He can bid fond farewell to credit,
Alas! But theirs was soon discovered; whence
They were attacked by most fell consequence:
Without resource, credit and money gone,
They were, in fact, about to don
The debtor’s cap. For them no purse
Opened to succor them. And, what was worse,
Debts, bailiffs, lawsuits, creditors
Coming to batter down their doors
Even before the break of dawn… All these
Obliged the trio to seek strategies
To cope therewith. The bush, with briar
And thorn, would stop the passersby, inquire
Of them: “Friends, can you tell us, please,
Where is our cargo, all our merchandise
Lost in some dire abyss? Where lies
It now?” The duck, a-plunge, goes diving
Down to the depths, there vainly striving
To find it. And, as for the bat, he hies
Himself far from abodes inhabited,
And flies into his holes, in dread
Lest bailiffs follow him the livelong day…
Debtors I know aplenty—neither bat,
Nor bush, nor duck, but grands seigneurs at that!—
Who, daily, do no less, as they—
Though for dissimilar affairs—
Take the backstairs!
XII, 7
THE QUARREL OF THE DOGS AND CATS AND OF THE CATS AND MICE
The goddess Discord1 reigns; forever she
Has ruled the universe. My proofs abound—
A thousandfold!—and on our sphere are found
Many a faithful devotee
Of hers as well. One might commence
By paying mind to the four elements:
You would, I vow, be shocked to find
How each, her loyal tributary,
Is the three others’ adversary!
Then too, how many beings of every kind
Wage war eternal on their enemies!
A house there was, long years ago,
Filled full with dogs and cats, although
The master, with solemn decrees—
Five score at least—had finally ended all
Their yelping fray and constant caterwaul,
So regulating their activities—
Mealtimes and such—and threatening
The lash for any brawl or bickering,
That they, like cousins, lived in harmony.
Their peaceable tranquility
Serves as a fine example for their neighbors.
But not for long. Some say a bitch in labor’s
Trying travail, about to be a mother,
Is given something that another
Covets. A plate of soup? A bone? Who knows?
At any rate, the altercation grows
Through dining room and kitchen. Every other
One of the beasts takes sides… This dog, this cat…
Right, wrong… Wrong, right… For this, for that…
Whereat a regulation prejudicial
To Catdom’s cause was promulgated,
Raising cats’ hackles; whence their counsel stated
That one had best go study those official
Statutes—the ones that had been duly written
(Of interest to cat and kitten)
In days gone by. And so they look… Find naught:
None of the legal writ that ought
Be heard. For it has all been bitten through,
Gnawed—eaten, in a word—by mice, who rue
The consequence! With loathing elemental,
Many a sly old cat, lying in wait,
Will pounce upon and decimate
These scions of the hated race Rodental.
(The master, I might say, was passing glad!)
And, for my moral, let me add
That here below there is no creature, no
Being or beast, without its opposite.
Such is the law of nature, though
You waste your time trying to fathom it.
God knew what he was doing; so
Be it! I only know that, usually,
From little cause grows bitterest repartee.
Humans, though threescore years be pressing on you,
Still would your magisters rap blows upon you!
XII, 8
THE WOLF AND THE FOX
Why is it that, in life, one is
Never pleased with one’s livelihood?
The soldier envies him who would
Prefer the soldier’s lot to his.
A certain fox once yearned to be
Turned to a wolf—or so I am
Informed. And who can guarantee
That no wolf fain would be a lamb?
But awed am I that, thereupon,
His Highness of but eight years chose
To pen a fable,1 whilst yet on
And on, grown hoary, I compose
Verses less worthy than his prose.
No poet has expressed so well
Each thought, each figure, each conceit
As in his fable nonpareil,2
Fruit of a talent wrought complete.
My talent is to pipe a tune
Upon his merit; but, in time,
I doubt not that my prince sublime
Will make me trumpet it, and soon.
Not a great prophet am I. Still,
Easily in the heavens I read
The glories that the future will
Bestow upon him, that will need
Many a Homer! Times like these
Have few… Well, enough mysteries:
Let me recount as best I can his fable.
The fox said to the wolf: “Friend, on my table
Often have I naught but an agèd cock
Or chickens from a scrawny flock.
Fed up am I with such a meager diet.
You, with much lesser risk, eat better, far.
I must draw near the houses, but you are
Able to lurk off at a distance. Why, it
Would be most kind were you to teach me, friend—
Considering how generous I am!—
How I might ply your craft and, in the end,
Be the first member of my race to cram
My fangs about a stout and tasty lamb!”
