But for a king? I should think him a poor
Unfortunate dared he not chaff.
The gods immortal, Jove and all the rest,6
Chortled their fill, even when cares oppressed
And harried them. And when he went to quaff,
With his jovial eagerness,
The cup that Vulcan, halt of limb
And doddering, offered to him,
Ah, how he held his sides!… But I digress.
Be the gods as they may, it would appear
That I have changed my moral here.
And just as well. What could this hunter’s fate
Have taught about this foolish reprobate?
Besides, more witless falconers we see
Than generous, indulgent royalty.
XII, 12
THE FOX, THE FLIES, AND THE HEDGEHOG
Wounded by hunters, left to die,
Renard (one of the woodland’s wily best!),
Mired in the muck, falls victim to that pest,
That wingèd parasite we call the fly—
Attracted by his bloody trail, come by
To dine! The old fox, sore distressed
At her attack, rails at the gods, decries
A fate so hostile that, alas, it lets
The likes of him be food for flies!
“Me? Me?” he wails. “Alack,” he frets.
“Me, craftiest creature in the wood?
Is fox considered such a savory meal?
And my poor tail! Ah, if I only could
Flail it about as flail I should,
Then, irksome insects, would you feel
My awesome wrath! Be damned, vile enemy!
Go feed on common folk and let me be!…”
A hedgehog from the neighborhood—a new
Character in my verse!1—thought he might do
The fox a kindly courtesy
And rid him of the beasts importunate.
“Neighbor,” said he, “I’ll shoot a quill, and spear
Hundreds at once!” “No, please, compeer!”
Said fox. “That would be most unfortunate.
Leave these to glut their fill. They’re almost sated.
But should they go, others will surely come—
Worse still, the cruelest in all insectdom!—
To take the places they shall have vacated.”
Numerous, too, our pests of human sort:
Magistrates, sycophants at court—
And all of them the hungriest!
It’s Aristotle’s tale I tell.2 But it
Offers a moral for our time. To wit:
They harass least who fill their bellies best!
XII, 13
LOVE AND FOLLY
Love is the deepest mystery.
Cupid, that childish knave of knaves—
With quiver, arrows, torch—behaves
So darkly that, in truth, if we
Are wont to fathom him, I fear
We’ll need not just a day, not just a year!
Thus let me say, before I start,
That’s not at all my purpose here.
I only wish to use my humble art
To tell you how that godling, blind,
First came to lose his sight: a woesome ill,
But one that many a lover is inclined
To think a boon. Myself, I’m keeping still.
Folly and Love, one day at play together,
Had a dispute. The latter wondered whether
The Council of the Gods ought not be called.
Folly, incensed, punched, flailed away
And robbed the other of the light of day;
Whose mother, Venus, properly appalled,
Shrieking for vengeance—woman that she was—
Deafened the gods and won them to her cause:
Nemesis, Jove, Hell’s judges too—
In short, the whole Olympian crew.
“No punishment is harsh enough,” she pleaded;
“My son is now an invalid.
Do what you have to do!” The court acceded,
And so, indeed, do it they did:
In view of public weal and private woe,
They sentenced Folly evermore to go
Abroad with Love, whithersoever,
And be his constant guide, forever.
XII, 14
THE CROW, THE GAZELLE, THE TORTOISE, AND THE RAT
FOR MADAME DE LA SABLIÈRE1
I built a shrine for you in verses past,2
One that long as the world itself should last.
My hand had sought to set it, firm, to stand
Upon that art wrought by the gods’ command,
And in the name of the divinity
Whom one would worship there: fair goddess, she.
I should these words have graven on its portal:
“This palace is a shrine to the immortal
Iris.” (Not her, Juno’s handmaid indentured;
For she and Jove would willingly have ventured
To serve her, rather than she, them: it were
Their glory to bear messages for her!)
Beneath the dome, her heavenly elevation:
Olympus, with great pomp and celebration,
Seating her on a throne, by light surrounded.
The temple walls themselves, would have abounded
In scenes rich in her life’s fine deeds, with none
Of such as lead to strife, or peace undone.
And, deep within the temple I would place
The image of her beauty: winsome grace,
Her smile, her charms, sporting the art divine—
Endowed by nature, not her own design—
Of pleasing all who see her face, and who,
Head bowed, under their homage thereunto,
Lie at her feet before her soul’s noblesse;
Mortals, and heroes, demigods; and, yes,
Even the gods themselves, with incense strewing
Her altar. And I should have shown—though doing
With my imperfect art the task!—the rich
Treasures that shine forth from her eyes, and which,
For those she loves alone, are heaven-sent;
Her wit, her spirit, by the firmament
Bestowed. “Imperfect? Why?” Because her face’s
Beauty—its manly strength, womanly graces—
Shines far beyond the powers of pen to write,
However well and earnestly it might.
