Sees him, surprised, and, seized with fright,
Tries to flee, but the young man overtakes
And stops her, saying: ‘O my soul’s delight!
O object rare! Why do you flee me?
Look upon me! Do you not see me
Changed by your beauty? No more now the wild
And savage creature I once was. Beguiled
Am I, charmed by your face and feature, whose
Power has worked to free me thus from my
Old way. I pray, dearest, you not refuse
To let me use my wealth to gratify
Your merest wish! It shall be done!’
Iole, ever more unstrung,will run,
Blushing, in silence, to the town; and, there,
Will apprize everyone of the affair
Miraculous. Whereupon, one by one,
They eagerly surround her. Soon Zoon
Arrives, triumphant. He draws near
As the whole company, with gladsome cheer,
Will bid him welcome… Sisters mine, I need
Not tell you in detail, how he
Lavishly feted the fair Iole.
Suffice to say their marriage was decreed
And forthwith celebrated. But the same
Day of the wedding, an intruder came—
A neighboring satrap—who swoops down,
Most unsuspected, on the town,
Seizes the bride to bear her off. But not
Successfully, for Zoon gives him chase,
Catches him and, in combat face to face,
Makes him yield up his gain ill got.
And, though the satrap is defeated,
Nonetheless is he by his rival treated
Most generously. That generosity,
However, serves him not; for, pining, he
Broods on the destiny that Fate has meted
Out: on that marriage that must seal his death.
The grave, that destination grim,
Refuge of the most woeful, welcomes him.
But just before he draws his final breath,
He names Iole as his heir. With moan
And groan she bathes his tomb with tears. What good
Does such lamenting once the soul has flown?
None! And the satrap should have understood
That love is oftentimes best left alone.”
Scarcely had the young Iris told her story
Than her two sisters, with air laudatory,
Admit that, for all that, love is the best
Pathway to glory. “Puffed up is one’s breast
With pride when one is loved, and when one sees
Oneself esteemed, with wordless subtleties
Of lips charmingly eloquent, though mute…”
So said the sisters three, still resolute,
Shunning the day’s festivities… But lo!
Just then a violent storm begins to blow
Gust upon gust… Alas! They shudder, all
A-tremble lest some punishment befall
For their profane resolve… Ah! Suddenly,
Bacchus himself appears. Followed is he
By all the lengthy and chaotic queue
Of such as form his godly retinue.
“Where are those sisters?” he will say. “Egregious
Sinners who ply their labors sacrilegious
On this, my day? Let Pallas, by the bye,
Come raise her aegis, brandish it on high
To save them from my anger! Try she may!
Nothing will spare them from my fury! Nay,
Nay! They shall feel the punishment I wreak
On those who tweak my prowess! Look!… I speak
The utter truth!” There, on the ground, one sees
Three wingèd, hirsute, black monstrosities,
Cowering… Sisters three? One seeks them, but
Finds not a trace. Their looms are smashed, and cut
To shreds their tapestries… There, in their stead,
Rises a shrine to the high-spirited
God by whose grace was nectar born. And she,
Pallas, laments; but ineffectually:
She can do nothing for her protégées.
When one god sees his votaries betray
His boons, his wrath is terrible. Nor might
Another deity put matters right.
This is the way in which Olympus tries
To keep the peace. Best we should do likewise:
Let us not labor on gods’ days, nor falter
To proffer our respect, altar to altar.
Days offered the immortal gods of heaven
Are never lost, nor ever vainly given.
XII, 28
THE ARBITER, THE HOSPITALER, AND THE HERMIT
Three saintly men, each seeking his salvation
With the same spirit and one destination,
Chose various paths to reach it. “All roads lead
To Rome,” one says; and so the rivals three
Set about on their journeys differently.
The first, in matters legal, saw the need
To lighten all laws’ burdensome ennuis:
Long drawn-out cases, obstacles, distress
Of every sort, the infinite duress
Of the tribunal; and he offered freely
To judge them all gratis, with no thought, really,
Of slightest gain. Man, since the Law has been
Part of his life, has paid well for his sin
And his iniquity, indeed, by spending
Half of his life in suits and plaints unending.
(Half? Rather say three quarters, after all!) He
Thought he could cure this urge, this arrant folly,
Arbiter that he was. The second chose
Hospitals for his work, and praised be he!
To care for others and relieve the woes
And ills of Man is surely one of those
Noblest of charities—at least for me.
Back then, the sick were plentiful as we,
And gave our hospitaller more than much
To do. But soon he cared for Such-and-such
And So-and-so more than the rest—whoever
Moaned, groaned their bale, their bane—with never
A moment for the other sick messieurs
Entrusted to his care. Our arbiter
Was even more hard put: each pair
Of litigants found him unfair
And quite unable to deter
The scales of justice from losing their balance.
