Chapter 4

[1]Louis, Dauphin of France, son of Louis XIV., and of Marie Theresa of Austria, was born at Fontainebleau on the 1st of November, 1661, and died at Meudon on the 14th of April, 1671.

[2]Socrates.

[3]The Dauphin was six years and five months old when La Fontaine published the collection of fables to which this Dedication is prefixed. It was completed on the 3rd of March, 1668.

[4]Monseigneur the Dauphin had two tutors: the first being M. the President de Perigni, and the second M. Bossuet, the Bishop of Meaux. La Fontaine, in the above passage, alludes to M. de Perigni.

[5]This refers to the Triple Alliance formed between England, Spain, and Holland, for the purpose of checking the conquests of the French monarch.

[6]Flanders, in which the French king made a campaign in 1667, when he took Douai, Tournoi, Oudenarde, Ath, Alost, and Lille.

[7]Franche-Comté, which he subdued in 1668.

The indulgence with which some of my fables have been received[1]has induced me to hope that this present collection may meet with the same favour. At the same time I must admit that one of the masters of our eloquence[2]has disapproved of the plan of rendering these fables in verse, since he believes that their chief ornament consists in having none; and that, moreover, the restraints of poetry, added to the severity of our language, would frequently embarrass me, and deprive most of these narratives of that brevity which may be styled the very soul of the art of story-telling, since without it a tale necessarily becomes tame and languid. This opinion could only have been expressed by a man of exquisite taste, and I will merely ask of him that he will in some degree relax it, and will admit that the Lacedemonian graces are not so entirely opposed to the French language, that it is impossible to make them accord.

After all, I have but followed the example, I will not say of the ancients, which would not affect me in this case, but that of the moderns. In every age, amongst every poetical people, Parnassus hasdeemed this species of composition its own. Æsop's fables had scarcely seen the light, when Socrates[3]thought proper to dress them in the livery of the Muses; and what Plato says on this subject is so pleasant, that I cannot refrain from making it one of the ornaments of this Preface. He says, then, that Socrates having been condemned to death, his punishment was respited on account of the occurrence of certain fêtes. Cébès went to see him on the day of his death, and Socrates then told him that the gods had several times warned him by dreams that he should devote himself to music before he died. He did not at first understand the signification of these dreams; for, as music does not improve a man's moral nature, of what use could it be to him?[4]It was evident, however, that there was some mystery involved, for the gods never ceased to give him the same warning, and it had come to him again on the occasion of one of the fêtes to which I have above alluded. At length, after having deeply reflected on what it might be that Heaven intended him to do, he concluded that as music and poetry are so closely allied, it probably meant him to turn his attention to the latter. There can be no good poetry without harmony; but to good poetry fiction is also equally necessary, and Socrates only knew how to tell the truth. At length, however, he discovered a compromise; selecting such fables as those of Æsop, which always contain something of truth in them, he employed the last moments of his life in rendering them into verse.

Socrates is not the only one who has regarded fables and poetry as sisters. Phædrus has also declared that he held this opinion, and by the excellence of his work we are able to judge of that of the philosopher. After Phædrus, Avienus treated the same subject in the same way; finally, the moderns have also followed their example, and we find instances of this not only amongst foreign nations, but in our own.It is true, that when our own countrymen devoted their attention to this species of composition, the French language was so different from what it now is, that we may regard them in this case as foreigners. This has not deterred me from my enterprise. On the contrary, I have flattered myself with the hope that, if I did not pursue this career with success, I should at least earn the credit of having opened the road.

It may possibly happen that my labours will induce others to continue the work; and, indeed, there is no reason why this species of composition should be exhausted until there shall remain no fresh fables to put in verse. I have selected the best; that is to say, those which seem to me to be so; but, in addition to the fact that I may have erred in my selection, it will be by no means a difficult thing for others to give a different rendering even to those which I have selected; and if their renderings should be briefer than mine, they will doubtless be more approved. In any case, some praise will always be due to me, either because my rashness has had a happy result, and that I have not departed too far from the right path, or, at least, because I shall have instigated others to do better.

