Proof of the perfidy that her suspicion
Lays clear before her. O pain! O perdition!
O bitter passion, you, vain jealousy!
Daughter of mad love, error’s progeny!
Much do your eyes refuse to see; and yet,
What they do show you makes you fuss, and fret,
And suffer without cause! Procris had gone
To hide within a thicket that a fawn
Was using for his lair. Disquieted,
The beast springs out. Whereon our spouse, misled
By the noise, takes his lance—the one that, ever
True to the mark, hits home, whithersoever—
And flings it thither… But the mark it hits
Is not, alas, the beast! A fierce cry splits
The air… Misery me! It is his own
Dear wife!… He runs to see… With many a moan
He realizes, there, before his eyes,
Losing his wits, that, in most murderous wise,
He has cut short her jealous life. Wherefore
Would he cut short his own as well. What’s more,
He tries to do so with the selfsame lance…
Aurora and the Fates look much askance
On such intent, making bold to prevent it.
But, though their intercession was well meant, it
Proved more severe than thoughtful, for he kept
Pounding his breast with woeful mien, and wept
So many a tear that he might have created
Fountains galore, abounding unabated,
Had not the goddess called on Fate to cut
His days’ dire thread: unhappy end to what
Had been a curious marriage!… Sisters mine,
I cannot say enough, ‘Best we resign
Ourselves to life unwed.’ For, if the best
Is such, judge how much worse must be the rest!
And, if we may not love save in the thrall
Of wedlock, better we not love at all!”
They agree. And, befall what may, all three
Gladly accept their loveless destiny.
To rid them of their drear thoughts they return
To task of more immediate concern:
Their tapestries. Clymene’s was near done,
Picturing on a cloth most richly spun
The famous quarrel that had raged betwixt
Two gods, to see whose name would be affixed
To a new city—one that you could see
Dimly, far off, in her embroidery:
Neptune’s? Wise Pallas’s?… Each would bestow
A gift, and that boon would decide, just so,
Whose name should win. Neptune, in warlike wise,
With a blow of his trident, caused to rise
Out of the ground a charger, full of fire,
That all who saw it could not but admire.
Present most splendid! But Minerva found
A finer yet: she gave the country round
The olive tree, symbol of wisdom, whence
She chose the city’s name. In consequence
Thereof, did Athens—now thus called—present
Its homage to her, with magnificent
Tribute galore. To offer it to her,
A hundred virgins wise, and prettier
Each than the last, in bobbin-skills abounding,
Bore the gifts of all kinds, or stood surrounding
The goddess of the gray-green eyes… And she,
With a sweet gaze, smiled on their fealty.
Clymene, now concluding, folds away
Her work, falls still, so that young Iris may
Regale them next. And she commences thus:
“Sisters, I fear not very copious
In tearful subject is my repertory.
Nevertheless, you say you wish a story
And story you shall have. I tell you of
Telamon, him whose soul burned hot with love
For Cloris, who yearned for him quite as much.
Good breeding, beauty, sense, the graces… Such
Were the fine qualities that each possessed;
Everything save that one, that veriest,
Most necessary one that, here below,
Rules above all the rest: to wit, wealth! No,
Naught had they; and, although they would be wed,
For want of gold—that metal garlanded
With mankind’s homage and desire—they dare
Not share the nuptial bed, and must forswear
Fair Hymen.6 For, though love can do without it,
Wedlock cannot! Be there no doubt about it!
Right or wrong, such is Fate’s decree. At one’s
Own peril would one flout it. Telamon’s
Woes did not end thereat, however. For
More would he suffer when the imp of war—
Vile sprite—spread roundabout its foul intent
And fell design. Sought out, stoutly he went
To battle in a land’s defense against
Those who would conquer it. And so commenced
His feats of arms, and ended for a time
The gentler exercise of love sublime.
Cloris consents, but heartsick is she. Yet,
Eager is he to show the mignonnette
That she has reason to esteem him so
And give her heart to him. Off will he go
To battle… Now, it happens that, whilst he
Is gone, a member of her family,
Citizen of that very land, in fact—
The very one that has been so attacked,
And where her beau now wars… Well, as I said,
It happens that he dies, and, lying dead,
Has bequeathed Cloris his possessions: gold,
Treasure immense, a worldly wealth untold.
Whereupon she goes straightway thither. There,
Both sides behold her, find her passing fair.
