesce

  To what we wish—or even dread!—to hear.

  XI, 6

  THE PEASANT FROM THE DANUBE

  Judge not a man by his appearance; long

  Have we been told that it is very wrong

  To do so. I myself was able

  To illustrate that message in the fable

  About a baby mouse.1 What’s more,

  I could cite Aesop’s face and Socrates’2

  To prove my point. Now could I add to these

  A certain peasant from the Danube’s shore,

  One whom the good Marcus Aurelius3

  Most faithfully describes to us.

  We know the first two well enough; as for

  The latter’s ugliness, here is,

  In brief, a portrait of those looks of his.

  A chin bristling with whiskers, thick and tough;

  His body, hairy, most fit to depi
ct

  A bear; but bear, in truth, unkempt, unlicked,

  Uncouth; glance cast askance; brows ragged, rough,

  Hiding his eyes; a twisted nose; his lips,

  Too full and fat; a goatskin round his hips

  Bound with reeds from the river. In this guise

  He had been sent to Rome to represent

  The Danube towns—for Rome, impenitent,

  Would spread her greedy grasp and colonize

  Hither and yon. And so this envoy, sent

  Thereto, comes to the Senate. Once among

  Its august members, thus does he address them:

  “Romans, I pray the gods may guide my tongue,

  Lest anything I say distress them.

  Without their intercession there is naught

  But evil and injustice in Man’s thought

  And spirit; he who fails to worship them

  Will violate their laws and, much remiss,

  Will cause untold destruction and condemn

  His people. Witness us, as proof of this,

  Punished by Rome’s sheer avarice

  And greed! It is by our own faults far more

  Than by her exploits and her feats of war

  That she has laid us low. O Romans! Fear,

  Fear lest, one day, the gods spread here,

  Among your walls, our tears, our misery,

  Avenging us in manner just, severe,

  By giving us the weapons, angrily

  To make of you the slaves that now are we.

  And why are we your slaves, pray tell?

  Can one show me what virtues dwell

  Within you, that have given you the right

  To rule the universe, when others, quite

  As worthy—hundreds!—rule it not? Why come

  Disturb our peace with your imperium?

  We tilled our happy fields; our hands

  Were as much fit for art’s demands

  As for the soil. Tell me, what have you taught

  The German hosts? Skillful and brave are they.

  Had they been avaricious, violence-fraught

  Like you, they might have won the day,

  But would have wielded power more humanly

  Than now your praetors do, who master us

  With might unthinkable and onerous,

  Offending thus your altars’ majesty.

  For know you that the gods are not

  Unmindful. No. They watch, they see

  The horrors that your evil has begot:

  Your scorn for their divinity, your greed,

  Your violence to their temples… Every deed

  Wrought in your furious lust for power! For those

  Who come from Rome naught will suffice:

  Give what we give, do what we do, who knows

  How dear will be the final price!

  Return your praetors! No more will

  We labor for them, no more till

  Our lands for them! We quit our towns, we flee

  Into the mountains, leave our wives,

  With none but frightful bears for company.

  So dire, so brutish are our lives

  That no more young would we bring forth to be

  Victims of Rome’s oppression. As for those

  Already born, would that their days were done!

  And, with their days, their baleful woes.

  You see the crime your praetors, every one,

  Make us commit, to wish our children dead!

  Return them; vice and slothful life are all

  They teach us. Soon the Germans too will fall

  Under their sway, humbled, and led

  Enslaved in rapine’s plunderous thrall.

  Such is all that in Rome I see. Can she

  No regal boon confer? In vain we seek

  A refuge from her laws; their ministry

  Is endless. And, no doubt, I speak

  Too long as well, for your displeasure… I

  Have said my say. Now surely must I die

  To pay for my temerity.” So saying,

  Prostrate the savage lay, finished his mission.

  Each one, awed by his eloquent petition

  And by his heartfelt words, stood paying

  Him much respect. They made him a patrician.

  (Such was the vengeance that his speech had earned!)

  Indeed, the praetors were returned.

  But others took their place. The Senate bade

  His words be written, an example made

  For orators who might pronounce them hence.

  But Rome did not long brook such eloquence.

  XI, 7

  THE OLD MAN AND THE THREE YOUNG MEN

  An old man (eighty years or more)

  Was in his orchard, planting. Three young men—

  Three village swains—were heard to say: “What for,

  For heaven’s sake?… Him? Plant?… Now then,

  Build, maybe… But to plant? At his age? Why?