I think that I have sufficiently justified my design. As regards the execution, I shall leave the public to be the judge. There will not be found in my renderings the elegance and extreme brevity which are the charms of Phædrus, for these qualities are beyond my powers; and that being the case, I have thought it right to give more ornament to my work than he has done. I do not blame him for having restricted himself in length, for the Latin language enabled him to be brief; and, indeed, if we take the trouble to examine closely, we shall find in this author all the genuine characteristics and genius of Terence. The simplicity of these great men is magnificent; but, not possessing the powers of language of these authors, I cannot attain their heights. I have striven, therefore, to compensate in some degree for my failings in this respect, and I have done this with all the more boldness because Quintilian has said that one can never deviate too much in narrative. It is not necessary in this place to prove whether this be true or not; it is sufficient that Quintilian has made the statement.[5]

I have also considered that, as these fables are already known to all the world, I should have done nothing if I had not rendered them in some degree new, by clothing them with certain fresh characteristics. I have endeavoured to meet the wants of the day, which are novelty and gaiety; and by gaiety I do not mean merely that which excites laughter, but a certain charm, an agreeable air, which may be given to every species of subject, even the most serious.

It is not, however, by the outward form which I have given it that the value of my work should be alone judged, but by the quality of the matter of which it is composed, and by its utility. For what is there that is worthy of praise in the productions of the mind which is not to be found in the apologue? There is something so grand in this species of composition, that many of the ancients have attributed the greater part of these fables to Socrates; selecting as their author that individual amongst mortals who was most directly in communication with the gods. I am rather surprised that they have not maintained that these fables descended direct from heaven,[6]or that they have not attributed their guardianship to some one special deity, as they have done in the case of poetry and eloquence. And what I say is not altogether without foundation, since, if I may venture to speak of that which is most sacred in our eyes in the same breath with the errors of the ancients, we find that Truth has spoken to men in parables; and is the parable anything else than a fable? that is to say, a feigned example of some truth, which has by so much the more force and effect as it is the more common and familiar?

It is for these reasons that Plato, having banished Homer from his Republic, has given a very honourable place in it to Æsop. He maintains that infants suck in fables with their mothers' milk, and recommends nurses to teach them to them, since it is impossible that children should be accustomed at too early an age to the accents of wisdom and virtue. If we would not have to endure the pain of correcting our habits, we should take care to render them good whilst as yet they are neither good nor bad. And what better aids can we have in this work than fables? Tell a child that Crassus, when he wagedwar against the Parthians, entered their country without considering how he should be able to get out of it again, and that this was the cause of the destruction of himself and his whole army, and how great an effort will the infant have to make to remember the fact! But tell the same child that the fox and the he-goat descended to the bottom of a well for the purpose of quenching their thirst, and that the fox got out of it by making use of the shoulders and horns of his companion as a ladder, but that the goat remained there in consequence of not having had so much foresight, and that, consequently, we should always consider what is likely to be the result of what we do,—tell a child these two stories, I say, and which will make the most impression on his mind? Is it not certain that he will cling to the latter version as more conformable and less disproportioned than the other to the tenderness of his brain? It is useless for you to reply that the ideas of childhood are in themselves sufficiently infantine, without filling them with a heap of fresh trifles. These trifles, as you may please to call them, are only trifles in appearance; in reality, they are full of solid sense. And as by the definition of the point, the line, the surface, and the other well-known elements of form, we obtain a knowledge which enables us to measure not only the earth but the universe, in the same manner, by the aid of the truths involved in fables, we finally become enabled to form correct opinions of what is right and what is wrong, and to take a foremost place in the ranks of life.

The fables which are included in this collection are not merely moral, but are, to a certain extent, an encyclopædia of the qualities and characteristics of animals, and, consequently, of our own; since we men are, in fact, but a summary of all that is good and bad in the lower ranks of creatures. When Prometheus determined upon creating man, he took the dominant characteristic of each beast, and of these various characteristics composed the human species. It follows, therefore, that in these fables, in which beasts play so great a part, we may each of us find some feature which we may recognise as our own. The old may find in them a confirmation of their experiences, and the young may learn from them that which they ought to know. As the latter are but strangers in the world, they are as yet unacquainted with its inhabitants; they are even unacquainted with themselves. They ought not to be left in this ignorance, but should be instructed as to thequalities of the lion, the fox, and so forth, and as to the why and the wherefore a man is sometimes compared to the said lion and fox. To effect this instruction is the object of these fables.

