The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

by Jean La Fontaine

  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