O Iris! You who every charm possess,
Who work each one on one and all no less;
You who, in wise unlimited, know how
To please, and whom one even loves, I vow,
As dearly as oneself… (But let that word—
“Love”—here pronounced, be not unseemly heard:
For it is one that, clearly, you prefer
To banish from your court; and I would err
Were I to dwell thereon.) And yet, I hope
You would allow my muse to limp and lope
In muddled manner here, and have, at last,
Its say. I add this preface but to cast
My fable’s subject in a gracious guise,
Portraying friendship as the worthiest prize.
Simple the tale I tell, one that with ease you
Will comprehend; I trust, too, that it please you.
No monarchs are the players here; no king
Who fails at love. The mortal shall I sing
Who risks his life to save his friend. I see
No fairer proof of one’s humanity.
And yet, four beasts joined in a bond of love
Shall herewith teach mankind the truth thereof.
A tortoise, a gazelle, a crow, a rat
Together shared each other’s company
In undisturbed tranquillity,
Having selected for their habitat
A corner quite unknown to Man, and never
Peopled by him. However, Man
will find
Every retreat in time, whatever kind—
Beneath the sea, high in the air, wherever,
Or in the forests, where he lurks in wait.
(You four, I fear, will not avoid the fate
He has in store for you…) Gazelle went out,
One day, to frolic thereabout,
Innocent as you please, when, suddenly,
A hound—agent of Man’s barbarity
And his unmanly pleasure—found
Her tracks… Gave chase… The poor beast, with a bound,
Went fleeing… Back home, when the other three
Come round to dine, Rat, anxious, eyes
The company and questions in surprise:
“How comes it that we are but three? Where is
Gazelle? Has she forsaken us?”
Croaks Tortoise: “Ah! Were I adventurous,
And, like Crow, with those wings of his,
I would, this very minute, fly
Thither and yon to see if I
Could learn, at least, where she might be,
Or what eventuality—
Some accident, perhaps—has put
Our dear companion, fleet of foot,
Into some drear predicament.
For, surely, it could not be her intent
To leave us thus.” Crow will agree,
Fly off, and, in the distance, see
Gazelle, who, most imprudently, has been
Caught in a trap, struggling therein
To free herself. In zealous haste
He flies to tell the others. For, why waste
The time to ask her when? and how? and why?,
Like some tongue-wagging magister?3 No, I
Daresay he had more common sense! And so
Back he flies… Two decide that they should go
To where Gazelle lies captive. “Tortoise should,”
Says Crow, “remain behind on watch. She would
Arrive once friend Gazelle were dead!”
Despite what Crow has wisely said,
Tortoise sets out with them as well
To save the needy doe, cursing her lack
Of speed—poor stump-legged damosel!—
And the house that she bears upon her back.
Gnaw-stitch4 arriving—Rat had earned that name!—
Was quick to cut the knots that held
Gazelle. Imagine how they all exclaim
Their glee and joy unparalleled
At seeing her set free. But then
The hunter comes upon the trio, crying:
“Who stole my prey?” Gazelle bounds off again
Into the wood; Crow flutters, flying
Treetopwards; Rat goes scampering, finds a hole…
The hunter—poor, pathetic soul,
Half-mad—looks up and down; then, spying
Tortoise, controls himself, consoled: “At least
I have my luncheon!” Whence the clumsy beast
Is thrown into his sack. She would have paid
For all of them, had Crow not told Gazelle,
Who, quitting her retreat—bold, unafraid—
Pretends to limp; and limps so well
Before the hunter that he follows her,
Flinging his sack away lest it deter
His chase. At that, Gnaw-stitch attacked
With eager tooth; promptly unsacked
What was to be said hunter’s déjeuner.
Such is the fable as Pilpay5
Recounted it. Should I invoke Apollo,
I might, to please you, choose another way
To tell the tale. The same plot I would follow,
But longer—like The Odyssey
Or, say, The Iliad. Gnaw-stitch would be
The hero, though each beast would have a role.
The Princess of the Royal House—borne whole
Upon her shoulders!—would say thus and so,
Wherefore the diplomat—Messire du Crow—
Would play the spy and, later, act
As messenger… Gazelle? She would distract
The foe with cunning; thanks to which,
The stalwart Monseigneur Gnaw-stitch
Would have time for his derring-do. Now you
Might ask, with all the work each did thereto,
To which one would I give the prize?
The prize goes to the heart: there friendship lies.