“Fine!” says the wolf. “I will! One of my brothers
Recently died. Come, you can take his hide
And make it yours.” The fox did; took the other’s
Skin, put it on… The wolf took him aside,
Saying: “Now shall I let you see the way
To keep the shepherd’s hounds at bay.”
The fox practiced the wolf’s instructions; first,
A little clumsily, but then again,
A little better; and then, well rehearsed,
Does them as well as one could do them.
No sooner is he taught than, suddenly
A flock appears… Our new wolf dashes to them,
Spreads consternation round as he,
Just like Patroclus with Achilles’ arms,3
Who terrorized the Trojans all—the very
Old, young, maids, mothers, seeking sanctuary
In temple walls—as he, I say, alarms
The bleating troop with strength imaginary,
Such that full fifty wolves they see. Whence they—
Hound, shepherd too—flee to the village, leaving
One single hostage ewe to pay
The price. Thereupon does the thieving
Villain pounce, take possession… But, just then,
He hears a cock—a local denizen—
Crowing close by; and, flinging down
His erstwhile academic gown,
Forgetting master, ewe, and lessons learned,
Our would-be wolf presently turned
And headed straightway for the fowl.
What matters it if, by a sham avowal,
One
claims to change one’s race? Such a pretense
Is mere illusion. And the consequence?
Upon the very first occasion,
As soon as the first chance presents
Itself, one reassumes one’s true persuasion.
Highness, it was your sense, your peerless wit
That gave my muse this fable—all of it.
XII, 9
THE CRAYFISH AND HER DAUGHTER
Wise are they who, turning their backs to shore,
Often walk crayfish-like, behind before.
Such is the sailor’s art; and, in truth, this
Is also a convenient artifice
For those who, striving with some goal in mind,
Turn their backs, gazing in the opposite
Direction, making those likewise inclined—
Their adversaries—strive in vain for it.
Small subject, long preamble, which I might
Use for a certain conqueror who, though
Alone, has, lo! such power as to affright
A hundred-headed League!1 One does not know
What he will do or not do: strategies,
Secret at first, soon become victories.
In vain the foe looks toward what he would hide,
And naught is there that would halt Destiny’s
Decrees… Stronger and stronger flows the tide
Until, at length, a hundred gods allied
Are powerless against one Jove supreme:
To stem the flood one is no longer able.
LOUIS and Destiny together seem
To move the universe… And now, our fable.
“Good God!” one day a mother crayfish said.
“How strangely, daughter mine, you walk! Can you
Not go straight forward, and follow your head?”
The daughter answers her: “And who,
Pray tell, are you to criticize? You too
Walk quite awry! How, after all, shall I
Walk differently from all my kinfolk? Why,
Would you have me go straight when they
Go crooked?” She was right. The way
We see our family conduct
Itself is ever certain to instruct
And guide us, for both good and ill,
Making wise men or fools. (Though, for that matter,
Less of the former than the latter!)
But to return at last to those who will
Turn backs to goals: Worthy the method still—
Specially in Bellona’s2 craft—
So long as one knows well his fore from aft.
XII, 10
THE EAGLE AND THE MAGPIE
One day the eagle, sovereign of the sky,
Queen of the spacious realm, and Mag the pie—
Different in nature, humor, tongue, no less
Than dress—
Were flying by a field, when each,
As luck would have it, chanced to reach
The selfsame spot. The pie, as you might guess,
Was struck with terror. But the eagle had
Already supped her fill, and bade
Her have no fear. “Let’s you and me,” she says,
“Travel in one another’s company.
I think you could be good for my malaise:
If Jove himself knows moments of ennui,
Why shouldn’t I, who serve His Majesty!
So, entertain me with your chatter.” Ha!
No sooner thus invited than
Dame Blabbermouth begins her bla-bla-bla,
On this, on that, on everything. That man
We read about, of Horace’s,1
Could not sing so much gossip—bad or good
(Solos, recitatives, and choruses!)—
As does our Mag! At length she says she would
Make a fine spy: fly here, fly there, report
All that she saw… Queen Eagle, quick to scoff her,
Angry, rejects the prattler’s offer.
“Back whence you came, my friend! My court
Needs no vile tattlers of your sort!”
Mag, happy to escape, flies off, her
Lesson now learned. To wit: there’s not much glory
Serving the great. (Kings… Gods, a fortiori!)
Spies, tattletales, for all the charms they proffer—
And, like the pie, sporting her colors double—
Cause nothing with their pains but trouble.
