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TALES FOR CHILDREN FROM MANY LANDS
EDITED BY F.C. TILNEY
[Illustration: The heart of Thyrsis left.]
THE ORIGINAL FABLES OF LA FONTAINE
RENDERED INTO ENGLISH PROSE
BY
FREDK. COLIN TILNEY
WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR
LONDON: J.M. DENT & SONS LIMITED
NEW YORK: E.P. DUTTON & COMPANY
PREFACE
If deep wisdom, gentle satire, polite cynicism, and, above all,
irresistible humour are qualities which make a book attractive then La
Fontaine's _Fables_ should be in the hands of all. Their charm is
two-fold; for whilst they induce pleasurable reflection in the reader
they delight him by the gaiety of their subject matter.
Notwithstanding the fact that the spell of La Fontaine's verse
necessarily disappears when another tongue is employed, his English
translators, both Elizur Wright and Walter Thornbury, have courageously
attempted to do him justice in prosody. In this little book no such
effort has been made, chiefly for the reason that, for any but the
unusually gifted, to snatch at rhythm and rhyme is often to let drop the
apt and ready word as Æsop's mastiff dropped his dinner. But there is a
further excuse for the present writer. Verse has little attraction for
children unless it jingles merrily, and that is a thing as impossible as
it is undesirable where the claims of a philosophic original make
restrictions. Since the spirit is more likely to survive if the letter
is not exacting, it is difficult to see why custom looks askance upon
prose versions of poetry. But this little book may escape such censure
on the ground of its being but a selection from the complete _Fables_ of
La Fontaine. It presents only those of which the great fabulist was
himself the originator. A selection of some sort being imperative there
seemed to be a simple and easy choice in the condition of absolute
originality; particularly as the older fables are given in another
volume of this series.
This translation (in which I gratefully acknowledge the assistance of my
friend Mrs. A.H. Beddoe) is neither "free" nor literal. It sometimes
amplifies a thought, much as a musician might amplify the harmonies upon
a master's figured bass. But even this is rarely done, and then only
with a view to the youthful reader's pleasure and profit. With that
view, further, the social and political introductions to the fables have
been omitted, as well as the scientific discourses and the allusions to
the unfortunate wars of Louis XIV. and other historical matters, all of
which would have neither meaning nor interest but for "grown-ups" of a
certain class.
F.C. TILNEY.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE TWO MULES 13
THE HARE AND THE PARTRIDGE 15
THE GARDENER AND HIS LANDLORD 17
THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE 20
THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE 22
THE UNHAPPILY MARRIED MAN 25
THE RAT RETIRED FROM THE WORLD 27
THE MAIDEN 29
THE WISHES 31
THE DAIRY-WOMAN AND THE PAIL OF MILK 34
THE PRIEST AND THE CORPSE 36
THE MAN WHO RAN AFTER FORTUNE AND THE MAN WHO
WAITED FOR HER IN HIS BED 38
AN ANIMAL IN THE MOON 42
THE FORTUNE-TELLERS 44
THE COBBLER AND THE FINANCIER 47
THE POWER OF FABLE 50
THE DOG WHO CARRIED HIS MASTER'S DINNER 52
THYRSIS AND AMARANTH 54
THE RAT AND THE ELEPHANT 56
THE HOROSCOPE 57
JUPITER AND THE THUNDERBOLTS 60
EDUCATION 62
DEMOCRITUS AND THE PEOPLE OF ABDERA 64
THE ACORN AND THE PUMPKIN 67
THE SCHOOLBOY, THE PEDANT, AND THE OWNER OF A GARDEN 69
THE SCULPTOR AND THE STATUE OF JUPITER 71
THE OYSTER AND THE PLEADERS 73
THE CAT AND THE FOX 75
THE MONKEY AND THE CAT 77
THE TWO RATS, THE FOX, AND THE EGG 79
THE DOG WITH HIS EARS CROPPED 86
THE LIONESS AND THE SHE-BEAR 88
THE RABBITS 90
THE GODS WISHING TO INSTRUCT A SON OF JUPITER 93
THE LION, THE MONKEY, AND THE TWO ASSES 95
THE WOLF AND THE FOX IN THE WELL 98
THE MICE AND THE SCREECH-OWL 100
THE COMPANIONS OF ULYSSES 102
THE QUARREL BETWEEN THE DOGS AND THE CATS AND BETWEEN
THE CATS AND THE MICE 106
THE WOLF AND THE FOX 109
LOVE AND FOLLY 111
THE FOREST AND THE WOODCUTTER 113
THE FOX AND THE YOUNG TURKEYS 115
THE APE 117
THE SCYTHIAN PHILOSOPHER 118
THE ELEPHANT AND JUPITER'S APE 120
THE LEAGUE OF RATS 122
THE ARBITER, THE HOSPITALLER, AND THE HERMIT 124
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE HEART OF THYRSIS LEAPT Frontispiece
"YOU BOASTED OF BEING SO SWIFT" Facing page 14
OVER TOPPLED THE MILK " 35
THE GARRET WAS STILL A SIBYL'S DEN " 46
DELIBERATELY SWALLOWED THE OYSTER " 74
"WHY CANNOT YOU BE SILENT ALSO?" " 88
DESCENDED BY HIS GREATER WEIGHT " 98
A GUIDE FOR THE FOOTSTEPS OF LOVE " 111
The poet Jean de la Fontaine was born at Château-Thierry on July 8,
1621. He was a kindly, merry, and generous man and much beloved. His
fables were written in verse and were published in three collections at
different times of his life. Many were new versions of existing fables;
but those of his later years were more often original inventions.
