The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

BOOK VII

. Book vii  . 155 For Madame de Montespan The apologue was once bestowed on us By the immortals; or, if men they were— Whoever—they, most generous, Deserve many a worshiper Before fine altars to their names presented. The Sage1 who this fair art invented Ought truly be esteemed divine. It has a charm that can entwine About our mind, keep it attentive, Or bind it, even, in its thrall, Leading our hearts and spirits on with all Manner of fictions’ tales and tones inventive, Quite at its own sweet will... O you, Olympe,2 whose mastery works in like wise— If, at times, my Muse raised me to the skies To dine among the gods—pray deign to do Honor to her and cast your eyes Here, on her gifts. Favor, today, Her games my mind chooses once more to play For its amusement... Time wipes clean, destroys Everything; but, with the respect it owes Your generous support, your counterpoise To Time’s destruction, my verse shall oppose Those ruinous years. Yes, every author knows That, to survive Time’s demise uneffaced, His art must boast the suffrage of your taste. You it is who confer the beauteous worth On all the lines to which my pen gives birth. For who better than you is versed in grace And beauty? Fair of tongue, of face, Of glance... First among women by your very Nature, conceived in charm extraordinary! . book vii 156 Oh, how my Muse would love to sing apace Of all your sweetmost qualities! But I resist; for surely these Require a master more expert Than I to trace your beauty’s just dessert. Me, I must be content merely to praise, Happy, Olympe, would you but raise Your voice to grant my last-born, favorite Offspring the privilege of your protection. For I dare hope a second life from it, Most worthy of the world’s inspection, Even should envy crass deem it unfit. Myself, I merit not this favor though: Fable it is who seeks it; and you know The power her fiction has on us. And should my verse be happy-fated, thus To please you, then might she, Fable, deserve A temple of my building, there to serve Her faithfully... But no! For, be it known, Shrines would I build, madame, to you alone!3 The Animals Ill with the Plague Long years ago a blight attacked The world: a blight whose very name gives cause For fear and trembling; one that was Invented by the gods and sent, in fact, As punishment. The Plague—for why should one Not call it by its name?—waged war Upon the beasts. Each day saw more and more Enrich the waters of the Acheron.1 Some lived, but all were touched. And even they Who somehow managed to survive Found little life in being alive: No appetite could whet their palates... Nay, Foxes and wolves shunned young and tender prey; book vii . 157 Turtledoves spurned their mates: no love, No joy was there, nor any hope thereof... The lion, thereupon, held council. “Friends,” Said he, “it’s clear, I fear, that heaven above Repays our sins. To make amends And cleanse us of this scourge, the worst Sinner amongst us must, in sacrifice, Be offered to the gods. That is the price Their wrath demands. Indeed, past ages cursed With such disaster did as much. Let us Confess our wrongs with candor; me, the first: Myself, the vicious, gluttonous, Rapacious creature that I am! How many a blameless sheep and lamb Did I devour! And for what crime? No crime at all! What’s more, from time to time, I ate my share—as I am wont to do— Of shepherd too! Yes, sacrifice myself I will; though best, Perhaps, I wait until the rest Of you confess as I have done, lest we Not put to death the guiltiest.” To which the fox replies: “Your Majesty, Your charity and thoughtfulness Are much to be admired. Nevertheless, You err. So, you ate sheep? What sin is that? Vile beasts! Your royal jaws exalted them! As for the shepherd... Well, it’s tit for tat. I dare assert, ad hominem, That he—one of that misbegot And evil race that thinks it can Subject us all, the race of Man— Got what was due him and deserved his lot.” So spoke the fox, to many a...