  He must be daft!” Then, to the elder: “Friend,

  For all your toil, what fruits do you pretend

  To come and gather by and by?

  Enjoy the patriarch’s repose. Why fuss

  And fret for times you’ll never know?

  Dream of those wild oats sown long years ago,

  Not of the future. That belongs to us.”

  “To you?” the old man answered. “Oh?

  Not so… The ashen-fingered Fates make sport

  Of everyone—me, you—quite equally.

  The time allotted all of us is short.

  Can one of us be sure that he

  Will be the last to view the firmament

  In azured splendor?… No, each moment spent

  Might be our last; and yours no less than mine.

  What’s more, one day this tree I plant, this vine,

  Will cool my progeny. Its shade will be

  My gift to them. Would you deprive

  The wise man of the joy, whilst yet alive,

  To see the boon he grants posterity?

  I take that pleasure now; tomorrow too,

  Perhaps; and even longer. As for you,

  Who knows how many a dawn I’ll live to see

  Rising above your graves?…” His words came true:

  Gone, soon, all three, as he had reckoned!

  Off to America, the first one, drowned;

  In Mars’ employ, felled on the battleground,

  Seeking his country’s accolade, the second;

  The third, climbing a tree to graft a limb,

  Fallen and killed… The old man, so they tell,

  Shed many a mournful tear for him,

  And for the other two as well.

  He lived to see their tombstones consecrated,

  And graven with the story I’ve related.1

  XI, 8

  THE MICE AND THE SCREECH OWL

  Never tell someone: “Friend, you’ll never

  Believe the tale I’m going to tell!” Whatever

  Wonders you would regale him with, the fact

  Remains that someone else may not react

  With as much awe as you. However,

  Let me here make exception. For, what now

  I am about to tell you will, I vow,

  Seem like a miracle. What’s more, although

  It might appear to be a fiction, it’s

  The utter truth. Not long ago

  A tree was being hacked to bits;

  A pine, old and decayed, whose time-worn bark

  Concealed a screech owl’s lodging: dismal, dark

  Refuge of Atropos’s1 favorite creature.

  Its hollow trunk, beside said somber screecher,

  Played host to other beasts as well: a horde

  Of mice especially—round, fat,

  And… footless! Quite so! There they sat,

  Amid the food the owl kept stored

  To fatten up his captives! Yes,

  It was the bird who, chewing of
f their paws,

  Held them there, plump and powerless!

  That owl could reason, to be sure. Because

  The mice he’d caught before, and brought

  To his abode, would all escape, he thought:

  “Best I unpaw them, keep them here, and mete

  Them out, at meals, each day, at will. To eat

  Them all at once would be unhealthy, and

  Impossible to boot!” One must construe

  The faculty of thinking here: he planned,

  Clearly, no less than we might do,

  Amassing grains and such to feed his prey.

  So, let Cartesians have their say;

  A mere machine, this creature?2 No. If you

  Can see no reason here, I know not what

  To call it then! I pray you look

  At all the subtle steps it took:

  “These folk flee when I catch them; but,

  Though I would eat them, one and all, it’s not

  Easy to gulp so many on the spot!

  Besides, it’s best to keep a few for later;

  Which means I’ll have to feed them, and take care

  Lest they go trotting off.” So, then and there,

  Concludes our ratiocinator:

  “How? Well, by biting off their paws!” No doubt,

  Worthy of Aristotle, this: thought out

  With art surpassing Man the Meditator!

  This is not a fiction;3 the event, though wondrous and almost unbelievable, did, indeed, take place. Perhaps I have pushed this owl’s foresight a bit too far; I do not claim animals to have as well-developed a capacity to reason as did this one; but such exaggerations are permitted in poetry, especially in the style of which I make use in mine.

  XI, 9

  EPILOGUE

  Thus has my Muse, by pristine waters, sung

  Those creatures who, beneath the firmament,

  Would translate to the gods’ own tongue

  Their myriad voices, nature-lent.

  And I, mere go-between among

  So many a being diverse, would make each one

  An actor in my tales; for none

  Is there in all the Universe but that

  Has language of its own. And far

  More eloquent in their own habitat

  Are they, perforce, than when they are

  Characters in my work. If I have erred

  By painting them less faithfully in word

  And deed; if I present a model flawed,

  At least have I opened a path untrod

  For others to perfect. O you

  Favorites of the Sisters Nine, I bid

  You lay your own finishing touch thereto,

  To preach the lessons that, myself, I did

  Not teach. Wrap them in fictions, as did I.

  Nor will you lack for subjects, by the bye: