Journey has tired you both, no doubt. Come, rest.
We have but little, but it is the best
That we can offer you. Alas, messieurs,
Gone is the wondrous day when Jupiter,
Though carved of wood, heeded our every prayer!
Now that they fashion him of gold, we fare
Far worse! Deaf is he to our pleas, I fear!”
Then, to his Baucis: “Go, make haste my dear
And warm the water for our guests, though we
Are not so quick as once we used to be.”
Blowing the charcoal embers back to life,
Slowly, laboriously, his gentle wife
Obeys. They wash the travelers’ feet and ask
Their pardon for the slowness of the task.
Philemon speaks to them the while, but not
Of grandeur, gaming, wealth—the kingly lot.
Rather he talks of pleasures innocent
And rare, in woods, fields, orchards, sweetly spent.
Meantime, Baucis the rustic meal lays out
Upon a rough-hewn table, wrought without
Compass or such, one of whose legs—ill-starred,
Wracked too by time—was held firm by a shard
Of earthenware, time-wracked as well. (At least
So it was said.) A cloth, for solemn feast
Reserved—worn, flower-spread—had but a bit
Of Ceres’4 bounty fair to cover it;
A little milk as well. Our voyageurs
Divine, most thirsty from their travels, were
Content to mix their lowly country wine
With a stream’s waters, pure and crystalline.
But as they do, behold! The more they pour,
The more the jug contains! Kneeling before
The godly pair, Baucis and Philemon
Know that a miracle has here been done!
The veil is lifted from their eyes, and there
Stands Jupiter, dark-browed, with that fierce air
That shakes the skies from pole to pole. “Pray, sire,”
Begs Philemon, “spare us your holy ire
At our most modest welcome! How could we
Have dreamed that such as Your Divinity
Would be our guest? The food we offered you
Was paltry, sire, at best. Still, thereunto,
Even if we were kings, how could we serve
What you, the masters of the world, deserve?
True, it came from the heart. But finer yet
The gods expect. And surely they would whet
Their appetite not on the heart’s intent
Sincere, but on more worldly nourishment.
Baucis, my love,” he asks, “what worthier fare
Can we yet offer them? Pray, go prepare
As best you can!” Out in the garden she
Had kept a partridge, and had tenderly
Raised it since birth. She gives it chase; but it
Flees from her trembling grasp and, to outwit
Her vain pursuit, perches betwixt the knees
Of Jupiter himself, as he decrees
The town’s demise, decides the time has come
To cast his shadow over sinnerdom.
Down from the mountains roll the shades, and spill
Over the valleys. Now the two gods will
Quit the abode and lead therefrom their pair
Of hosts. Cries Jove: “No longer will I bear
The ills this race commits! Now shall it be
Destroyed. Come,” says the god. “You, Mercury,
Summon the winds. And you, iniquitous,
Foul folk, who closed your homes and hearts to us,
Be now undone!” As thus he spoke, a gale
Bellowed across the plain. The couple, frail
And bent with years, followed as best they could,
Tottering, each, with a slim cane of wood
To lean upon, until, by both the grace
Of the two gods—and fright!—they reach the place
Proposed: a hill hard by. The pair peer down,
Watch as a hundred clouds lash at the town
Below, unleash their wrath, go crashing, sweep
Off in a flood divine, all in a heap—
Acolytes of the gods—people, beasts, trees,
Houses, and orchards, till no trace of these,
Or those, or anything at all remains.
In secret Baucis weeps; the havoc pains
And grieves her. What? That beasts should suffer so?
Just was the people’s punishment. But oh!
Innocent beasts as well? Meanwhile, in but
An instant, lo! the thatched roof of their hut
Turns to a glistening gold before their eyes,
With marbled pillars rising to the skies,
Gleaming in all its new magnificence;
And, painted on the wainscot, the events
I have described, traced by no mortal hand—
No Zeuxis, no Apelles,5 or their band
Of human limners! Awed, confounded, our
Husband and wife, thinking some godly power
Has brought them to Olympus, say: “Might we,
Your humble servants, have such purity
Of hand and heart, that we, in priestly wise,
May bring to you, O Jove, the prayers, the cries,
The pleas of simple pilgrims!” Whereupon
The god grants their request; whence Philemon
Makes yet one more: “Would that our mortal tether
Come to an end, my wife’s and mine, together,
Serving your altars. No more could we ask
Of Clotho than this final twofold task!