I have already overstepped the ordinary limits of a Preface, but I have still a few remarks to make on the principles on which the present work has been constructed.

The fable proper is composed of two parts, of which one may be termed the body, and the other the soul. The body is the subject-matter of the fable, and the soul is the moral. Aristotle will admit none but animals into the domain of fabledom, and rigorously excludes from it both men and plants. This rule, however, cannot be strictly necessary, since neither Æsop, Phædrus, nor any of the fabulists[7]have observed it; but, on the other hand, a moral is to a fable an indispensable adjunct, and if I have in any instances omitted it, it is only in those cases in which it could not be gracefully introduced, or in which it was so obvious that the reader could deduce it for himself. The great rule in France is to value only that which pleases, and I have thought it no crime, therefore, to cancel ancient customs when they would not harmonise with modern ones. In Æsop's time the fable was first related as a simple story, and then supplemented by a moral which was distinct in itself. Next Phædrus came, who was so far from complying with this rule, that he sometimes transposed the moral from the end to the commencement. For my own part, I have never failed to follow Æsop's rule, except when it was necessary to observe a no less important one laid down by Horace, to the effect that no writer should obstinately struggle against the natural bent of his mind or the capabilities of his subject. A man, he asserts, who wishes to succeed will never pursue such a course, but will at once abandon a subject when he finds that he cannot mould it into a creditable shape:

"Et quæDesperat tractata intescere posse, relinquit."[8]

It only remains to speak of the life of Æsop, whose biography byPlanudes is almost universally regarded as fabulous. It is supposed that this writer formed the design of attributing a character and adventures to his hero which should bear some resemblance to his fables. This criticism, at first glance, appeared to me sufficiently specious, but I have since found that it has no solid basis. It is partly founded on what took place between Xantus and Æsop, and the quantities of nonsense there contrasted. To which I reply, Who is the sage to whom such things have not happened? The whole of the life even of Socrates was not serious; and what confirms me in my favourable opinion is, that the character which Planudes gives to Æsop is similar to that which Plutarch gives him in his Banquet of the Seven Wise Men—that is, the character of a keen and all-observant man. It may be objected, I know, that the Banquet of the Seven Wise Men is in itself a fiction; and I admit that it is possible to be doubtful about everything. For my own part, I cannot well see why Plutarch should have desired to deceive posterity on this subject, when he has professed to be truthful on every other, and to give to each of his personages his real character. But however this may be, I would ask, Shall I be less likely to be believed if I endorse another man's falsehoods than if I invented some of my own? I might certainly fabricate a tissue of conjectures, and entitle them the "Life of Æsop;" but whatever air of genuineness it might wear, no one could rely upon such a work, and, if he must put up with fiction, the reader would always prefer that of Planudes to mine.

[1]Before the year 1668, when the present collection of fables was first published. Fontaine had already published a few separately, and others had circulated in manuscript.

[2]Patru, a celebrated lawyer, a member of the French Academy, and one of La Fontaine's friends, who made a strange mistake in trying to divert him from a species of composition which has immortalised him.

[3]These fables had long been known when Socrates came into the world, and the Father of Philosophy only took the trouble to render them into verse during the imprisonment which preceded his death.

[4]The word Μουσιχὴ implied amongst the Greeks all the arts to which the Muses devote themselves. It comprises the employments of the mind in opposition to γυμναστιχὴ, which means the exercises of the body. La Fontaine does not give Plato's meaning quite correctly. The philosopher, at the commencement of the "Phædo," makes Socrates say that, having been several times warned in dreams by the gods to study music, he had only regarded it as an encouragement to persevere in the pursuit of truth; but that, since his imprisonment, he had given another interpretation to those warnings, and had decided that he should better obey the wishes of the gods by making verses.

[5]The following is the passage in Quintilian to which the poet alludes:—"Ego vero narrationem, at si ullam partem orationis, omni qua potest gratia et venere exorundam."—Quint., "Hist Orat." lib. ix., cap iv.

[6]La Fontaine has not ventured altogether to repair the oversight of the ancients, for he has left the origin of fables a doubtful point between heaven and earth, when he says, in a dedication to Madame de Montespan, "The fable is a gift which comes from the immortals; if it were the gift of man, he who gave it us would indeed deserve a temple."

