The author-ape!1—dear reader, is the worst!
XII, 19
THE SCYTHIAN PHILOSOPHER
A Scythian philosopher there was—
Dour and austere—who took it in his mind
To leave his rugged native land behind
And go to live among the Greeks; because
With them he thought that he would surely find
A kinder, gentler life… Once there, our Scyth
Happened upon an old man, bent with age,
But kinglike, godlike—much as Virgil’s sage,1
Calm and serene—who, hook in hand, therewith
Was pruning, thinning out his trees:
Here a branch, there a bough, a useless limb—
Correcting nature’s lush excesses. “Please,”
He asks the elder, drawing close to him,
“Why this destruction? Is it wise of you
To tear apart these poor things so? Look!… Look
At what you’ve done! Come, come… Put down your hook;
Let Time’s scythe do its work. Their days are few:
Soon will they cross the Styx’s dark abyss
Without your help!” “You talk amiss,”
Replies the sage. “My task is to remove
The useless growth, and thus improve
All of the rest…” At length the Scyth returned
To Scythian climes. He thinks of what he learned,
Decides to practice it; hacks here, snips there,
Uproots, cuts, slashes, rips, and soon lays bare
His orchard. Full the moon or new,
Whatever month, whatever season—
Scraggy his trees or stout: no rhyme, no reason,
Pull them all out!… His neighbors too,
At his suggestion, do the same as he;
Until what once was garden, grove, and wood
Lies ravaged, dead… This Scyth recalls to me
One of those Stoics, whose philosophy
Casts every passion from our soul: the good,
The evil; who, in their foolhardihood,
Purge all desire; whose tongues decry
Even the innocent; who, if they could,
Would banish heart’s most precious fire; who try
To make us cease to live, even before we die.
XII, 20
THE ELEPHANT AND JUPITER’S APE
The elephant and the rhinoceros,
Years past, were raising quite a fuss,
Disputing matters monarchistic—
Succession, kingly powers, and such. And so
They took it in their heads to go
Behind closed doors, in combat pugilistic,
Bare hoof to hoof… Before the fateful day
When they are to engage in their endeavor,
Someone comes to announce, however,
That, flying through the air, Jove’s ape—they say
His name was Gille1—has just been seen,
Bearing the godly scepter. “Ah, au fait,”
Exults the elephant. “Then that must mean
He’s coming as an emissary
To see My Majesty plenipotentiary!”
He waits… And waits… But Master Gille shows no
Intention, not the slightest inclination,
To come present his formal creditation.
At length, when he drops by to say hello,
The elephant expects his mediation.
Again he waits… And waits… But not
One word about his battle. “What?
Who would believe the gods could care so little
About my fight? What? Not one jot or tittle?”
Indeed! What matters to the gods on high
If one be elephant or fly!
And so it fell to him himself to start
Their chat: “My royal counterpart—
My cousin Jupiter—and all his court
Soon will see combat of the fiercest sort!”
“Combat?” retorts the ape, a-scowl. Wherefore
The elephant replies: “No! Can it be
That you know nothing of the war
Between fair Elephrance and foul Rhinocery?
Surely you know our nations!” “Oh? Somehow,”
Says Gille, “I didn’t, but I’m glad to now…
Up there, in our vast halls, we seldom deal
With trifles!” Elephant, chagrined: “Then why
Did you come down?” And Master Gille:
“To bring some ants a leaf,2 give them their meal;
Your silly spat hasn’t yet caught Jove’s eye.
In time, no doubt, it will withal:
The gods tend all their subjects, great and small.”3
XII, 21
A FOOL AND A WISE MAN
A wise man out a-strolling finds behind him
A fool who takes delight in throwing stones.
Calm and unruffled, feigning not to mind him,
The former, stopping, makes no bones,
But hands the fool a golden coin. “Good man,
Hard work like yours deserves reward! I can,
I fear, not give you what you’re worth. But see
That burgher passing by? I’m sure that he
Will pay you more than I. Go try him.”
The fool, whetted for gain, draws nigh him,
Pelts him as well. This time, no gold! Indeed,
The burgher’s men come running out,
And thrash the bumpkin soundly round about.
Kings, too, have fools of no less nasty breed:
They make their masters laugh at your expense,
But little can you do to make them rue it.
When such the case, it’s only common sense
To let some other—stronger—victim do it.
XII, 22
THE ENGLISH FOX
FOR MADAME HARVEY1
A good heart and good sense keep company
In you, and many another quality—
A hundredfold—too long to list: a soul
Of noble air; the talent to control
Both persons and events; a free
And candid humor; and the gift to be
A friend, whatever tempests Jove might dole
And deal. All this could earn you pompous praise.
