The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine Page 15

  And I alone know where it is.” He tells him…

  King Ape’s cupidity for wealth compels him

  Thither to fly, to see with his own eye…

  Alas, it was a trap, and he got caught!

  Whereat the fox was pleased to share his thought.

  Said he: “How can you govern us when you

  Govern yourself so ill?” Without ado,

  Thereat was ape dethroned, undone, brought down,

  As all agreed that few—yes, precious few—

  Truly deserve, indeed, to wear a crown.

  VI, 6

  THE MULE WHO BOASTED OF HIS FAMILY TREE

  A priest there was who owned a mule. The latter,

  Proud of his pedigree, would natter

  Endlessly on, extempore,

  About his genteel mother-mare, and bray

  Her noble exploits—here, there, everywhere.

  Wherefore said offspring felt that History—

  So ancient was her family tree—

  Owed him a place; felt, with his high-born air,

  That it would be beneath his dignity

  Even to serve a doctor, say… Alas,

  In time our mule grew old, and straightway he was hauled

  Off to the mill, where, straightway, he recalled

  His father, who had been a low-born ass.

  If woe had but one use—to wit,

  To chasten fools (as well it should)—

  Yet could we rightly say of it:

  “Ill is the wind that blows no good.”

  VI, 7

  THE OLD MAN AND THE ASS

  An old man had an ass. Astride it,

  Passing a grassy field, he stops beside it,

  Looses the beast to let it graze.

  Thereat the latter frisks and frolics, brays,

  Pads through the flowers, the shrubs, scratching and pawing,

  Gamboling joyously, hee-hawing…

  Suddenly though—ah woe!—a brigand shows

  His face! Alarmed, the old man goes

  To flee; calls to the jackass: “Come, let’s fly!”

  “Oh? Will he make me carry twice the load?”

  “No,” shouts the master, down the road,

  Well on his way. “Then tell me why.

  What difference can it make to me

  Whose load I bear? So humbug!” he tut-tuts.

  “Go! You run off and let me be.

  Every master is my enemy!

  Plain talk: no ifs, no ands, no buts.”

  VI, 8

  THE STAG WHO SEES HIMSELF IN THE WATER

  A stag, by crystal-running brook—

  Stopping to have himself a look

  At his reflection—gazed, gave thanks

  For antlers full and fair, but took

  Great umbrage at his spindly shanks,

  Whose image, ill rewarding his inspection,

  Shimmered below. “Ah me! What imperfection!

  Such difference, head to toe! My brow can touch

  The topmost branches, but my hooves are much

  The worst that ever were!” As thus

  He wailed his woe in accents dolorous,

  A hound came bounding. Stag, in fright,

  Trying to flee into the wood

  As best he could,

  Turned to take flight.

  And though his hooves performed quite as they should,

  His antlers, tangling in each bough and limb,

  Would prove to be the death of him.

  Damning his yearly growth, the beast, resigned,

  Suffered a rather sudden change of mind.

  Like stag, who cursed his hooves though quick to bless

  The antlers that, at length, were his undoing,

  We mortals prize the beautiful, eschewing

  What serves us better, and what harms us less.

  VI, 9

  THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE

  To win the race you needn’t run; just start on time.

  Witness the subjects of my rhyme

  Herewith: the tortoise and the hare.

  “I’ll bet,” proposed the former to the latter,

  “That I can beat you, going from here to there.”

  Thinking her daft, the hare looked squarely at her.

  “My dear,” he asked, “are you quite sane?

  Perhaps an enema would clear your brain…

  Four grains of hellebore should do it.”

  “Sane or insane,” said she, “come, let’s go to it!”

  So be it. And the bets are placed. How much

  The stakes? Indeed, no matter, nor

  Who is the judge they choose to race before…

  Hare would have found four hops sufficient: such

  As those he makes when, in the nick

  Of time—chased, almost caught, bounding away—

  He leaves the hound to stalk his bailiwick,

  Promising to come play “some other day!”

  Now, as I say, the cunning hare

  Knows he has time enough to spare:

  “Why bother to start running yet?

  I’ll wait a bit… Browse… Maybe get

  My forty winks… See how the wind is blowing…”

  As for the tortoise, she gets going,

  Creeps graybeard-like, makes her slow haste…

  The hare, meanwhile—with much distaste

  And scorn for such an easy victory—

  Feels that his honor quite demands that he

  Wait longer to begin. He browses, rests,

  Passes the time with other interests

  More pleasing than their wager… Finally,

  He spies the tortoise… Look! She’s almost at

  The point proposed!… Off like a dart he flies…

  Bounds… Leaps… But no! In vain: she beats him flat!

  “Well, well! Indeed! Me? Win?” she cries.

  “What good did your speed do for you?

  So, was I right or wrong?

  Then too, I have to ask what you would do

  If you were forced to drag your house along!”

  VI, 10

  THE ASS AND HIS MASTERS

  The gardener’s ass complained to Fate that he

  Was made to rise before the dawn each day.