She, meanwhile, sees the battlefield whereon
Her valorous, victorious Telamon
Has won the day, honoring her with his
Rare deeds; and, seeing her, how quick he is
To hasten to her side, offering her
All the fruits of the glorious vanquisher,
In the name of their love!… Fate would decree
That they would meet beside the open sea—
That element that all good lovers should
Eschew at any cost! Gladly they would,
Without ado, have joined their loves were it
The simple Age of Gold. Alas! Unfit
Were such in this, the Age of Iron. Thus
Cloris demurred. Far more felicitous
Would be a union celebrated with
The bounteous blessings of her kin and kith.
This she preferred; and so return they will,
Unconsummated… Their journey would fill
Many a torturous day if they betook
Themselves by land. Wherefore, instead, they look
Seaward, to spare the rigors of the road
And take them, timely-wise, to their abode
With Zephyr in their wake. When, with great joy,
They near their shore, they hear a fierce ‘Ahoy!’,
And spy a privateer, sheets to the wind,
Whose pirate crew, crass and undisciplined,
Attacks our doughty hero, who, despite
Stalwartly fighting to the end, is quite
Powerless to resist their might. Oh, Ods-
Bodkins! Who could have thought he would—ye gods!—
Become a galley slave? Fate pays no mind
To race and glory, and was ill inclined
To let his hoped-for happiness deflect
Her blows upon his honor and respect.
Cloris’s piteous pleadings too remained
Unheard, and Telemon languished, enchained.
“Now, Destiny, for her, was rather less
Unkind and more restr
ained in her duress.
A famous wealthy merchant bought her, bore
Her off to his domain where, more and more,
Slave though she was, she would enjoy a very
Honored position, most extraordinary.
The merchant’s wife—who, as it happens, views her
With great affection—will not only choose her
To wait on her, but will select the belle
To be the mistress to her son as well.
One and all would most gladly see them wed;
But she, with long-drawn sigh, dispirited,
Would reply to their urgings. Damon—he,
The son—will ply her with sweet gallantry,
Asking her thus: ‘Milady, why oh why
Do tears bedew your cheeks? Why do you cry,
And sob, and sigh unceasing? Hide you some
Unspoken pain? Have your fair eyes become
Surfeited with the ravages their darts
Have wrought on my poor being, and with my heart’s
Undying flame? I pray you not conceal
Your woe. Here are you free: ’Tis I the real
And suffering slave! Is it this place, madame,
That so displeases you? If so, I am
Ready to change my dwelling for a new
And fairer one. I and my parents too—
Father and mother—willingly would seek
Another to your taste. You need but speak
Your will, and your desire will surely be
Fulfilled posthaste… Or do you longingly
Yearn for the riches you have lost? If so,
All we possess is yours. But you must know
That, much though you deserve a fortune rare,
Many another one, I vow, is there
Who would not hesitate to be so wed.
Lo! At your feet, my love, I lie!’ So said
The son. And Cloris fair, in fondest wise,
Eyes streaming tears, most winsomely replies:
‘Good sir, your slightest qualities, and this
Delightful place, would fill with amorous bliss
Even the daughters of the gods. Believe me,
Slave though I am, I pray you not perceive me
To be ungrateful for your generous
Offers of wealth, for so discourteous
I should not be. But I must not give ear
To them, however much I might. Nor is it
Because my presence is no friendly visit
But, indeed, servitude. And though, withal,
Thanks to the gods, I suffer not the thrall
Of ignominious bondage, and am free
To live the values that society
Has bred in me, yet must I tell you—oh!
Can I, alas?—that most malapropos
It were to listen to the court you pay me.
What? Does my mournful sighing not betray me?
Another has my love: and if he be
In chains, or dead, for all eternity,
Even in hell itself I shall be his!
Could you esteem a heart, good sir, that is
Untrue? Could you love her who has no more
The charms and beauty that were hers before;
Who, twice a slave—to you and to her love—
Ill deserves and is most unworthy of
One such as you?’ Damon heard what she said,
And, though most touched and much discomfited,
Thought: ‘Let us chase her from our mind. Let us
Flee from this place. In time her copious
Tears will abate. They always do! Let be
What will be in my absence. We shall see…’
With these words he embarks, leaves shore behind.
Sailing hither and yon, soon will he find
An untamed land and, thereupon puts in.
What does he see? Many a man whose skin
Bears proof of former bondage. Galley slaves
Had they all been, escaping on the waves
To refuge here… Now, of their number, one
None other was than our own Telamon.
Damon gazes upon him, notices
His stately air, his wit. And what he says
Moves him to admiration for the swain’s
Qualities, and to pity for his pains.
Soon are they friends, and Damon will confide
His passion for a slave who ought his bride
Become if she loved not a dead man! ‘Yes,
She would prefer a corpse to me, no less!’