[7]The word fabulist was invented by La Fontaine, and has no equivalent either in the Greek or Latin languages. La Motte only ventured to use it under cover of the authority of our poet; and the French Academy, having declined to admit it into the first edition of its Dictionary, which was published after La Fontaine's death, only did so when it had been sanctioned by usage and public admiration.

[8]Hor., "Ars Poet.," v. 150.

I sing the heroes who call Æsop father,Whose history, although deceitful rather,Some truths and useful lessons, too, contains.Everything finds a tongue in these my strains;And what they say is wholesome: now and thenMy animals I use as texts for men.Illustrious branch of one the gods hold dear,And by the whole world held in love and fear,He who the proudest chiefs at once defies,And counts the days by glorious victories,Others will better tell, and higher soar,To sing your mighty ancestors of yore;But I would please thee in a humbler way,And trace in verse the sketches I essay;Yet if to please thee I do not succeed,At least the fame of trying be my meed.

THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT.

FABLE I.

THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT.

The Grasshopper, so blithe and gay,Sang the summer time away.Pinched and poor the spendthrift grew,When the sour north-easter blew.In her larder not a scrap,Bread to taste, nor drink to lap.To the Ant, her neighbour, sheWent to moan her penury,Praying for a loan of wheat,Just to make a loaf to eat,Till the sunshine came again."All I say is fair and plain,I will pay you every grain,Principal and interest too,Before harvest, I tell you,On my honour—every pound,Ere a single sheaf is bound."The Ant's a very prudent friend,Never much disposed to lend;Virtues great and failings small,This her failing least of all.Quoth she, "How spent you the summer?""Night and day, to each new comerI sang gaily, by your leave;Singing, singing, morn and eve.""You sang? I see it at a glance.Well, then, now's the time to dance."

FABLE II.

THE RAVEN AND THE FOX.

Master Raven, perched upon a tree,Held in his beak a savoury piece of cheese;Its pleasant odour, borne upon the breeze,Allured Sir Reynard, with his flattery."Ha! Master Raven, 'morrow to you, sir;How black and glossy! now, upon my word,I never—beautiful! I do aver.If but your voice becomes your coat, no birdMore fit to be the Phœnix of our wood—I hope, sir, I am understood?"The Raven, flattered by the praise,Opened his spacious beak, to show his waysOf singing: down the good cheese fell.Quick the Fox snapped it. "My dear sir, 'tis well,"He said. "Know that a flatterer livesOn him to whom his praise he gives;And, my dear neighbour, an' you please,This lesson's worth a slice of cheese."—The Raven, vexed at his consenting,Flew off, too late in his repenting.

FABLE III.

THE FROG THAT WISHED TO MAKE HERSELF AS BIG AS THE OX.

A Frog, no bigger than a pullet's egg,A fat Ox feeding in a meadow spied.The envious little creature blew and swelled;In vain to reach the big bull's bulk she tried."Sister, now look! observe me close!" she cried."Is this enough?"—"No!" "Tell me! now then see!""No, no!" "Well, now I'm quite as big as he?""You're scarcely bigger than you were at first!"One more tremendous puff—she grew so large—she burst.The whole world swarms with people not more wise:The tradesman's villa with the palace vies.Ambassadors your poorest Princelings send,And every Count has pages without end.

THE TWO MULES.

FABLE IV.

THE TWO MULES.

Two Mules were journeying—one charged with oats,The other with a tax's golden fruit.This last betrayed that manner which denotesExcessive vanity in man or brute.Proudly self-conscious of his precious load,He paced, and loud his harness-bells resounded;When suddenly upon their lonely road,Both Mules and masters were by thieves surrounded.The money-bearer soon was put to death:"Is this the end that crowns my high career?Yon drudge," he murmured with his latest breath,"Escapes unhurt, while I must perish here!""My friend," his fellow-traveller made reply,"Wealth cannot always at the poor man scoff.If you had been content to do as I,You'd not at present be so badly off."

FABLE V.

THE WOLF AND THE DOG.