  “Let the cocks fuss,” he grumbled bitterly,

  “That they must crow at sun’s first ray.

  Me? I rise earlier still than they!

  And why? To lug my load of hay and straw

  Off to the blessèd marketplace.

  What? Interrupt my sleep for that? Hee-haw

  And pshaw! It’s a disgrace!”

  Fate, moved by his lament, changes the ass’s

  Master: the brazen pack-beast passes

  Into a tanner’s1 hands… But soon the fetid

  Stench and the heavy hides he has to haul

  Appall, repel him. “All in all,

  I should have kept the first,” he fretted.

  “Each time he turned his head I sneaked a bite—

  Cabbage, whatever… Now? Alas, not quite!

  From this one I get nothing, only blows!”

  Fate listened: once again, touched by his woes,

  She made the change… Now, long into the night,

  He labors for a coalman, never ceasing;

  Complains again… Poor Fate, complaining too,

  Cries: “Really, now!” her wrath increasing.

  “This jackass gives me more to do

  Than any hundred kings! The world’s a-crawl

  With malcontents. Does he suppose withal

  That I have none but him to cater to?”

  Fate knew whereof she spoke. We, one and all,

  Loathe our condition; curse, decry it;

  Pray to the heavens to rectify it.

  Jove and his gods relent? Still we indict ’em;

  Hound him with our lament, ad infinitum.2

  VI, 11

  THE SUN AND THE FROGS

  When, long ago, a t
yrant wed,

  His subjects drowned their woe in joyous wine.

  Aesop alone thought it was asinine

  To make such show of jollity, and said:

  “The Sun once took it in his head

  To take himself a bride.

  But suddenly, from swamps and fens,

  Arose the voices of their denizens,

  Who, all together, cried:

  ‘O Destiny! What horrors will betide

  If he has sons? One Sun we can withstand,

  But half-a-dozen will dry up the land:

  No waters but the Styx to dwell beside!

  Reeds, rushes, marsh, adieu!

  To put it quite precisely,

  Our race is dead—done, finished, through!’”

  For frogs, I think they reasoned rather nicely.

  VI, 12

  THE PEASANT AND THE SNAKE

  Aesop it was who told about

  A none-too-clever village lout—

  But kind of heart—who, as he strolled

  Without his habitat, one bitter cold

  And wintry day, discovered, lo!

  There, lying all but lifeless on the snow,

  Chilled through and through, frozen quite stiff, a snake.

  The rustic, touched, made up his mind to take

  The poor beast home, with no suspicion

  Just how his altruistic disposition

  Would be repaid. He laid him down close by him,

  Next to the fire, to warm, revivify him…

  No sooner has the beast come thawing back

  To life than there he is, poised to attack:

  Head raised a bit… a-coil… a-hiss…

  Ready to strike the savior who

  With care paternal succored him. “What’s this?”

  The latter cries. “What kind of wretch are you?

  Is that your gratitude? Well then, you’re dead!”

  So saying, he takes his trusty axe

  And, filled with righteous wrath, with two sharp hacks

  Makes three snakes out of one: tail, middle, head.

  The trio wants to form anew1… It tries…

  In vain: it quivers, twitches… promptly dies.

  Charity is a virtue, but toward whom?

  Best choose the ones you show it to!

  As for ungrateful cads, none are there who,

  Sooner or later, fail to meet their doom.

  VI, 13

  THE SICK LION AND THE FOX

  The king of beasts, who, in his lair

  Lay ill, had it sent forth forthwith,

  To all his vassals everywhere,

  Of every stripe, that they prepare

  To send some of their kin and kith—

  Ambassador, ambassadress—

  To visit him in his distress,

  Promising—lion’s honor!—that

  No harm would come to them thereat

  Or to their retinue, and plighting

  Therefor to put his word in writing:

  Passport against his tooth and claw.

  His Majesty’s word being the law,

  The edict goes abroad, inviting

  Delegates from each race… They come:

  All but the foxes, who for some

  Good reason spurn the invitation.

  “After all due deliberation,”

  One of them says, “we dare not do it.

  Many have gone to visit: many’s the track

  Before our monarch’s lair. But, as we view it,

  All of them lead directly to it;

  None, on the other hand, leads back.

  We thank him for his passport—good, no doubt—

  But pray we be excused. As for his den,

  It’s clear how one goes in, but then

  Not clear at all how one comes out.”

  VI, 14

  THE BIRD-CATCHER, THE HAWK, AND THE LARK

  We use another’s evil to condone

  No less an evil of our own.

  This is the moral law: to do

  To others as you would have done to you.

  Out trapping birds, a country boor

  Attracts a lark, drawn to his mirror-lure.

  Soaring above the field, a hawk swoops, caws,

  Pounces… The lark, still singing, at the edge of doom,

  Avoids the trap but not, alas, the tomb:

  The hawk sinks vicious taloned claws

  Into his unsuspecting victim.