Cloris he then proceeds to paint, whereat
Telamon, stunned, dissembles and stands pat,
Revealing not the truth. Whereupon he,
It is decided, shall accompany
His comrade back to where said beauty saves—
For him!—that perfect love… Like errant knaves
The pair arrive. In vain Telamon tries
To hide behind the unwitting disguise
That time, woe, hardship have imposed. For now
Is he not as he was. And yet, somehow,
Cloris will recognize him, even though
His traveler’s pack bows him and bends him low.
A stranger’s eyes would not have known him; hers,
However, quickly pierce the voyager’s
Unhappy state: she swoons from love and shame;
And Telamon, in turn, does quite the same.
Later, when asked the cause of her distress,
She speaks it frankly; nor does one think less
Of her therefor. So guilelessly she tells
Her tale that one and all pity the belle’s
Misfortunes all the more. Damon proclaims
His passion changed: unselfish now his aims.
And they believe him—even though desire
Yields not to honor but that, quelled the fire,
Yet will it leave its traces… Yes, they do
Believe him; and, to prove his faith, these two
Would he see wed. Nor need they wait. For there
And then, he asks his parents to declare
His rival for Cloris’s hand to be
Their heir—a mark of generosity
Unheard-of in the land. And so, beside
An oak, spreading its shade at eventide,
Young man and maid were married… But, ah woe!
A neighbor child watched as, thereon, a crow
Went perching; and, with cursèd bow, he shot
His arrow at the bird. Alas, the tot
Aimed ill: it flew, rending the air, askew,
Transpiercing lover and belovèd too.
Slain on the spot, our Cloris gasps her last,
As with a piteous yearning she will cast
A glance at Telamon who, harrowed, sees
Approach the crowning stroke of Destiny’s
Decree. What? Gods above, can it be? What?
Is this the way dour Atropos7 will cut
His thread of life? ‘Has Fate not done enough?
Must she deal death with such a rude rebuff?’
So saying, he sighs his final breath. Within
A trice, love—not the blow—has done him in.
His wound was slight, yet did he join the dead,
For he would follow whither Cloris led.
Both hasten to the Styx’s shore: man, wife,
Each at the same time will depart this life.
In one tomb lie together their remains,
And one eternal rest their souls contains.
Later, one wrote—though I cannot aver
The truth thereof—that they to statues were
Transformed, in marble: but doubtful is this
Very unlikely metamorphosis,
And few believe it.” “Ah! More than you know,
Iris,” Clymene answers. “For just so
Did a sage, seeking through our history
Models of love and virtue, tell to me
This tale. Much I admir
ed and pitied these
Evil-starred lovers: both their destinies
Were finally to be joined. After so much
Despair abhorrent, they were now to touch
The moment of the joy that had so long
Evaded them. But nature loves to wrong
And cheat us; such her vile perversities,
I warrant. As our hands reach out to seize
Our prize, behold! It flees our grasp. The very
Gods take delight wreaking their arbitrary
Power upon us, to make sport of our
Fond hopes!” Says Iris: “Fie on woes! The hour
Grows late. The feast soon ends, thank heaven! We three
Have passed the time today most somberly,
Recounting tales that weaker souls would find
Most troubling. Let us now cleanse from our mind
Their deadly images. Best might I use
The time yet left to sing a hero whose
Humankind suffered change, but not in mien
And body: rather, one whose heart had been
Transformed by Love—indeed, a miracle
That will permit me in more lyrical,
Less tragic mode, to tell the tale, and one
That Love performs each day… Now then, Zoon
Was pleasing to the eye. But beauty can
Do little for one’s worth. Here was a man
Of unimpressive wit, of mood
Most sullen, whose glum attitude
Rendered him dull and beautiless withal.
He fled the cities, shunned the company
Of others, lived under a constant pall
Of shadowed gloom: the forest canopy
Was home to him as to the bears. He spent
His fairest days unloving, abstinent,
Indifferent utterly to love! ‘So? We
Disparage love,’ you are about to say.
To which I would reply: ‘Nay, nay!
Though I condemn its evident excesses,
I have no sympathy for those who never
Yield to the lure of its sweet tendernesses.’
What? Ought one choose to banish it forever?
Are the dead—freed so long from its caresses—
Happy to be so? Bah! I doubt it.
Passion is all. How can one live without it?
If nothingness is far the worst of states,
No nothingness I know annihilates
Life quite so much as lovelessness, I vow.
Woe to the cold, unloving heart!… Well now,
Zoon loved nothing, no one, not
Even himself. But one day, as he stood,
Stunned, before sleeping Iole, his lot
Changed in a trice. For Love, who would
Not make of him a lover, nonetheless
Made him a hero in this wilderness.
Grateful, he thanks the god who makes
Him tremble at the awesome sight
Of this young wonder. At length, she awakes,
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 37