The arbiter, offended in his talents,
Flies to the hospice to confer thereat
With monsieur hospitaller. Both agree
That all they get for their fine charity
And human kindness is complaint. With that,
They quit their posts, deciding they will go
Fleeing into the woods to weep their woe
Unto the solitude. And so they do.
There, by a spring, by rugged cliffs, from sun
And wind protected, sits the other one—
The third. They ask his counsel. “Dear friends, who
Seek my advice, I promise you will find it
Lodged only in your heart and mind; it
Must come from you, who know your need. Thereto,
His Supreme Majesty decreed that we
Must know ourselves. Such is our task.
Do you? Have you, in Man’s society,
Learned who you are? It does no good to ask,
Surrounded by the world’s vain panoply.
Stir up the water. Can you see
Your own reflection? No! The murky cloud
Passes its muck-bespattered shroud
Over its crystal purity. But let
The water settle, and your silhouette
Appears. O brothers mine, let solitude’s
Peace be your home. For that is where
You see yourself.” So our hermit concludes.
He w
as believed. The worldly pair
Agreed, followed his saintly lead.
Doctors and lawyers scorn I not! We need
Their work: we plead, we suffer, die; and they,
Thank God, abound, earn well their pay,
Their honor. Still, let them not be consumed
By their pursuits. And you, O magistrates,
Ministers, princes, who seem ever doomed
To myriad woes; whom evil dominates
And fortune can corrupt; to you I say:
You see neither yourselves nor others. Why,
One moment, if your thought can thither stray,
Some sycophant ever comes toddling by!
This lesson is my last. May heaven send it
To be of value to the future ages.
I offer this, my book, to kings and sages.
Were there a better way to end it?
XII, 29
Appendixes
THE SUN AND THE FROGS
Imitation of the Latin Fable1
The daughters of the mire and muck were well
Protected by the Sun—king-star.
Nor war, nor poverty, nor fortune fell
Dared to approach their nation. Near and far
It spread its empire in a hundred places.
Queens of the marsh—I mean the frogs, of course,
For what harm can one do, perforce,
Who, in such wise, honors and graces
Lowly things with fine names?… As I was saying…
Intolerable airs displaying,
They dared intrigue and act against
Their benefactor. Favors once dispensed
Were long forgotten. Arrogance and pride
Were all that moved them, and they plied
Their endless plaints importunate by night.
No sleep was possible withal.
Had their neighbors thought them right,
One and all, both great and small,
Would have been convinced to rise
In arms against that great orb of the skies.
To hear them, it was his intent
To suck the swamp, drink it all dry till spent!
No choice now but to mobilize
Their troops and arm themselves, lest he
Should declare his hostility…
Missions of the croaking folk
Go about to all the states.
If one listened how they spoke,
One would think the world awaits
Sure disaster just because
Four dank marshes give one pause.
Still, as for their harsh lament, it
Lasts and lasts. But frogs had best
Give their grumbling tongues a rest.
If the Sun grows discontent, it
Will go badly with their band—
Their whole state aquatic—and
They are certain to repent it.
Appendix, I
THE RATS’ LEAGUE
A mouse there was who feared a cat,1
Who long lay lurking round to spy her.
What could she do? Prudent, wise diplomat,
She goes to Seigneur Rat, who lives close by her,
And who—His Ratship Highness, he—
Dwelling secure and fancy-free,
Has boasted a good hundred times, they say,
That he fears neither claws nor jaws of any
Cats in the world, however many,
Of either sex. “And yet, au fait,
Dame Mouse,” the braggart tells her, “though
I do my best, there is no way
That I would find it apropos,
Alone, to rid you of that catly woe.
But if I gather all the rats about,
I daresay, rather, we can rout him out
And save you from your peril feline.”
Dame Mouse bows humbly low; Rat makes a beeline
Into the pantry—call it what you will—
Where rats aplenty glut their fill
Thanks to the master of the manor. There.
Out of breath, with an anxious air,
Rat stands, panting, before the others. “Why,
What ails you, sire?” asks one. “Reply,
I pray.” “I shall, in brief,” says he.
“Raminagrobis,2 our old enemy,
Is threatening our sister mouse,
And we must save her.
He spreads his terror round the house;
But it is not merely a favor
We do for her. For if that cat, that very
Devilmost of all cats, finds no more mice
To dine on, he will all the more make merry
With rats like us! So quick! Take my advice!
To arms!” Some rattesses, a-chatter,
Shed a few tears, they tell… Oh well, no matter:
The project was too grave to be undone.
And thereupon did everyone,
With pitter-patter, put some cheese inside
His pack, set out with joy and pride,
Ready to risk his all. Sire Cat, however,
Being so much more bold and clever,
Holds the mouse, dangling by her head,
Already!… With an eager, martial tread,
Forward they marched to save her, now or never.
But Cat held fast and, growling quadruped,
Advanced against the foes. The Rat brigade,
Stunned by the noise, prudently weighed
The cons and pros, and, now afraid, retreated,
As each ran to his hole, withdrew,
There to remain, done in, defeated.
