The Complete Fables of Jean de La Fontaine

BOOK VIII

. Book viii  . 187 Death and the Dying Man The sage is not by death surprised; Ready to quit this life is he, Ever prepared, ever advised To be resigned to its ubiquity. Death’s time embraces time itself: all days, Hours, minutes. Not one moment is there free Of its dominion; every instant pays Its tribute. And the moment when the sons Of royal race open their eyes To life may be the very ones That close them evermore. One tries To pose one’s greatness in defense; One’s beauty, virtue, youth... Vain eloquence! Death ravages in shameless wise. Everything will, one day, enrich its horde. No fact is there less secret, more deplored Than this, yet none, I must admit, That finds one less prepared for it. To wit: A man, who a full hundred years Had lived, lay dying. Still, reproachfully, He rebukes Death, when it appears, For bearing him off, cap-a-pie, And, unannounced, forcing him, on the spot, To up and leave, when he has not Had time to write his testament. “Oh, fie! Should one,” he asks, “be made to die Like that, without the proper preparation? My wife insists—and I would not dare flout her Wishes!—that I not leave without her. Besides, I needs must find an occupation For my grandnephew—lazy lout!—and build A wing on my abode... So much to do! Why must you press me? Will you not be stilled A while, O goddess cruel?” “Go to, Old man!” Death cries, replying. “How . book viii 188 Dare you complain? Have I not given you A century and more? I vow, You would not find me two as old In all of Paris, ten in all of France! You scold and say I could have warned you, told You when I would arrive. And if, perchance, I had, should I suppose your will Would be complete, down to each codicil? Your house well built? That lad well placed? You say you had no warning? Oh? What of your limbs, that ever weaker grow? Your wit? Your touch, your smell, your taste? Senses dimmed, that the sun, though hard he try, Could nevermore revivify! I show you friends who, dying, waste Away, and others quick to die. If not a warning, what, pray tell, is that? Would you have a still stronger caveat? Your will, you say? The state cares little About it, not one jot or tittle!” And Death was right. At that age one should quit This life as from a banquet, leaving it With baggage readied, and, upon one’s lips, Thanks for the host. For, how much can the trip’s Commencement be delayed? You mutter low Your sad laments, old man. But look and see How many a younger man will boldly go Running to meet his end, with bravery And glory-crowned; certain death nonetheless, And no less cruel!... Alas, I waste my breath. Too indiscreet my zeal, my eagerness: Most loath to die are those most close to death. VIII, 1 book viii . 189 The Cobbler and the Financier A cobbler used to sing from morn till night. It was, indeed, a wondrous thing To watch him, hear him warble with delight, Happier in his laboring Than any of the Seven Sages1 were. Close by, a neighbor—quite the fine monsieur, Rich as a king!—sang little, slept still less. He was, in fact (as you might guess), The kind we dub a “financier.” When, at the break of dawn, he dozed a bit, All of a sudden he would hear The cobbler’s joyous song, and it Would rouse him. “Ha,” he grumbled, “why oh why Has it not been ordained that we might buy Our sleep as we buy food and drink!” He calls the singer to his habitat. “What do you earn each year?” he asks. Whereat Grégoire replies, laughing, and with a wink: “A year? Monsieur, I fear that’s not my way Of figuring! I’m happy, day by day, To do my tasks and, by year’s end, Make both ends meet!” “Well then, my friend, What do you earn each day?” “That’s hard to say. Some more, some less... The problem—and it surely Is one: without it, I would do just fine!— The problem is that sometimes I do poorly, What with these blessèd holidays of mine, Each...