XII, 11
THE KITE, THE KING, AND THE FOWLER
FOR HIS SERENE HIGHNESS MONSEIGNEUR LE PRINCE DE CONTI1
The gods are kind and wish that kings might be
Kind and indulgent too. For such
Are their best virtues: finer, much,
Than pleasure of revenge. Your Majesty,
These are your feelings too. Well known it is
That, when wrath rises in your breast, it dies
No sooner born. In his heroic guise,
Even Achilles could not master his
As well; and more the hero you therefor.
Such is the name the boldest champions bore,
Like those who, in the Age of Gold,
Wrought noble deeds a hundredfold,
And here below earned men’s esteem the more.
Few are born great today. The universe
Is grateful for the ills the great not do.
Wretched though many are, they might be worse!
But let not such be models, sire, for you.
Temples will honor your largesse—
Your myriad noble acts; and when
The god Apollo—poet-citizen—
Plucks on his lyre, your name’s fair graciousness
Will fill his song, most honored among men.
The palace of the gods awaits you. Here,
A hundred years ought be your measure spent.2
The god of wedlock, too, would be content
To spend like number. May each year
Bring pleasure without end: the fair
Princess and you, most regal pair,
Deserve no less. Witness her charms and these
Wonders of yours: rich destiny’s
Gifts, qualities lavished upon you both;
Treasure unparalleled, that heaven bestowed
Upon your youthful wedded troth.
Her spirit, in the Bourbon mode,
Seasons her graces; and the gods confer
Both love’s and admiration’s boons on her.
But it is not my place to spread the word
About your joy thereof. Rather shall I
Write you a rhyme about a bird—
A kite it was—who, by and by,
Though many a year it had possessed,
Quite undisturbed, the selfsame nest,
Was by a fowler seized: a rare, much-prized
Prey; and, forsooth, the fowler meant it
To be a gift. (Mayhap you have surmised.)
For he intended to present it
Unto the king. And so he did, indeed.
The bird, thus proffered, will proceed,
Forthwith, with neither “hem” nor “haw”,
To grasp the royal nose with eager claw.
“His nose? The king’s? No!” Yes! It did!
“But how? Could not His Majesty forbid
Such arrogance? Had he no sceptre, no
Crown? Was it not malapropos?”
And if he had? No matter: nose for nose—
Commoner’s, king’s—no sooner the kite saw it,
Than it was meet for it to claw it.
Needless to say, the courtiers’ “ah’s” and “oh’s”
Arose with quite a clamor for the awe it
Inspired!… But futile would it be
To dwell on their chagrin. As for the king,
He stood by most impassively,
Because it were a fell, unseemly thing
For royalty to wail its woes; whereat
The kite clings fast, sta
nds firmly pat.
Its master calls, shouts, lures… In vain. One might
Suppose, despite the hubbub, that our bird,
Arrogant-clawed, intends to spend the night
Clutching the sacred nostrils!… Soon it stirred—
But only when it chose—and quit its prey.
Says the king: “Let it go its kitely way.
And let go, too, the fowler, whose intent
Was but to honor me. No punishment
For either. Each one acted as he ought:
One, like a kite; the other, woodland-taught.
And I, too, like a king shall act.” The court
Delighted, praised his deed, though falling short,
Itself. (Few, even kings, would be
So well enlightened.) Thus the hunter, free,
Escaped. His only fault—and the kite’s too—
Was to have dared approach the lord and master.
None but a callous criticaster
Would blame these forest denizens… Should you
Wonder who told this tale, it was Pilpay,3
By Ganges shore, where never mortal, nay,
May approach beast and shed its blood. To do
As much invites disaster. Even kings
Dare not. “Can we be certain who
Each creature was in its past quickenings?
Perhaps that kite fought at the siege of Troy—
Prince? Hero?—paladin of hoi polloi?
And what he was he yet may be again.
Pythagoras has taught, and we believe,
That, men to beasts and beasts to men,
We change in form, and may receive
Many a body—pigeon’s, kite’s—before
We turn, in time, to human beings once more.”4
The hunter’s fate is told in yet another
Fable I know. Now let me tell that other.
A certain falconer captured a kite
(A deed most rare: a happening
Seen once each hundred years), and thought he might
Bestow the precious bird upon the king,
Mark of the nec plus ultra of his art.
And so he tries, with zealous heart,
To pierce the circle of the courtiers round
The monarch, sure that he has found
His path to fortune. But the beast, now belled,5
Seized at the hunter’s nose, and held
It fast, with savage talons steeled.
In pain the poor man shrieked and squealed.
The others laughed. King, everyone…
Who, after all, would not have done?
Myself, were I there too, I should not yield
My laughter for a kingdom! Now, perhaps
A pope would feel that laughing were a lapse
Of dignity; I cannot say for sure.
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 31