A Wolf, who was but skin and bone,So watchful had the sheep-dogs grown,Once met a Mastiff fat and sleek,Stern only to the poor and weak.Sir Wolf would fain, no doubt, have munchedThis pampered cur, and on him lunched;But then the meal involved a fight,And he was craven, save at night;For such a dog could guard his throatAs well as any dog of note.So the Wolf, humbly flattering him,Praised the soft plumpness of each limb."You're wrong, you're wrong, my noble sir,To roam in woods indeed you err,"The dog replies, "you do indeed;If you but wish, with me you'll feed.Your comrades are a shabby pack,Gaunt, bony, lean in side and back,Pining for hunger, scurvy, hollow,Fighting for every scrap they swallow.Come, share my lot, and take your ease.""What must I do to earn it, please?""Do?—why, do nothing! Beggar-menBark at and chase; fawn now and thenAt friends; your master always flatter.Do this, and by this little matterEarn every sort of dainty dish—Fowl-bones or pigeons'—what you wish—Aye, better things; and with these messes,Fondlings, and ceaseless kind caresses."The Wolf, delighted, as he hearsIs deeply moved—almost to tears;When all at once he sees a speck,A gall upon the Mastiff's neck."What's that?"—"Oh, nothing!" "Nothing?"—"No!""A slight rub from the chain, you know.""The chain!" replies the Wolf, aghast;"You are not free?—they tie you fast?""Sometimes. But, law! what matters it?"—"Matters so much, the rarest bitSeems worthless, bought at such a price."The Wolf, so saying, in a trice,Ran off, and with the best goodwill,And very likely's running still.

FABLE VI.

THE HEIFER, THE SHE-GOAT, AND THE LAMB, IN PARTNERSHIP WITH THE LION.

The Heifer, Lamb, and Nanny-goat were neighbours,With a huge Lion living close at hand,They shared the gains and losses of their labours(All this was long ago, you understand).One day a stag was taken as their sport;The Goat, who snared him, was of course enraptured,And sent for all the partners of her toil,In order to divide the treasure captured.They came. The Lion, counting on his claws,Quartered the prey, and thus addressed the trio—"The parts are four. I take the first, becauseI am your monarch, and my name is Leo:Being the strongest, I annex the second;As bravest, I can claim another share,Should any touch the fourth, or say I reckonedUnjustly, I shall kill him. So beware."

FABLE VII.

THE WALLET.

Said Jupiter one day, "Let all that breatheCome and obeisance make before my throne.If at his shape or being any grieve,Let them cast fears aside. I'll hear their groan.Come, Monkey, you be first to speak. You seeOf animals this goodly company;Compare their beauties with your own.Are you content?" "Why not? Good gracious me!"The monkey said,No whit afraid—"Why not content? I have four feet like others,My portrait no one sneers at—do they, brothers?But cousin Bruins hurriedly sketched in,And no one holds his likeness worth a pin."Then came the Bear. One thought he would have foundSomething to grumble at. Grumble! no, not he.He praised his form and shape, but, looking round,Turned critic on the want of symmetryOf the huge shapeless Elephant, whose earsWere much too long; his tail too short, he fears.The Elephant was next.Though wise, yet sadly vexedTo see good Madam Whale, to his surprise,A cumbrous mountain of such hideous size.Quick Mrs. Ant thinks the Gnat far too small,Herself colossal.—Jove dismisses all,Severe on others, with themselves content.'Mong all the fools who that day homeward went,Our race was far the worst: our wisest soulsLynxes to others', to their own faults moles.Pardon at home they give, to others grace deny,And keep on neighbours' sins a sleepless eye.Jove made us so,As we all know,We wear our Wallets in the self-same way—This current year, as in the bye-gone day:In pouch behind our own defects we store,The faults of others in the one before.

FABLE VIII.

THE SWALLOW AND THE LITTLE BIRDS.

A Swallow, in his travels o'er the earth,Into the law of storms had gained a peep;Could prophesy them long before their birth,And warn in time the ploughmen of the deep.Just as the month for sowing hemp came round,The Swallow called the smaller birds together."Yon' hand," said he, "which strews along the groundThat fatal grain, forbodes no friendly weather.The day will come, and very soon, perhaps,When yonder crop will help in your undoing—

THE SWALLOW AND THE LITTLE BIRDS.