But little use have you for such bouquets,
And you eschew pomposity. Wherefore,
I keep these comments brief; but one word more—
Or two, or three—about that land where you
Were born, would I append thereto,
Land that you love. The English are
Thinkers profound; their mind and temperament
Delve deep in every subject, diligent,
Spreading the empire scientific far
And wide, beyond its every bound. I say
This, not to curry favor: they,
In truth, transcend in penetration
The citizens of any other nation.
Even your hunting hound has powers
Of snout and scent beyond the sense of ours.
Your fox, too, is more shrewd, and I shall prove it
By showing you a stratagem,
Never before devised, that one of them
Used when in danger. For it would behoove it
To save its skin. Near run aground by one
Of those keen hounds of yours, well-nigh undone,
The wretch passed by a gibbet, where,
Swinging and swaying in the air,
Several fine animals were hanging: owl,
Badger, and fox, in goodly number; foul
Races intent on doing ill, and who,
Here, well exposed to public view,
Were meant as an example. Their compeer
Cleverly goes and hangs there too. It is
Quite as if Hannibal, protecting his
Flanks from the Roman chiefs who persevere
To lay him low, tricks them and wins the day,
Escaping. Now
, the stalwart hounds come bay
At where the sham cadaver hangs. They fill
The air with whooping, loud and shrill,
Until their master bids them hold their tongue.
For, he cannot imagine that, among
All those dead beasts, a simple fox could use
Such a most clever, never-wielded ruse.
“No doubt he has found refuge in some lair,”
Declares the hunter, “some repair
Hard by the gibbet, close to where these fine,
Upstanding folk swing free! Else would my hounds
Not be so quick to yelp and whine.
So be it. But gadzooks and zounds!
I swear he has not seen the last of me.”
Indeed, he comes once more, unhappily,
And much to his distress: our hero hangs
Again among the corpses, as before,
Quick to assume the same fate lies in store.
But now the bassets bare their fangs,
Attack the piteous reprobate, who, duly
Leaves bones and skin—amen and requiem!—
Because he failed to realize that, truly,
One had best change one’s stratagem.
The hunter, had he been the prey, I deem
Would likely not have hit upon a scheme
So exquisite; though not for lack of wit—
Surely the English have full store of it!—
But for their nature cavalierly
To scorn life, hold it none too dearly.
Let me, milady, now to you
Return, though not to overdo
My praise. A long encomium
Would prove, I fear, too wearisome
For my poor lyre. Besides, our verse, our song
Tire when their incense flatters overlong,
Nor please the nations with vain eulogy.
Your prince once said that he preferred
A single phrase, a single word
Of love, rather than flattery
Four pages long.2 And so accept, I pray,
This gift I offer you. It may
Well be the last my muse allows to me,
So muddled and confused is she.
But could you not, at least, by wit or wile
Make the same homage touch Hortense the fair,3
Comtesse de Mazarin, who, from the isle
Of Venus, draws unto your island there,
So many a denizen, whom Love
Has named the goddess for the cause thereof?
XII, 23
DAPHNIS AND ALCIMADURA
Imitation of Theocritus
FOR MADAME DE LA MÉSANGÈRE1
Belovèd daughter of a mother rare
Whom hearts a thousandfold still woo,
And others yet—whom Love reserves for you—
Eager to please! I cannot fail to share,
In these few words, betwixt the two
Of you, a little of that incense found
Atop Parnassus,2 and that I compound
Into sweet praises with my secret muse.
And so I say… Ah, but it were
Too much to say it all. No, choose
I must; and, wisely, I demur,
Eager to save my voice and spare my lyre.
For they have both begun to lose the fire
And time to sing. I shall extol
One heart alone, brimming with tenderness,
With noble thoughts, graced with an aureole
Of wit. And if I cannot acquiesce
To honor you by praising her no less,
So will you reign supreme. But best
Be careful, belle, lest Love avow,
Better than I, the same ardor somehow,
And lest the roses round your brow be tressed—
Those roses of your beauty born—
Ever with far too many a thorn.
For Love will punish those who spurn
His counsel with deaf ear. Listen and learn.
A wondrous beauty, proud, untame,
Utterly scorned the god Love’s power divine.
Alcimadura was her name.
Arrogant creature, she: her one design
Was to make free in woodland bower, leap, prance
Over the grass, obeying naught but chance
And whim; as lovely as the loveliest
And more cruel than the cruelest.
Yet every feature, even the most wild,
Awed those who might behold her, and beguiled
Any and all who would be blessed
With the child’s favor. Daphnis, he,
Handsome young shepherd of fine pedigree,
For his misfortune loved the belle.
