Gracing Semele’s son. Of all the nation
Only three sisters saw fit to condemn
This show of holy zeal. Indeed, for them
It was a shameful feast. Alcithoe,
Bobbins in hand—the eldest of the three—
Without the least ado, says: “Fie! Oh, fie!
Why must there be so many new gods?… Why,
Olympus even now can scarce contain
All the old bigwigs lodged in its demesne!
Nor has the year sufficient days therein,
Whereon to fete more gods, day out day in!
I plead no cause against that great god who
Wrought many a labor, to whom thanks are due
For purging mankind of its monsters, curse
And scourge that once had plagued the universe!
But Bacchus? Of what earthly use is he?
Little he does but foment rivalry,
Quarrels, disorder… Weaken the most strong,
Make crones of the most fair, drag Man along
The dankmost, dismal paths to Styx’s shore!
For likes of him we need one feast day more,
Free from our work?… Well, I shall not shirk mine,
My sisters! I propose, this day divine,
That we, to while away the hours, relate
A story, rather than to celebrate
That blackguard! I myself could, for example,
Tell of the monarch of the gods, with ample
Tales of his numerous transformations. But
Methinks you know them all; and, therefore, what
I would suggest is that each of us tell
Some feat of love, and how a demoiselle—
Like one of us—becomes its victim. Ah!
Not all its pleasures, joys—et cetera,
Et cetera!—that spread its poison through
Our hearts! For, quite like Bacchus, it can do
Great damage to our reason! Rather, let us
Recount the woes its evil deeds beget us.”
Alcithoe fell silent, whereupon,
After her sisters’ plaudits, she went on,
Raising her voice a bit: “In Thebes, they say,
Two young and gentle souls, in bygone day,
Loved one another. Piramus was he,
And Thisbe, she, his mistress… Perfectly,
Each for the other fit: the lad, most fair,
And the lass, fair no less… A winsome pair
If ever such there was, pleasing of mien
And manner, with love’s tenderest ties between,
Binding their hearts. But oh! No sooner these
Feelings sprang forth than their two families
Conceived a hatred that, the more it grew,
The stronger still Love’s bonds that bound these two.
Well, chance it was, not choice, that had designed
To place their houses side by side, inclined
To constant discord. Thus propinquity
Favored the passion that each vis-à-vis
The other found a-borning. First, in mere
Innocent pastimes; for, so young and dear
Were they that, even when the spark was lit,
They little guessed what flames would swell from it.
And so they innocently forged their love
The while, that their fell parents knew naught of.
Now, anything forbidden will, for sure,
Charm with its spice those who fall to its lure,
And love especially! Thus did it teach
Our pair, from in their houses, each to each,
To sigh with sign and glance: back, forth they sent them…
But this slight solace could not long content them.
Both would a better secret means discover
Whereby to plight their troth, lover to lover;
To wit, and ancient wall that long had stood
Between their dwellings twain, through which they could—
Thanks to the ravages of time—deplore
Their fate. But words alone, and nothing more,
Are little comfort… Thus did Piramus
Say one day: ‘Heaven above would succor us,
Dear Thisbe. Those in love must clever be
To end their woes. Our parents’ tyranny
Keeps us from meeting… Let us flee this place
And fly to Greece. For there, some of my race
Abide, who shall, I guarantee you, make
You welcome in their midst, as I partake
Graciously of their power and pelf. Such do
I wish only that it might profit you
And give you pleasure. For myself, no matter!
My heart, be still, lest evil tongues may natter
On and on, and impugn your chastity
With their vile chatter… Tell me, what shall be
Your will? What would you have me do? Your merest
Wish will be my command, O Thisbe dearest!
I love you more than life itself, and thus
Will do your bidding.’ ‘Ah, sweet Piramus,’
Thisbe replied, ‘well might I say the same.
And since your love is pure and free of blame,
Though passing passionate it be, lead on,
And I indeed shall follow you anon,
Whither you will. And I shall laugh, and pay
No heed to what the scandalmongers say,
But shall yield to your ardor’s flame, content
That my good name is no mere ornament.’
“Imagine, pray, the pleasure this reply
Wrought in the heart of Piramus, for try
Would I in vain; and, though attempt I might,
You ought paint for yourself the wild delight
His lover’s words brought forth. Said he: ‘At day’s
First glimpse, before Dawn’s chariot casts its rays,
We shall depart. Go to the steps that lie
Beside Ceres’s statue. There, hard by,
Next to the shore, a bark stands ready. In it
Oarsmen await. We must not waste a minute,
But fly we shall while fair the wind, and while
The auguries and omens chance to smile
Upon us. For the gods’ and Destiny’s
Designs will favor us.’ Thisbe agrees
To everything; as proof thereof she would
Bestow two kisses had the wall not stood
Betwixt her and her Piramus. And thus
The wall it was she kissed: fortuitous,
Fortunate wall! You should have better served
These lovers, who better and more deserved
From you than pleasure’s shade… Well, the next day,
An eager Thisbe, yielding to the sway
Of rash impatience, unaccompanied,
Makes her way to the steps, as was agreed.