XII, 15
THE FOREST AND THE WOODSMAN
A woodsman broke the handle of his axe—
Or lost it. (I’m not certain which: no matter…)
Until the former could replace the latter,
Safe was the forest from his hews and hacks,
His chops and chips, his splitting blows…
But soon the canny woodsman goes
Back to the forest; asks her, please,
In all humility, to let him take
One single branch from any of her trees—
Just one—so that he might remake
His tool, therewith to earn his livelihood
Far from her fine and venerable wood.
Indeed, no more to fell her would he use it!
The forest hears his pleas and, being good
And kind (rather, naive!) cannot refuse it.
Woodsman takes bough… Repairs his axe… Ah, me!
Soon has he stripped his benefactress bare,
And leaves her, moaning, lying there,
Brought down by her own magnanimity.
So goes the world and all too many in it—
How often must I sing the same refrain?
Do a good turn, they turn on you next minute!
But this? To ravage Nature’s sweet domain,
Her groves, her shades!… Who can, unmoved, behold
Such devastation? Yes, I scold,
I rage… But what’s the use? Complain… Complain…
Vice and ingratitude—for all my passion,
Rant though I may—will long remain the fashion.1
XII, 16
THE FOX, THE WOLF, AND THE HORSE
A fox—quite young, and yet quite clever—
Happened upon a horse, the first one ever
His youthful eyes had seen. Close by
He spied a wolf—young, too, and most naive!
“Out there!” he cried. “Come, friend! I can’t believe
My eyes! Some beast or other, grazing… Why,
I never saw one of such size before!
Beautiful too!…” “Haw!” scoffed the wolf. “Is he
Stronger than me and you? Do tell me more!
Describe him.” And the fox’s repartee:
“I wouldn’t do him justice! If I were
A painter, or some studious connoisseur,
I should, with pleasure, have extolled him
Even before you could behold him!
Come and see for yourself! Who knows? He may
Be sent by Fortune; some new, tasty prey!”
So off they go… The horse, still browsing there,
But just about to leave, a-trot,
Thinks precious little of our pair;
Cares not, indeed, one tittle, not one jot.
“Seigneur,” says fox with courtly air, “we two,
Your humble servants, would be pleased to know
Your name.” The horse, a canny sort, says: “Oh?
My name messieurs? It’s written on my shoe.
My cobbler put it there. Come read it.” “Who?”
Says fox. “Not me. I never learned my letters.
Naught could my parents pay, poor debtors!
Whereas Sire Wolf’s… Noble and rich are they!
He learned to read!” The wolf, proud popinjay,
Drew near… Looked… Peered… Dear me! His vanity
Cost him four teeth, as horse let fly a hoof;
And wolf, with many an “ayyy!” and “ouf!”
Laid low, lay bloodied, hoodwinked he!
Meanwhi
le the horse turned tail and off he sprinted.
“Friend,” said the fox, eager to show him
How he had erred, “now is your jaw imprinted:
‘Best not to trust the stranger till you know him!’”1
XII, 17
THE FOX AND THE YOUNG TURKEY COCKS
One night, a brood of youngster turkey cocks,1
Fleeing the onslaughts of a certain fox,
Took refuge in a tree—détresse oblige!—
Round which Renard, quick to lay siege,
Went circling, glaring up at each one, perching
Sentinel-like. “Gadzooks!” cried he. “What sort
Of folk are these, to be besmirching
My reputation, making sport
Of me! What makes them think their foul cohort
Can flout the rules! By all the gods, we’ll see!”
Now then, it happened that the moon shone bright—
So much the better for our company
(Fowl cohort,2 they!). And so, no neophyte,
The fox goes searching through his sack
Of hoax and trick; first feigns to climb the tree;
Pretends to fall, flat on his back—
Dead, he would have the turkeys think;
Then lurching up, revived, quick as a wink,
Lifts high his shining tail to charm their gaze;
Holds their attention…3 (Even Harlequin4—
Consummate actor—would have been
Hard put to act as well!) Anon, a-daze—
Staring, yet daring not to sleep—first one,
Then two, then more fall to the ground, undone.
In time, half of the brood, at least,
Lies in a heap before our fox artiste,
Who takes them to his larder, stocks his lair…
When danger threatens, yes, take care;
But careful lest you overdo it:
Too much, and you may well fall victim to it.
XII, 18
THE APE
A certain ape, in Paris, took a wife—
A human one—and aped those husbands who
Batter their helpless mates. He too
Beat her within a hairsbreadth of her life,
Until, with many sobs and sighs,
The lady dies.
Their son laments, cries, raises quite a stir.
No use! The father laughs: that wife is dead.
Now other loves has he to bed,
Ones that, no doubt, he’ll beat as much as her.
Drunkard, he haunts the tavern, slakes his thirst…
Expect no virtue from these would-be men:
Whether with grimace or with pen,
Vile imitators! But the most accursed—
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 32