And should one dare even a peek-a-boo,
Beware! Old Puss, for sure, will be there too.
Appendix, II
NOTES
For Monseigneur le Dauphin
1. The Dauphin (1661–1711), son of Louis XIV and Marie-Thérèse, was six-and-a-half years old when La Fontaine dedicated to him the first six books of his fables in 1668.
BOOK I
The Frog Who Would Grow as Big as the Ox (I, 3)
1. La Fontaine’s last line has become proverbial. As for the whole of the final quatrain, a number of critics took him to task for unnecessarily appending self-evident morals to many of his fables—a point of view by no means universally shared. Jean-Jacques Rousseau especially—no lover of La Fontaine’s moralizings—citing this fable, observes in a well-known passage from Book Four of his pedagogical treatise Émile (1762): “Si votre élève n’entend la fable qu’à l’aide de l’explication, soyez sûr qu’il ne l’entendra pas même ainsi” (If your pupil needs the explanation to understand the fable, be sure that he will not understand it even so.)(ed. Michel Launay [Paris: Garnier-Flammarion, 1966], p. 323). For the present fable, not to mention all the rest, the reproach is unwarranted on literary grounds if no other. At least one of the several Aesopic originals (Phaedrus, I) begins with a similar explanatory moral: “Inops, potentem dum vult imitari, perit…” (When the poor man wants to ape the powerful, he comes to grief).
The Man and His Image (I, 11)
1. The dedicatee is Monsieur le duc de La Rochefoucauld (1613–80), whose pithy Maximes (1665) exemplify, in generally pessimistic tone, the typical seventeenth-century desire to analyze Man, the social animal.
The Dragon with Many Heads and the Dragon with Many Tails (I,12)
1. The fabled, many-headed Hydra is a terrifying monster—some endow her with three heads, others with seven, some even with nine, and each more horrible than the other.
The Thieves and the Ass (I, 13)
1. The name “maître Aliboron,” used here by La Fontaine to designate the ass, has a lengthy history. Derived from the hellebore (in Latin, elleborum), a powerful medicinal plant known since ancient times, the name came to be commonly used by medieval and Renaissance French writers—Rabelais among them—to indicate a pretentious charlatan. An etymological connection with the name of the Arabian mathematician-philosopher Al-Birouni has also been sugges
ted. (See Jaqueline Picoche, Nouveau Dictionnaire étymologique du français [Paris: Hachette-Tchou, 1971], p. 18.)
Simonides Saved by the Gods (I, 14)
1. François de Malherbe (1555–1628) is remembered much more for his theories and poetic reforms than for any of his generally unemotional verse. It was he who attempted to regularize French versification, preferring cerebral order to visceral inspiration.
2. Simonides was a Greek lyric poet of the sixth century bce.
3. Twins born of Jupiter’s swan-disguised dalliance with Leda, Castor and Pollux were inseparable in the many heroic feats lauded by Simonides, for which they were eventually immortalized as the constellation Gemini.
4. One of the nine Muses of Greek mythology, daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (Memory), Melpomene claimed tragedy as her particular bailiwick.
5. A more specialized divine residence than Mount Olympus, Mount Parnassus was the fabled shrine of Apollo and the Muses. Its heights have long been symbolic of artistic achievement.
Death and the Wretched Man & Death and the Woodsman (I, 15 & 16)
1. Maecenas, whose reflection La Fontaine cites below, and whom he praises in the prose passage following the fable, was an important Roman patron of letters during the reign of Augustus. Henri Regnier, in his exhaustively annotated Oeuvres de J. de la Fontaine (rev. ed., 11 vols. [Paris: Hachette, 1883–92], 1:103–6), indicates that La Fontaine probably knew his lines of verse either as quoted in one of Seneca’s Epistles or as referred to by Montaigne in his Essays (11, 37).
The Cock and the Pearl (I, 20)
1. This fable is an example of La Fontaine’s occasional device of turning the general to the concrete, in updated dress. The Aesopic model (Phaedrus, III, 12), widely reworked throughout the Middle Ages and beyond, makes no specific mention of manuscripts and booksellers. Other examples in the present collection will be self-evident.
The Hornets and the Honeybees (I, 21)
1. Announcing his moral, as he sometimes does, at the beginning rather than the end of his fable, La Fontaine cites a line from Aristophanes’ comedy The Thesmophoriazusae (The Women at Demeter’s Feast), of 411 bce.
2. I have avoided a literal translation, which would be lost in English, of the French lécher l’ours (to lick the bear), a literary allusion borrowed from Rabelais (Pantagruel, Book III, chapter 42) and applied to unnecessarily long and drawn-out proceedings, legal and otherwise.
3. In La Fontaine’s time the arbitrariness, severity, and venality of Turkish justice were a literary commonplace based largely on fact. See Regnier, 1:122.
4. For a later fable that dramatizes this observation, see “The Oyster and the Adversaries” (IX, 9).
The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 38