I should not mourn my Baucis, and her tears
Would irk you not.” Jupiter listens, hears,
Agrees… Now let me tell you, if I dare,
A fact hard to believe. One day, as there
They sat—our saintly pair, that is—before
The temple gate, as pilgrims more and more
Astounded, listened, Philemon said: “This
Has not forever been an edifice
Unto the gods immortal. No! It was
Surrounded by a city without laws;
A foul, barbaric place, whose people scorned
The very gods, and who—undone, unmourned—
Knew wrath celestial! And we two are all
That still remains. Herein each sacred wall
Recounts the tale, and what is yet to be,
Painted by Jove himself…” As lovingly
He spoke, he cast now and again a glance
At Baucis, who, motionless in her stance,
Was turning to a tree, her arms outspread.
He tried to spread his own, but could not. Dead,
Too, was his tongue: the tree-bark pressed it mute.
And, as their leafy bodies now took root,
Their minds whispered a last farewell!… Then, too,
The pilgrim band, astonished, said adieu
To human form. Baucis to linden turned,
And Philemon to oak: each one had earned
The boon that Love to wedded bliss had paid,
Bowed low with myriad fruits. When, in their shade,
A couple sits, despite the years thereof,
Their hearts will ever taste the joys of love!
Ah! had I known… Alas! For me, too late!
Gone are my gifts. Let me but celebrate
This famous metamorphosis of old,
By many a faithful witness told, retold…
Clio6 decreed that it in verse should be
Set down for all future humanity,
And to another’s great name be related.
Vendôme, I pray your largesse unabated
Grant me the praise I seek. Let Envy not,
Nor Time, subdue the honor of my lot.
Enchain those demons lest they still my tongue,
Foes of those heroes tha
t my voice has sung
And ever shall; and you, Vendôme, foremost
Amongst them; you, my ever-generous host;
You, who a myriad qualities possess
With not one flaw; whose virtues are no less
Than infinite! Ah! Might I own the pen
To praise them all, O most beloved of men,
Whose heaven-sent taste graces my works far more
Than all the skill wherewith I strive therefor.
Few are the lofty men, or lowly, who
Know, by such favors, that Jove loves them. You,
Child of the gods, are such a one; and I
Dare to declare it in my verse hereby,
To one and all. Clio has, in her breast,
Refined it in Homeric fashion, lest
It not please you enough. Apollo had—
Or so, at least, they tell us—promptly bade
Her and her sister Muses to convey
That sacred valley to your fair Anet.
And so they did. Now may we long give thanks
In the shade of the boughs that line its banks!
May they lift up their verdant brows, anon,
As once did Baucis and her Philemon!
XII, 25
THE MATRON OF EPHESUS
If any tale1—well worn, banal—
Needs no retelling, it’s the one I shall
Herewith relate in my own wise.
“But why?” you ask. “Why re-create her,
That personage of more than one narrator:
The Matron that Petronius glorifies
And many an imitator, too, discusses?
What special grace can you give yours to vie,
Verily, with Petronius’s?”
Rather than face my critics in reply—
Task of duration infinite!—
Let me but try to see if I
Can spruce his famous Matron up a bit.
Long years gone by, in Ephesus,
There lived a woman, passing virtuous,
In wifely duty chaste beyond compare:
Pride of her sex, hailed far and wide. And thus
Came many a soul to see her there,
Eager to gaze upon a sight so rare.
Each mother wished such consort for her son;
Each man wished for a mate like such a one.
(Ancestress of the clan Prudenda,2 she
Gave rise to long posterity…)
Her husband loved her madly. But
He died—no need to say of what
(Frivolous piece of information!);
He died: let that suffice—and left
A will that would have brought much consolation
Could wealth console madame, now sore bereft
Of spouse so loving and so loved. But no,
Not such a widow, she: such as will crow
Their grief—hair torn and garments rent—
But who, beating their breast to loud lament,
Add up their riches as they weep their woe.
No, this one moaned and wailed and bellowed so,
That all grew much alarmed and much distressed.
(Though they assumed that, like the rest,
This widow, while sincere her lamentation,
Was not ungiven to exaggeration,
Just for the show.) And thus they did as best
They could to temper her chagrin,
Telling Her Widowhood it was a sin
To mourn beyond all proper measure. Yet
All they accomplished was to whet
The dire despair of our fair heroine,
And make her grieve, alas, the more;
Until, in time, the poor bereaved forswore
The light of day, loath to participate
In pleasure now denied her lifeless mate.
And so into his tomb went she, intent
There to remain and join the late
Lamented in his netherward descent.
With her there went a slave girl, much devoted—
Cradle-companion, close as close could be—
Thither to keep her mistress company
And die as well; though, be it noted,
This loving, loyal devotee
(“Devoted?” Rather “mad,” if you ask me!),
Exemplar of affection sisterly,
Had failed, I fear, to think the matter through.
But soon the servant comes to realize
What such a stay must needs expose her to.
