Prudes, be advised: vaunt not your strength of will
Though your intent be to resist temptation.
For, fare we well or fare we ill,
Strong, too, is man’s determination.
Witness our famous Matron, who—
Meaning the good Petronius no offense—
Did, I must say, what many a wife would do
Under the circumstances; and who, hence,
Deserves no exemplary mention.
Her folly? Vowing in her innocence,
To die entombed: absurd intention!
Nor need she have too long repented
Hanging her dear-departed late-lamented
To save her swain. For, as she would discover,
Better to have a living lover—
Even a varlet, poor and lowly bred—
Than all your kings and emperors, rich but dead.
XII, 26
BELPHEGOR
Satan one day—monarch supreme of hell—
Decided to review his subjects all,
Of every stripe. Kings, princes great and small,
And even all the humble folk as well,
Shed copious tears, cried many and many a cry;
So many, in fact, that Satan wondered why,
And each soul passing by he questioned: “Who
Was it that did this shameful thing to you?
Who cast you thus into eternal life
Of flame infernal?” One would say: “My wife.”
Another one: “My husband.” Whereat, he
Declared, at length, in his consistory
Assembled, having heard the same reported
By one and all: “If what they say should be
The truth, and not dissembled or distorted,
All the more glory can we earn thereby.
It would behoove us but to verify it.
Therefore a demon shall be sent, one very
Prudent and wise, to be our emissary,
To judge the wedded state; indeed, to try it
Himself, not satisfied to view it merely
With but his eyes.” The black assembly clearly
Approved the judgment of the Prince—no “nay’s”—
And chose a demon, one whose wily ways,
All eyes and ears, were legion: Belphegor1
By name; a master of fine observation,
Who, slyly, would, with seer-like penetration,
Learn everything one sought to know, and more.
And, to defray the great expense therefor,
Letters of credit he provided, all
Payable on demand, should it befall—
Wherever in the nation he might chance
To be—lest he, in straitened circumstance
Should find himself withal. As for the rest—
All of the joys and woes of Man’s condition—
Would he experience as well: the best,
The worst. And if, perhaps, during his mission
(Which was to last ten years, not one day less),
He were the victim of some nastiness,
He could, by dint of artful trickery,
Save himself from whatever it might be,
But would in no wise die, or homeward wend
His way, until the mission’s very end.
So off he goes, across the space betwixt
Earth and eternal night: a passage fixed
By the gods in their wisdom; but that took
No time for such as him: a glance, a look,
And there he was, in Florence if you please!
Florence, the fabled home of Italy’s
Resplendent life; city where, he was sure,
Commerce would yield him a rich sinecure.
And so, amidst the splendid luxuries,
He settled down and settled in, secure
In the thought that for ten years he would be
A man of wealth—fine mansion, livery,
A life of ease, servants galore to wait
Upon him and to please his every whim.
Thus did he live, and, adding to his fame,
He assumed Roderigo as his name.
Florentines one and all considered him
With awe, and stood astounded as he led
A life of revelry. Table and bed
Witnessed the lavish multitudes around him—
The ones he bedded and the ones he fed—
Who came from everywhere, and ever found him
Eager to share his sumptuous wealth with them.
Some chose to use the well-worn stratagem
Of fulsome praise, paying vast sums to those
Who sang his virtues in their verse or prose—
Seconded by Apollo’s art, the master.
No other god was more expert, or faster
In his design: to wit, to flatter. Nor
Had devil ever been with honor more
Bedecked, nor more respected. As for love,
Before long all the arrows shot thereof
From Cupid’s bow aimed for his heart: no fair
Or beauteous dame or damosel was there
But, yearning, used the charms that she possessed
To make herself more loved than all the rest,
However timid she: for, even were
There one rebellious lass who might demur
A bit, the gifts that heaped his arms would soon
Suffice to make her gladly change her tune.
Yes, ever silver, gold, and precious gem
Have bought for men the very best of them!
And who will not admit that well-filled purse
Is the prime mover of the universe!
Meanwhile, our special demon legatee’s
Reflections on the marriages he sees
Round and about, are jotted down with care
In diaries. But much difference is there
Amongst them: some, whose spouses lived contented,
Were almost bare, and he, ashamed, lamented
Their lack of solid fact; while others were
Teeming enough for any connoisseur.
With such extremes as these, our Belphegor
Deems it is fit that he tarry no more,
And that, to form a judgment consequential
And well informed, it is, indeed, essential
For him himself to marry… Now, there dwells
In Florence one of those fair-featured belles,
Well graced with shapeliness, noble no less,
Prideful, and even haughty to excess;
Not without reason; for her virtue was
Her lofty pride’s most true and worthy cause.