  No sooner has he plucked him, picked him

  Featherless, than, in turn, he feels the net

  Closing about him. “Free me! Let

  Me go!” he clamors in his tongue. “I’ve done

  No harm to you, now or before!”

  “That’s true,” the peasant answers. “None…

  Tell me, that lark… Did he do you much more?”

  VI, 15

  THE HORSE AND THE ASS

  In this world one must help one’s brothers.

  Your neighbor dies? Alas, his load

  Falls on your shoulders, not another’s.

  A selfish horse was trotting down the road,

  With, by his side, an ass, a-clitter-clatter.

  The former beast bore nothing on his back

  Save a light harness; whereas, for the latter—

  Dragging his cart, trudging beneath his pack—

  It was a very different matter…

  “Please, can you help?” the ass politely pled.

  “Ever so little, friend, I pray?

  If not, before we reach the town, I’m dead!

  For you, why, half my load would be mere play!”

  Snob steed farts his reply… The ass, denied,

  Indeed, as he predicted, died.

  “Ah me, how wrong I was,” then sighed the horse.

  For now our ass’s load, perforce,

  Was his: cart, pack, and even—truth to tell—

  The ass’s skin and bones as well.

  VI, 16

  THE DOG WHO DROPS HIS PREY FOR ITS REFLECTION

  To err is human. Here below,

  Many the folk—or fools—who go

  Chasing a shadow; more, indeed,

  Than one can count. Best let them read

  The tale about a dog that Aesop tells,

  Who, by a stream, prey clutched between his teeth,

  Eyes its reflection in the waves beneath,

  Lunges, falls in. The water swirls and swells.

  Near drowned, he struggles back to shore. But oh, the cost:

  Shadow and substance both, alas, are lost.

  VI, 17

  THE WAGONER STUCK IN THE MUD

  Carting a load of hay, a peasant

  Found that his wagon’s wheels were stuck

  Fast in the mud, mired in the muck.

  To make the mishap all the more unpleasant,

  Monsieur our noble charioteer

  Was far from human help; he was, in fact,

  Off in some godforsaken tract

  Of Breton wilderness, with nothing near

  But that vile hole, harsh to the ear,

  Called Quimpercorentin:1 harsh to the soul

  As well. For there, it seems, Fate leads when she

  Would strew our path with wrath and obloquy,

  As we, a-gallop or a-stroll,

  Travel about. God spare us!… Now, as for

  The wagoner, bemired, bemucked,

  There he stood, ranting: “O ill-starred, ill-lucked!”—

  Cursing cart, horses, rut… And, what was more,

  Cursing himself as well! At length he turned

  For succor to that god whose labors earned

  His reputation: mighty Hercules.

  “Great god, I beg you hear my prayer,

  My supplication! If your back could bear

  Our earthly sphere with utter ease,2

  Your arm should pull me free!” Next moment, there,

  Above his head, out of the clouds, he hears

  A voice: “Hercules
helps who perseveres.

  Look at the causes of your trouble…

  See? Scrape that mud about the double

  Axle betwixt the wheels, sunk deep… That rut?

  Fill it!… That stone? The one holding you back?

  Take up your pick and, with a thwack,

  Smash it!…” Our friend replies: “It’s done. Now what?”

  “Now,” says the voice, “I’ll help you. Take your prod…”

  “I’ve got it… Ah! Look there! Good, gracious god!

  My cart… It moves!” The voice: “True, now your horses

  Need naught to free them but their own resources.”

  The moral? Easy to perceive it:

  Heaven helps those who help themselves. Believe it.3

  VI, 18

  THE CHARLATAN

  This world, I warrant, never lacks

  For charlatans! Call them “imposters,” “quacks,”

  No matter. Fertile race, they ply their pranks,

  Masters at their deceit. Some, mountebanks,

  Well practiced at those theatre tricks

  That—they would have us think—defy the Styx!1

  Some, feigning Ciceronian eloquence,

  Would fain surpass the Master! Sheer pretense,

  Of course; as was the case with one of those

  Whom I call “eloquencers.”2 “I propose,”

  Said he, “to give the gift of glorious speech

  To some dull lout, some bumptious, crass,

  Dumb brute! In fact, messieurs, bring me an ass!

  A stupid ass! Not only will I teach

  The beast to talk, I’ll even have him pass

  His doctorate!”3 His boastings reach the prince’s

  Ears; and the latter sends for him, evinces

  Interest in his art. “I have,” says he

  “An ass of finest pedigree,4

  And wish to make an orator of him.”

  “Whatever suits Your Highness’ whim,”

  Replies our gent. The prince pays him his sum.

  “If, in ten years, your royal ass, still dumb,

  Speaks not a word, then I agree to stick

  A pair of ass ears on my head, and come,

  Garroted, with my book of rhetoric

  Strapped on my back, to die, hanged, on the square!”

  So spoke our quack. One of the courtiers quips:

  “Much would I like to see him there;

  Him and his artful, gracious air,

  Pathetic pleadings spouting from his lips!