At first she lets her mistress sigh her sighs
And groan her groans; then vainly tries
To make her mourn as other widows do,
In manner more conventional withal.
The Matron, though—obdurate, spurning all
The usual consolations—has one thought
And one alone: what means she ought
Employ to reach unto that dismal
Valley of death, domain abysmal.
Quickest, no doubt, would be the sword.
But she demurs; for she would longer feast
Her eyes upon the poor deceased—
Cold in his bier, and yet no less adored.
Such being, indeed, the only nourishment
The mausoleum offers her,
Madame decides that, to pursue monsieur,
Starvation is her best expedient:
Portal direct, through which to quit
This mortal coil and be well rid of it.
One day… Then two… And she had fed
On naught but her “alases” and “ah me’s”:
Long song of woe; duly dispirited,
Cursing the gods, Fate’s vagaries,
And all of life’s most grave inequities.
Now, hard by where monsieur lay dead,
A second corpse hung swinging in the breeze:
A proper blackguard, and for whom
Only the gibbet—no fine marble tomb—
Would stand to mark his infamous demise;
Left thus, so other thieves might cast their eyes
Thereon, and be thereby deterred.
A soldier, placed to guard this gallows-bird,
Well paid therefor, did so with anxious care.
For if, through his neglect—mayhap
The merest nod or briefest nap—
Brigands or friends or kin should dare
Come snatch the corpse, then must it be replaced
By him himself, and that posthaste!
(Punishment most severe, but one that would
Presumably best serve the common good.)
And so it happens that, indeed, that night
Said guard espies a beam of light
Slivering through the gloom. Great his surprise
As to the tomb he hies him; stops; hears cries
Rending the air… Inside he goes:
Astonished at the sight, he eyes
The grieving widow there, bawling her woes.
Many his “wherefore’s” and his “why’s”:
Why such? Why so?… But so distraught is she
That she ignores his queries, lets
The corpse, in mute soliloquy,
Account for her vociferous regrets
And her decision thus to be entombed.
Her slave adds more: “Madame and I are doomed
To starve with grief. For so we swore.” Whereat
The guard, distressed at their condition,
Discourses—though no gilt-tongued rhetorician—
On life (its meaning, and all that).
The wife gives ear, more willing by the minute;
Hears what he has to say, takes pleasure in it;
Begins to lose her firm resolve… Says he:
“Starve if you must. I’ll not entreat you.
But if you sit and watch me eat, you
Need die no less, I guarantee.
Pray let me fetch my supper.” They agree;
And off he goes, returning with his food.
As
thus he supped and chomped and chewed,
The slave began to harbor much misgiving
About the cruel vicissitude
Of thus departing from amongst the living
To join monsieur in death. “Madame,” she said,
“The thought occurs to me that, were you dead
And were your husband yet alive, then surely
There’s little question, entre nous,
But that he’d not be quick to follow you.
Life is so short: why leave it prematurely?
At twenty years the grave can wait, no worry!
Long will it be our host: so why the hurry?
Me? Let me live till wrinkles fill my face!
What? Would you waste your beauty and your grace
Upon the dead? What pleasures can they give them,
Imprisoned in their chill embrace?
Better to let yourself outlive them—
These charms divine of yours—and not allow
The jealous bier too soon to claim them.” Now,
The compliments, of course, have their effect:
Madame is quickened, as you might expect,
To thoughts of beauty and, perforce, of love.
At length, the impish god thereof
Looses an arrow from his quiver at her,
And at the guard as well. The latter,
Pierced to the heart, is smitten utterly—
More deeply than, at first, is she.
The more she sobs, the more those teardrops flatter
The winsome face behind the weeping mask.
(Beauty that even many a husband would
Find worth the yoke of husbandhood!)
And so the soldier, warming to the task,
Proceeds to woo the widow, doing
Everything wooers do a-wooing,
Much to the pleasure of madame the wooed.
He does so well that, soon, she tastes his food;
So well, that he seems fitter, far, to have her
Than even the most fair and fit cadaver;
So well, that there, before her dear deceased,
Widow turns wife—or so to speak, at least.
But as they lie thus consummating, lo!
A brigand steals that other corpse—the one
Our groom forgets to guard… He’ll run… But no,
Too late, alack! The deed is done…
Back to the tomb, in panic, will he flee
To tell madame the fell catastrophe.
How can he save his skin? Aye, that’s the question!
For which the slave girl, full of sympathy,
Offers him an untoward suggestion:
“By madame’s leave, no one will know if we
Hang up our corpse to take your corpse’s place.”
Madame agrees… O woman! Fickle race!
Some fair; some plain of face and feature;
But faithful? Ah, would there were such a creature!
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 34