Nor has her lover yet arrived, as there,
Shadow and light do battle in the air,
Over the azured fields. But as she was
Waiting, a frightful lioness, with jaws
And claws bloodied from recent kill, drew near…
Thisbe takes to her heels… Ah! But her fear
Will have most fell, cruel consequences. For,
As she goes running off, the veil she wore
Blows from her body and, caught by the breeze,
Falls to the ground. The lioness will seize
It, rend it, sully it with gore, whereon
She drops it, lets it lie, turns, and is gone.
Meanwhile has Thisbe hidden in the thick
Underbrush. Thereupon, the passion-sick
Piramus comes, looks down, gapes with chagrin
Upon the remnant of what once had been
A veil… Alas! His Thisbe’s veil!… ‘Is that…
Is it…’ His veins run cold. He stares thereat,
Disconsolate, undone… Looks roundabout…
Ah! The blood-spattered tracks leav
e little doubt!
‘Thisbe! My Thisbe!’ he cries out, dismayed,
Distraught. ‘Now is the everlasting Shade
Your dark abode! What have I wrought? Ah me!
I am the monster who this destiny
Has brought about!… Wait! Slacken, pray, your course!
For I follow behind, and would, perforce,
Join you beside the drear and brackish shore.
But do I dare? How might I stand before
Your face? I, source of this disaster, who
Have naught but this, my blood, to offer you,
And but one death to die!’ So saying, he takes
Dagger in hand, all breath of hope forsakes,
And cuts the thread of life. As he does thus,
Thisbe returns. She sees her Piramus
Fall to the ground… What happened then? She fell
Into a swoon, senseless and mute as well.
But soon, when she once more regains her wits,
Clotho, touched by the love she bore, permits
Piramus, then, to open—dim—his eyes.
With dying glance he looks not on the skies
Above, but on his Thisbe, He would speak,
Tries… But unstrung, alas, his tongue, too weak,
Refuses. Yet his eyes, in place thereof,
Reveal his joy at having seen his love.
As thus he dies, she takes his blade and, there,
Bares her breast, saying: ‘I shall not declare
That you have erred in your design. Ah no!
Nor that your fears were reasonless. For so
To do would say that you loved me too well!
But can one love too much? Ah! Truth to tell,
I love you no whit less, nor jot nor tittle,
And you shall see, my heart deserves as little
As yours the agony it must endure!
Alas! I die! So be it, mon amour,
Accept my sacrifice!’ At this, the blade
Performs its deadly task… Down falls the maid—
But drapes her garments properly lest she,
Exposed, betray her virgin modesty—
Virtuous to the last. The Nymphs about her
Wept for the life that must go on without her,
And, with the blood of the two lovers, they
Becharmed a nearby bush which, till that day,
Grew hoary white, and dyed its berries red,
Tribute to true love’s glory, so ’tis said.”
This story moved Mineas’ daughters greatly.
One of them blamed the lover, said irately
That all the fault was his; the other claimed
Fate was the villain. But each of them blamed
The human heart; on this did they agree:
Passion ought not command us. Rather, we
Should be its masters. It, at times, will die
Before one has a chance to satisfy
Its rash demands; at other times it might
Long languish unfulfilled. But never right
Is it to reap its gentle fruits unless
Marriage has solemnized its tenderness.
Yet wedded life, much though one first enjoys it,
Is also what, in time alas, destroys it.
“Jealousy,” says Clymene, “is the foul
Poison that bides with marriage, cheek by jowl.
Procris provides me all the proof I need.
Alcithoe my sister has, indeed,
Regaled your hearts with tale of tragic love,
Choosing the foremost and most fell thereof
To tell. Now, I would warrant, mine bestirs
The heart no less pathetically than hers,
And it will pass as well the time today.
Already Phoebus courses on his way.5
Best veil ourselves lest, with his piercing powers,
He cast his rays. Best, too, this work of ours—
Our tapestries—be wrought in timely wise.
I would see mine take shape before my eyes
Whilst there is light. Still, I ask that you but
Sit silent for an hour nor try to shut
My mouth uncouth, but rather think how well you
May profit from the tale I have to tell you.
“Good spouses twain—Procris and Cephalus—
Enjoyed a marriage most harmonious.
She—Procris—loved by him, and he, no less
By her. Each said their passion’s tenderness
Might be a model, so great was their measure
Of both love’s piquant joy and gentle pleasure.
(Why, almost did they love as much as do
A mistress and her paramour, these two!)