But with it all, no fortune—or, that is,
Next to none. Roderigo proffers his
Proposal, plies his suit, offers to wed
Signora Honesta, whose father said
That many a beau had sought his daughter’s hand,
But that, of all the erstwhile wooing band,
He thought he might, indeed, prefer him; but
That he would need time to decide. “Tut tut,”
Says Roderigo, “time we have aplenty.”
Wherewith, many a serenader sent he
Cooing beneath her window; many a ball,
And fete, and gift, and fancy folderol
Did he bestow; many a sumptuous dinner,
Playing the grand seigneur, to woo and win her.
Great the expense; but no complaint! And she,
At length, did him the honor of a “si”;
She would be his signora. But, before,
There was the contract, and the notary,
And all such-like details that Belphegor
Found odd indeed! “What? One buys, here below,
A wife the same way one buys a chateau?
Strange folk!” And he was right. Legalities—
Contracts, and suits, and cases—all of these
Have replaced simple faith, and in its stead
Let troubles through the door, unlimited.
The heart, not laws, makes marriage trouble-free.
Friends pardon friends their folly willingly;
Lovers find nothing wrong with one another;
But spouses, wed, cannot abide each other!
Duty annoys. Such is our nature. “Thus,
Is there no happy marriage?” one asks us.
Only one, if each spouse—staunch, resolute—
Suffers the other’s faults in silence, mute.
Enough philosophy! Now let me tell
What happened when the devil brought his belle
Home to his side and, by experience,
Learned for himself the doleful consequence
Of taking for a wife a demoness!
Arguments, fights, many a reasonless
Angry harangue she spouted! More than once
She woke the neighbors, who, more than once came
To find the causes. And she would proclaim:
“A paltry merchant! Bah! A silly dunce
Is what he should have married! Not a pure,
Virtuous, noble woman! One like me!
Too virtuous! Why, better it would be
Were I even to…” Now, who can assure
She never did? Indeed, prudes such as she
Gull and deceive us shamelessly… Our spouses
Were ever at each other, and their house’s
Peace was disturbed at every turn—so goes
The tale—by war of every sort: the clothes
She wore, the furnishings for every season—
Spring, summer—or the money that Signor
Gambled away… Well, for whatever reason,
Life with her was a hell, and Belphegor,
Poor devil, burned for his real hell, and its
Eternal flames’ infernal benefits.
To make things worse, our said demon-turned-man
Finds he has wed the whole Honesta clan;
Bearing the costs, now of one, now another—
Mother, then father; now buying a mate
For older sister, and, for younger brother,
A tutor… Have I mentioned that the state
Of his finances, ever lessening,
Was aggravated by one grievous thing—
Creature, that is? To wit, his chamberlain.
Chamberlain? What is that? The very bane
Of one’s existence; one who profits most
From any trouble that befalls his host,
Stirring the murky waters more and more,
And making them yet murkier than before.
This animal is such that, as his master
Watches his wealth decrease, his own will faster
And faster grow! And what estate Signor
Still calls his own—alas, a meager lot!—
Well might be purchased with his own ill-got
Richesse! (Whence, should the master, thus diminished,
Become, in turn, the chamberlain, he would
Likewise increase in wealth and worthihood
Until, when once the turnabout were finished,
And the scales had been thus redressed, each one
Could once again be as he had begun.)
Our hero’s only hope to fill his purse
Was now a certain traffic, one not very
Sure to improve his state pecuniary,
And which, in truth, sent him from bad to worse.
His agents, like most of the ones we know,
Deceived him; soon he lost a ship, and he
Saw his whole trade betrayed from sea to sea.
And thus he borrows. But, much to his woe,
His creditors, unpaid, force him to flee
Their hounding and their villainy. And so
Off to the country will he go, among
Good farmer folk, one of whom—Matteo
By name—offers him safety in the dung.
Mincing no words, our demon now consents
To tell him who he is, and what; laments
His double ill—his creditors and, worse
Still, his Signora, his vile, wifely curse.
One remedy alone he saw: that is,
To enter bodies now other than his,
Take refuge there, long as he could. Thus none
Would find him, and Signora would not be
Able to prattle, rattle endlessly
About her virtue! (Oh, how she had done
To death that subject!) And he said that he
Would leave the body were it Matteo’s
Command he do so, as a recompense
For his most kind protection; but that those
Leavings would be but three. And, to commence,
He chose an only child—a maid—wherein,
With broil and blare he lodged beneath the skin.
