Fables of La Fontaine Part 30

I yield: perhaps, while she employs, My muse will catch a richer glow; And well if this my labour'd strain Shall be the last and only pain Her spouse[27] shall cause me here below.

[27] _Her spouse_.--Cupid, the spouse of Psyche. The "other work on my hands" mentioned in this Epilogue (the end of the poet's first collection of Fables) was no doubt the writing of his "Psyche,"

which was addressed to his patron the d.u.c.h.ess de Bouillon, and published in 1659, the year following the publication of the first six Books of the Fables. See also Translator's Preface.

BOOK VII.[1]

To Madame De Montespan[2]

The apologue[3] is from the immortal G.o.ds; Or, if the gift of man it is, Its author merits apotheosis.

Whoever magic genius lauds Will do what in him lies To raise this art's inventor to the skies.

It hath the potence of a charm, On dulness lays a conquering arm, Subjects the mind to its control, And works its will upon the soul.

O lady, arm'd with equal power, If e'er within celestial bower, With messmate G.o.ds reclined, My muse ambrosially hath dined, Lend me the favour of a smile On this her playful toil.

If you support, the tooth of time will shun, And let my work the envious years outrun.

If authors would themselves survive, To gain your suffrage they should strive.

On you my verses wait to get their worth; To you my beauties all will owe their birth,-- For beauties you will recognize Invisible to other eyes.

Ah! who can boast a taste so true, Of beauty or of grace, In either thought or face?

For words and looks are equal charms in you.

Upon a theme so sweet, the truth to tell, My muse would gladly dwell: But this employ to others I must yield;-- A greater master claims the field.

For me, fair lady, 'twere enough Your name should be my wall and roof.

Protect henceforth the favour'd book Through which for second life I look.

In your auspicious light, These lines, in envy's spite, Will gain the glorious meed, That all the world shall read.

'Tis not that I deserve such fame;-- I only ask in Fable's name, (You know what credit that should claim;) And, if successfully I sue, A fane will be to Fable due,-- A thing I would not build--except for you.

[1] Here commences the second collection of La Fontaine's Fables, comprising Books VII. to XI. This collection was published in 1678-9, ten years after the publication of the foregoing six Books. See Translator's Preface.

[2] _Madame de Montespan_.--Francoise-Athenas de Rochechouart de Mortemart, Marquise de Montespan, born 1641, died 1707. She became one of the mistresses of the "Grand Monarque," Louis XIV., in 1668.

[3] _The apologue._--Here, as in the opening fable of Books V. and VI., and elsewhere, La Fontaine defines Fable and defends the art of the Fabulist.

I.--THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE.[4]

The sorest ill that Heaven hath Sent on this lower world in wrath,-- The plague (to call it by its name,) One single day of which Would Pluto's ferryman enrich,-- Waged war on beasts, both wild and tame.

They died not all, but all were sick: No hunting now, by force or trick, To save what might so soon expire.

No food excited their desire; Nor wolf nor fox now watch'd to slay The innocent and tender prey.

The turtles fled; So love and therefore joy were dead.

The lion council held, and said: 'My friends, I do believe This awful scourge, for which we grieve, Is for our sins a punishment Most righteously by Heaven sent.

Let us our guiltiest beast resign, A sacrifice to wrath divine.

Perhaps this offering, truly small, May gain the life and health of all.

By history we find it noted That lives have been just so devoted.

Then let us all turn eyes within, And ferret out the hidden sin.

Himself let no one spare nor flatter, But make clean conscience in the matter.

For me, my appet.i.te has play'd the glutton Too much and often upon mutton.

What harm had e'er my victims done?

I answer, truly, None.

Perhaps, sometimes, by hunger press'd, I've eat the shepherd with the rest.

I yield myself, if need there be; And yet I think, in equity, Each should confess his sins with me; For laws of right and justice cry, The guiltiest alone should die.'

'Sire,' said the fox, 'your majesty Is humbler than a king should be, And over-squeamish in the case.

What! eating stupid sheep a crime?

No, never, sire, at any time.

It rather was an act of grace, A mark of honour to their race.

And as to shepherds, one may swear, The fate your majesty describes, Is recompense less full than fair For such usurpers o'er our tribes.'

Thus Renard glibly spoke, And loud applause from flatterers broke.

Of neither tiger, boar, nor bear, Did any keen inquirer dare To ask for crimes of high degree; The fighters, biters, scratchers, all From every mortal sin were free; The very dogs, both great and small, Were saints, as far as dogs could be.

The a.s.s, confessing in his turn, Thus spoke in tones of deep concern:-- 'I happen'd through a mead to pa.s.s; The monks, its owners, were at ma.s.s; Keen hunger, leisure, tender gra.s.s, And add to these the devil too, All tempted me the deed to do.

I browsed the bigness of my tongue; Since truth must out, I own it wrong.'

On this, a hue and cry arose, As if the beasts were all his foes: A wolf, haranguing lawyer-wise, Denounced the a.s.s for sacrifice-- The bald-pate, scabby, ragged lout, By whom the plague had come, no doubt.

His fault was judged a hanging crime.

'What? eat another's gra.s.s? O shame!

The noose of rope and death sublime,'

For that offence, were all too tame!

And soon poor Grizzle felt the same.

Thus human courts acquit the strong, And doom the weak, as therefore wrong.

[4] One of the most original as well as one of the most beautiful of the poet's fables, yet much of the groundwork of its story may be traced in the Fables of Bidpaii and other collections. See also note to Fable XXII., Book I.

II.--THE ILL-MARRIED.

If worth, were not a thing more rare Than beauty in this planet fair, There would be then less need of care About the contracts Hymen closes.

But beauty often is the bait To love that only ends in hate; And many hence repent too late Of wedding thorns from wooing roses.[5]

My tale makes one of these poor fellows, Who sought relief from marriage vows, Send back again his tedious spouse, Contentious, covetous, and jealous, With nothing pleased or satisfied, This restless, comfort-killing bride Some fault in every one descried.

Her good man went to bed too soon, Or lay in bed till almost noon.

Too cold, too hot,--too black, too white,-- Were on her tongue from morn till night.

The servants mad and madder grew; The husband knew not what to do.

'Twas, 'Dear, you never think or care;'

And, 'Dear, that price we cannot bear;'

And, 'Dear, you never stay at home;'

And, 'Dear, I wish you would just come;'

Till, finally, such ceaseless dearing Upon her husband's patience wearing, Back to her sire's he sent his wife, To taste the sweets of country life, To dance at will the country jigs, And feed the turkeys, geese, and pigs.

In course of time, he hoped his bride Might have her temper mollified; Which hope he duly put to test.

His wife recall'd, said he, 'How went with you your rural rest, From vexing cares and fashions free?

Its peace and quiet did you gain,-- Its innocence without a stain?'

'Enough of all,' said she; 'but then To see those idle, worthless men Neglect the flocks, it gave me pain.

I told them, plainly, what I thought, And thus their hatred quickly bought; For which I do not care--not I.'

'Ah, madam,' did her spouse reply, 'If still your temper's so morose, And tongue so virulent, that those Who only see you morn and night Are quite grown weary of the sight, What, then, must be your servants' case, Who needs must see you face to face, Throughout the day?

And what must be the harder lot Of him, I pray, Whose days and nights With you must be by marriage rights?

Return you to your father's cot.