Heaven itself envied that harmony
Of theirs; and soon a certain deity
Caused Cephalus much grief. Young, handsome lad,
It came to pass that dawn—Aurora—had
Taken a fancy to him! For, among
The gods she found none both so fair and young.
(Her spouse especially!) Now, here below,
Our belles would not go brashly chasing beaux,
But would hide their affection, goodness knows!
Not so, young goddesses! Even less, those
With husbands long of tooth! And so our goddess
Revealed the fire that flamed beneath her bodice,
Apprising Cephalus, who, though he pled
That he was happily, faithfully wed,
Failed to convince her, and she promptly bore him
Shamelessly off, and laid her love before him.
Cephalus, loyal swain, begged her, entreated
That she temper her passion’s fire, too heated;
The which, indeed, she did: her love became
That simple sentiment that bears the name
Of ‘friendship.’ ‘Go,’ she told him, ‘to your wife.
I shall not spread a pall upon your life
And hers, nor quell the ardor that you feel.
Let me but give this token of my zeal,
This gift…’ (It was a lance that never missed
Its mark.) ‘Much though Procris claim to exist
For you alone, forsooth, the day will come
When you will suffer your soul’s martyrdom,
And will, in truth, despair, distraught that you
Have loved the wench as much as now you do.’
Needless to say, an oracle’s prediction
Is never clear, and may be a mere fiction
Rather than fact. But this one caused deep doubt
In Cephalus’s soul, nor cast it out
Could he. ‘What? I shall be distraught? Despair
That I have loved so much? What foul affair
Is this? Can there be something much amiss
Betwixt my love and me? Is my Procris
Unfaithful? Can it be? Ah! Sooner would
I die than doubt her loyal wifelihood!
Nevertheless, I fancy it is best
To put her duty squarely to the test
And see what may betide.’ To soothsayers, thus,
He goes, asks their advice illustrious…
Whence, feigning by his dress and air to be
A yearning youth, seeks Procris, eagerly
Plying her with most flattering phrases, sighing
Sighs for her face divine, sobbing and crying
Tears from his eyes, cajoling, begging… But
Hard though he tries, it makes no difference what
He does or says: she spurns the lover’s skill;
Whereat he must essay the means that will
Succeed (as ever!): precious gifts bestowed,
Or at least promised… Ill did it forbode,
For, so much will he straightway offer her
That soon she seems less eager to demur…
Alas! Everything has its price. At last,
Cephalus, sore distressed, downcast—aghast,
In fact—
decides to take his leave; forsakes
The pleasure of the city, and betakes
Himself off to the woods, baring his breast
To tree and wind, sure that the hunt will wrest
Him from his jealous agony. It was
The season when the day’s hot gusts will cause
All those who breathe to languish for the balm
Of Zephyr’s cooling breezes, wafting calm.
‘Come, come, O tender winds,’ softly he cries.
‘Come, lightsome wind-sprites, render me your sighs,
You by whose breath our fields put forth their flowers.
Adored wind-goddess Aure, pray use your powers
To summon them; you, by whose gentle word
All is restored to life!’ His voice is heard.
But those who hear suppose the object is
Some creature other than that wife of his!
Zealous, they tell her so, whence promptly she
Grows jealous of her rival. Charity
Dictates that many a friend, intent to flout it,
Touched by her woe, prates on and on about it.
‘So! I must see him only in my dreams,’
She moans. ‘Now he forsakes me, so it seems,
For some perfidious wench by name of Aure!…’
‘Oh, how we pity you,’ they sighed. ‘But more
And more he loves, calls her. Always her name
Springs to his lips, rings out… Always the same,
The echoes’ task: to sing throughout the wood
Aure’s name… Aure’s name… But only for your good,
Dear friend, do we inform you, and suggest
You take to heart what we have told you. Best
You think on it.’ The which, indeed, she did.
And endlessly… For lovers cannot rid
Their heads of jealous thoughts. If only they
Had enough reason to keep but a ray
Of sense and judgment to illuminate
Their way! (“Judgment”? In love? One could await
A miracle for such!) They might remain
Untouched by tongues’ reports, or even feign
That they were deaf!… Our spouse did neither!… Well,
One day, as blushing dawn laid her deep spell
Of sleep on one and all—all but a rare
Hunter or two, that is—our Procris fair
Will rise and set off for the wood to see
If Cephalus is there. Next moment, she
Spies him, hears him already crying out
To that Aure, her, the one they spoke about:
‘Come, dearest goddess! Come,’ he cries. ‘I waste
Away, I languish, die… Pray you make haste
And ease the woe that must my very life
Forthwith lay low!’ Hearing these words, his wife
Seeks not the sense that truly lies behind them,
But, heartsore, gives ear, and will sooner find them
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 36