(What happened to his wondrous body, I
Have no idea: history makes no mention.)
Matteo earned a gross sum, by and by,
To lend the lass bedeviled his attention
And cleanse the flesh where Roderigo hid.
(In Naples, I recall…) And so he did.
Whence on to Rome, to occupy another
Body—another wench. As with the other,
Matteo earned a handsome sum to rout him
From her. And yet a third. (One thing about him:
All females, they! Doubtless you noticed!) Now,
The king of Naples has a daughter fair,
The honor of her sex, and, lodging there
(In her, that is), our Belphegor will vow
Never to leave, so safe now from his wife.
The city and the countryside are rife
With talk about a peasant conjuror
Of wondrous skill. They promise him a sum—
A hundred thousand crowns—if he will come
And cleanse her. But full three times Belphegor
Has done his bidding, as had been agreed.
Though covetous, he must decline, and answers:
“Poor sinner, I possess no necromancer’s
Conjuring craft, and know not how, indeed,
Heaven has let me, with no skill, succeed
In chasing from a body—two? or three?—
Some feeble devil, powerless as me.”
Resist he will; still they insist. With threat
To hang him high, till dead, if he should yet
Refuse to use his power by day’s end, thus
Cleansing the maiden of the scurrilous
Devil within her. Forced to do his best,
Feigning an art he never once possessed,
Now he prepares, as thither everyone,
From everywhere—each blessèd mother’s son
(And daughter too!)—comes running breathlessly,
Joining the Prince to watch as, in the list,
The demon faces the sham exorcist;
The latter all a-wince as, trembling, he
Gazes, on one side at the handsome fee—
The hundred thousand crowns—and at the noose
Hung from the gibbet on the other: “Ayyy!…”
The demon sneers and snickers at the ruse
His mischief has produced. With tearful sigh
Matteo pleads, entreats, weeps… But no use.
The more he begs him, wails, cajoles, implores,
The more his tears but stiffen Belphegor’s
Leering, laughing resolve. At length, done in,
Worn out, he must admit that he has been
Unfit and powerless, against the devil’s
Hellish design. And, as the latter revels
To see him seized and to the gallows taken,
Matteo, in a sweat, undone and shaken.
About to spout a long harangue, his lot
Inspires in him a plan. “Ah! Would you not,
For me,” he whispers, “kindly roll the drums?”
They do. At which, the loathsome demon questions:
<
br /> “What is that?” Whence, following the suggestions
Proffered by dire necessity, “Here comes,”
Says he, “Signor’s Signora, looking for
The spouse that heaven gave her!” Belphegor
Decamps posthaste for hell’s deepest recesses;
Tells Satan of the many foul duresses
Encountered on his journey. “Marriage, sire,
Condemns those who contract it to the fire
As much as any state. Your power, grand
And great, subdues all of the marrying band,
Falling like rain in droplets, infinite—
Not as large snowflakes! Proof have I. To wit,
My own life did I use to study it,
Taking myself a wife. Not that the very
Practice is evil, mind you. In the past,
When we began, it was a salutary,
Prosperous state. But nothing good can last;
And, since corruption is the rule, there glistens
In your crown no gem finer!” Satan listens,
Believes him. And he reaps his due reward,
Although he has returned in an untoward
Manner, and premature. But then, what could
He do? It was perfectly understood
That, with a demon ready to confound him—
A harridan forever hanging round him,
Ever and always in the same sour key
Plying her tunes—better it was that he
Slip away unexpectedly. In hell
One changes key, at times, mercifully.
Poor Mankind’s punishment is far more fell,
I fear. And I would like to see, instead,
How long even a most complaisant saint
Could such a trial endure without complaint.
Even the patient Job would lose his head
Under her dread attacks! That being said,
What do you think I would infer therefrom?
First, that there is no woe more wearisome
Than changing one’s home to a prison cell.
Second, that if your stars and planets spell
The pleasures of a marriage in your life,
Take not a Dame Honesta for a wife:
No honest one is there this side of hell.
XII, 27
THE DAUGHTERS OF MINEAS
I sing here of Mineas’ daughters three,1
Minions devoted, from their infancy,
To Pallas and her arts,2 and against whom
A jealous Bacchus3 would long fret and fume,
Rightfully fearful lest he be outdone.
For every deity would be the one
To earn Man’s gratitude. When fallow field
Rewards the master’s industry, to yield
Rich bounty, surely it must be because,
With sacred pomp, he honors Ceres’4 laws.
Now, Greece, it happened, was in celebration,
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 35