Alas! The heartless damosel
Accorded not one look, one word; not one
Sign of affection to the lad. Undone,
Tired of his vain pursuit, he had
No other thought—near driven mad—
Save death. And so, despairing, will he run
To her abode to chant his anguish. But
Shut tightly is her door, and tightly shut
Will it remain. His plaintive threnody
Wafts on the wind, unheard… A company
Of joyous friends, feting her natal day,
Surround the flowers of her loveliness
With garden treasures’ verdant, rich array.
“I hoped,” he cries, “to die before you. Yes,
Before your very eyes. But such a hateful
Creature am I, so odious in your sight,
That you refuse me even the delight
Of such a death. After my fateful,
Loveless demise, my father will
Spread at your feet the whole inheritance
That your heart spurned, with scorn askance.
And I bestow upon you still
More than all that: my flocks, my pastureland,
Even my dog. And I command
My friends build you a temple, ever fill
Its altar with bouquets, there to reflect
Your beauty, in blooms endlessly bedecked.
A monument shall here be placed, and I
Shall have these words engraved: ‘Pray, passerby,
Bide a bit on your way, and shed a tear.
For Daphnis died untimely here.
Alas, the poor lad died of love:
Alcimadura was the cause thereof.’”
He would have said still more if Fate and pain
Had not prevented it… Just then, our swain
Saw his belovèd step outside,
Begowned in beauty, arrogant of stride…
He turned to stop her, but in vain,
Hoping for but a tear or two that might
Ease him in death. But no! That very night,
Scornful as ever of Venus’s son,
She summoned all her friends, and everyone
Went gaily dancing round the monument.
No sooner done, than Love, god discontent,
Fell on the haughty wench and smote her dead.
A voice, it seemed, the heavens rent
As Echo roundabout this counsel spread:
“Let love abound! Dead is the heartless maid.”
Meanwhile, in Stygian descent, the shade
Of Daphnis trembles, awed to see her there,
Running to greet him, on her lips a prayer.
Erebus3 hears the murderous belle implore
The shepherd lad’s forgiveness. But no more
Deigns he to listen than Ulysses, when
Besought by Ajax,4 or than Dido, she,
Unmoved by the excuse and useless plea
Of the most faithless, wretchedest of men.5
XII, 24
PHILEMON AND BAUCIS
Subject Taken from Ovid’s Metamorphoses
FOR MONSEIGNEUR LE DUC DE VENDÔME 1
Nor gold nor grandeur brings us happiness:
The wealth and fleeting pleasure we possess
From t
hose unsure, fickle divinities
Are brief at best. Therewith our miseries,
Our agonies abide: vultures that pluck
At the poor son of Japhet,2 whose ill luck
It was to be chained to a cliff; whereas
The humble, lowly habitation has
No need to pay such tribute. There, peace-blessed,
The sage lives out his life and scorns the rest.
Roaming the wood, content with simplest things,
He sees, spread at his feet, minions of kings,
Of wealth possessed, and reads the eloquent
Proof—on the brows of those whose lives are spent
In empty luxury—that one must pay
Fortune for what she sells, not gives away.
And, when comes time to quit his life, it is
As if fair evening bears that day of his
Off to its peaceful night… Well, Philemon—
Who with his Baucis dwelt—was such a one.
Couple much loving and much loved, they were
Devoted, she to him and he to her,
Since the sweet springtime of their youth; and love
Had turned their hut into a shrine thereof.
Clotho3 took pleasure measuring out the thread
Of each; and, though long years they had been wed,
Their flame was not by time or marriage faded.
Each was the other’s all; and both, unaided
By servant’s hands, for two score summers, tilled
Garden and field, with soul deeply fulfilled
Thereby. But everything in time grows old.
Furrows wrinkled their brows; and, though not cold,
Their passion cooled a bit. Friendship became
Its surrogate, and yet could heat to flame
When love’s darts pricked it hot… Now then, their town
Was filled with folk of scurrilous renown—
Cold and hard-hearted—such that Jupiter
Decides to purge the earth of them. Demur
He will not. Leaving, rather, then and there,
With his son, quick of tongue, he rends the air…
Arrives… The pair, decked out in pilgrim guise,
Knock on a thousand doors: no one replies.
Not one! And, as the gods prepare to quit
Such a vile, shameful place, lo! their eyes hit
Upon a humble hut, off from the road,
That seems an honest, welcoming abode,
Free of disgrace. Whereat god Mercury—
The son, eloquent one (for it was he)—
Wishing to try once more, knocks on the door.
It opens in a trice… Standing before
Our pilgrim-gods, good Philemon declares:
“Methinks you travel far. The thoroughfare’s
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 33