When, in the shape of snares and cruel traps,Will burst the tempest which to-day is brewing.Be wise, and eat the hemp up now or never;Take my advice." But no, the little birds,Who thought themselves, no doubt, immensely clever,Laughed loudly at the Swallow's warning words.Soon after, when the hemp grew green and tall,He begged the Birds to tear it into tatters."Prophet of ill," they answered one and all,"Cease chattering about such paltry matters."The hemp at length was ripe, and then the Swallow,Remarking that "ill weeds were never slow,"Continued—"Though it's now too late to followThe good advice I gave you long ago,You still may manage to preserve your livesBy giving credit to the voice of reason.Remain at home, I beg you, with your wives,And shun the perils of the coming season.You cannot cross the desert or the seas,To settle down in distant habitations;Make nests, then, in the walls, and there, at ease,Defy mankind and all its machinations."They scorned his warnings, as in Troy of oldMen scorned the lessons that Cassandra taught.And shortly, as the Swallow had foretold,Great numbers of them in the traps were caught.To instincts not our own we give no credit,And till misfortune comes, we never dread it.

THE TOWN RAT AND THE COUNTRY RAT.

FABLE IX.

THE TOWN RAT AND THE COUNTRY RAT.

A Rat from town, a country RatInvited in the civilest way;For dinner there was just to beOrtolans and an entremet.Upon a Turkey carpet softThe noble feast at last was spread;I leave you pretty well to guessThe merry, pleasant life they led.Gay the repast, for plenty reigned,Nothing was wanting to the fare;But hardly had it well begunEre chance disturbed the friendly pair.A sudden racket at the doorAlarmed them, and they made retreat;The City Rat was not the last,His comrade followed fast and fleet.The noise soon over, they returned,As rats on such occasions do;"Come," said the liberal citizen,"And let us finish our ragout.""Not a crumb more," the rustic said;"To-morrow you shall dine with me;Don't think me jealous of your state,Or all your royal luxury;"But then I eat so quiet at home,And nothing dangerous is near;Good-bye, my friend, I have no loveFor pleasure when it's mixed with fear."

FABLE X.

THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE.

FOR M. THE DUKE DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.

A man who had no rivals in the loveHe bore himself, thought that he won the bellFrom all the world, and hated every glassThat truths less palatable tried to tell.Living contented in the error,Of lying mirrors he'd a terror.Officious Fate, determined on a cure,Raised up, where'er he turned his eyes,Those silent counsellors that ladies prize.Mirrors old and mirrors newer;Mirrors in inns and mirrors in shops;Mirrors in pockets of all the fops;Mirrors in every lady's zone.What could our poor Narcissus do?He goes and hides him all aloneIn woods that one can scarce get through.No more the lying mirrors come,But past his new-found savage homeA pure and limpid brook runs fair.—He looks. His ancient foe is there!His angry eyes stare at the stream,He tries to fancy it a dream.Resolves to fly the odious place, and shunThe image; yet, so fair the brook, he cannot run.My meaning is not hard to see;No one is from this failing free.The man who loved himself is just the Soul,The mirrors are the follies of all others.(Mirrors are faithful painters on the whole;)And you know well as I do, brothers, that the brookIs the wise "Maxim-book."[1]

[1]Rochefoucauld's Maxims are the most extraordinary dissections of human selfishness ever made.

FABLE XI.

THE DRAGON WITH MANY HEADS, AND THE DRAGON WITH MANY TAILS.

An Envoy of the Grand Signor(I can't say more)One day, before the Emperor's court,Vaunted, as some historians report,That his royal master had a forceOutnumbering all the foot and horseThe Kaiser could bring to the war.Then spoke a choleric attendant:"OurPrince has more thanonedependantThat keeps an army at his own expense."The Pasha (man of sense),Replied: "By rumour I'm awareWhat troops the great electors spare,And that reminds me, I am glad,Of an adventure I once had,Strange, and yet true.I'll tell it you.Once through a hedge the hundred heads I sawOf a huge Hydra show.My blood, turned ice, refused to flow:And yet I felt that neither fang nor clawCould more than scare me—for no head came near.There was no room. I cast off fear.While musing on this sight,Another Dragon came to light.Only one head this time;But tails too many to count up in rhyme.The fit again came on,Worse than the one just gone.The head creeps first, then follows tail by tail;Nothing can stop their road, nor yet assail;One clears the way for all the minor powers:The first'syourEmperor's host, the secondours."

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