Fables of La Fontaine Part 29

The Phaeton who drove a load of hay Once found his cart bemired.

Poor man! the spot was far away From human help--retired, In some rude country place, In Brittany, as near as I can trace, Near Quimper Corentan,-- A town that poet never sang,-- Which Fate, they say, puts in the traveller's path, When she would rouse the man to special wrath.

May Heaven preserve us from that route!

But to our carter, hale and stout:-- Fast stuck his cart; he swore his worst, And, fill'd with rage extreme, The mud-holes now he cursed, And now he cursed his team, And now his cart and load,-- Anon, the like upon himself bestow'd.

Upon the G.o.d he call'd at length, Most famous through the world for strength.

'O, help me, Hercules!' cried he; 'For if thy back of yore This burly planet bore, Thy arm can set me free.'

This prayer gone up, from out a cloud there broke A voice which thus in G.o.dlike accents spoke:-- 'The suppliant must himself bestir, Ere Hercules will aid confer.

Look wisely in the proper quarter, To see what hindrance can be found; Remove the execrable mud and mortar, Which, axle-deep, beset thy wheels around.

Thy sledge and crowbar take, And pry me up that stone, or break; Now fill that rut upon the other side.

Hast done it?' 'Yes,' the man replied.

'Well,' said the voice, 'I'll aid thee now; Take up thy whip.' 'I have ... but, how?

My cart glides on with ease!

I thank thee, Hercules.'

'Thy team,' rejoin'd the voice, 'has light ado; So help thyself, and Heaven will help thee too.'

[22] Avia.n.u.s; also Faerno; also Rabelais, Book IV., ch. 23, Bohn's edition.

XIX.--THE CHARLATAN.[23]

The world has never lack'd its charlatans, More than themselves have lack'd their plans.

One sees them on the stage at tricks Which mock the claims of sullen Styx.

What talents in the streets they post!

One of them used to boast Such mastership of eloquence That he could make the greatest dunce Another Tully Cicero In all the arts that lawyers know.

'Ay, sirs, a dunce, a country clown, The greatest blockhead of your town,-- Nay more, an animal, an a.s.s,-- The stupidest that nibbles gra.s.s,-- Needs only through my course to pa.s.s, And he shall wear the gown With credit, honour, and renown.'

The prince heard of it, call'd the man, thus spake: 'My stable holds a steed Of the Arcadian breed,[24]

Of which an orator I wish to make.'

'Well, sire, you can,'

Replied our man.

At once his majesty Paid the tuition fee.

Ten years must roll, and then the learned a.s.s Should his examination pa.s.s, According to the rules Adopted in the schools; If not, his teacher was to tread the air, With halter'd neck, above the public square,-- His rhetoric bound on his back, And on his head the ears of jack.

A courtier told the rhetorician, With bows and terms polite, He would not miss the sight Of that last pendent exhibition; For that his grace and dignity Would well become such high degree; And, on the point of being hung, He would bethink him of his tongue, And show the glory of his art,-- The power to melt the hardest heart,-- And wage a war with time By periods sublime-- A pattern speech for orators thus leaving, Whose work is vulgarly call'd thieving.

'Ah!' was the charlatan's reply, 'Ere that, the king, the a.s.s, or I, Shall, one or other of us, die.'

And reason good had he; We count on life most foolishly, Though hale and hearty we may be.

In each ten years, death cuts down one in three.

[23] Abstemius.

[24] _Steed of the Arcadian breed_.--An a.s.s, as in Fable XVII, Book VIII.

XX.--DISCORD.

The G.o.ddess Discord, having made, on high, Among the G.o.ds a general grapple, And thence a lawsuit, for an apple, Was turn'd out, bag and baggage, from the sky.

The animal call'd man, with open arms, Received the G.o.ddess of such naughty charms,-- Herself and Whether-or-no, her brother, With Thine-and-mine, her stingy mother.

In this, the lower universe, Our hemisphere she chose to curse: For reasons good she did not please To visit our antipodes-- Folks rude and savage like the beasts, Who, wedding-free from forms and priests, In simple tent or leafy bower, Make little work for such a power.

That she might know exactly where Her direful aid was in demand, Renown flew courier through the land, Reporting each dispute with care; Then she, outrunning Peace, was quickly there; And if she found a spark of ire, Was sure to blow it to a fire.

At length, Renown got out of patience At random hurrying o'er the nations, And, not without good reason, thought A G.o.ddess, like her mistress, ought To have some fix'd and certain home, To which her customers might come; For now they often search'd in vain.

With due location, it was plain She might accomplish vastly more, And more in season than before.

To find, howe'er, the right facilities, Was harder, then, than now it is; For then there were no nunneries.

So, Hymen's inn at last a.s.sign'd, Thence lodged the G.o.ddess to her mind.[25]

[25] La Fontaine, gentle reader, does not mean to say that Discord lodges with all married people, but that the foul fiend is never better satisfied than when she can find such accommodation.--Translator.

XXI.--THE YOUNG WIDOW.[26]

A husband's death brings always sighs; The widow sobs, sheds tears--then dries.

Of Time the sadness borrows wings; And Time returning pleasure brings.

Between the widow of a year And of a day, the difference Is so immense, That very few who see her Would think the laughing dame And weeping one the same.

The one puts on repulsive action, The other shows a strong attraction.

The one gives up to sighs, or true or false; The same sad note is heard, whoever calls.

Her grief is inconsolable, They say. Not so our fable, Or, rather, not so says the truth.

To other worlds a husband went And left his wife in prime of youth.

Above his dying couch she bent, And cried, 'My love, O wait for me!

My soul would gladly go with thee!'

(But yet it did not go.) The fair one's sire, a prudent man, Check'd not the current of her woe.

At last he kindly thus began:-- 'My child, your grief should have its bound.

What boots it him beneath the ground That you should drown your charms?

Live for the living, not the dead.

I don't propose that you be led At once to Hymen's arms; But give me leave, in proper time, To rearrange the broken chime With one who is as good, at least, In all respects, as the deceased.'

'Alas!' she sigh'd, 'the cloister vows Befit me better than a spouse.'

The father left the matter there.

About one month thus mourn'd the fair; Another month, her weeds arranged; Each day some robe or lace she changed, Till mourning dresses served to grace, And took of ornament the place.

The frolic band of loves Came flocking back like doves.

Jokes, laughter, and the dance, The native growth of France, Had finally their turn; And thus, by night and morn, She plunged, to tell the truth, Deep in the fount of youth.

Her sire no longer fear'd The dead so much endear'd; But, as he never spoke, Herself the silence broke:-- 'Where is that youthful spouse,' said she, 'Whom, sir, you lately promised me?'

[26] Abstemius.

EPILOGUE.

Here check we our career: Long books I greatly fear.

I would not quite exhaust my stuff; The flower of subjects is enough.

To me, the time is come, it seems, To draw my breath for other themes.

Love, tyrant of my life, commands That other work be on my hands.

I dare not disobey.

Once more shall Psyche be my lay.

I'm call'd by Damon to portray Her sorrows and her joys.