All in this book are of La Fontaine's own invention, although several
have since appeared in collections of Æsop's fables without the
acknowledgment that is La Fontaine's due.
He died on April 13, 1695, at the age of seventy-three.
[Illustration]
I
THE TWO MULES
(BOOK I.--No. 4)
There were two heavily-laden mules making a journey together. One was
carrying oats and the other bore a parcel of silver money collected from
the people as a tax upon salt. This, we learn, was a tax which produced
much money for the government, but it bore very hard upon the people,
who revolted many times against it.
The mule that carried the silver was very proud of his burden, and would
not have been relieved of it if he could. As he stepped out he took care
that the bells upon his harness should jingle well as became a mule of
so much importance.
Suddenly a band of robbers burst into the road, pounced upon the
treasure mule, seized it by the bridle, and stopped it short.
Struggling to defend itself the unhappy creature groaned and sighed as
it cried: "Is this then the fate that has been in store for me: that I
must fall and perish whilst my fellow traveller escapes free from
danger?"
"My friend," exclaimed the mule that carried only the oats, and whom the
robbers had not troubled about, "it is not always good to have exalted
work to do. Had you been like me, a mere slave to a miller, you would
not have been in such a bad way now!"
[Illustration: You boasted of being so swift.]
II
THE HARE AND THE PARTRIDGE
(BOOK V.--No. 17)
Never mock at other people's misfortune; for you cannot tell how soon
you yourself may be unhappy. Æsop the sage has given us one or two
examples of this truth, and I am going to tell you of a similar one now.
A hare and a partridge were living as fellow-citizens very peacefully in
a field, when a pack of hounds making an onset obliged the hare to seek
refuge. He rushed into his form and succeeded in putting the hounds at
fault. But here the scent from his over-heated body betrayed him.
Towler, philosophising, concluded that this scent came from his hare,
and with admirable zeal routed him out. Then old Trusty, who never is at
fault, proclaimed that the hare was gone away. The poor unfortunate
creature at last died in his form.
The partridge, his companion, thought fit to soothe his last moments
with some scoffing remarks upon his fate. "You boasted of being so
swift," she said "What has come to your feet, then?"
But even as she was chuckling her own turn came. Secure in the belief
that her wings would save her whatever happened, she did not reckon upon
the cruel talons of the hawk.
III
THE GARDENER AND HIS LANDLORD
(BOOK IV.--No. 4)
A man who had a great fondness for gardening, being half a countryman
and half town-bred, possessed in a certain village a fair-sized plot
with a field attached, and all enclosed by a quickset hedge. Here sorrel
and lettuce grew freely, as well as such flowers as Spanish jasmine and
wild thyme, and from these his good wife Margot culled many a posy for
her high days and holidays.
This happy state of things was soon troubled by the visits of a hare,
and to such an extent that the man had to go to his landlord and lodge a
complaint. "This wretched animal," he said, "comes here and stuffs
himself night and morning, and simply laughs at traps and snares. As for
stones and sticks they make no difference whatever to him. He must be
enchanted."
"Enchanted!" cried the landlord. "I defy enchantment! Were he the devil
himself old Towler would soon rout him out in spite of his tricks. I'll
rid you of him, my man, never fear!"
"And when?" asked the man.
"Oh, to-morrow, without more delay!"
The affair being thus arranged, on the morrow came the landlord with all
his following. "First of all," he said, "how about breakfast? Your
chickens are tender I'll be bound. Come here, my dear," he added,
addressing the man's daughter, and then, to her father, "When are you
going to let her marry? Hasn't a son-in-law come on the scene yet? My
dear fellow, this is a thing that positively must be done you know,
you'll have to put your hand in your pocket to some purpose." So saying
he sat down beside the damsel, took her hand, held her by the arm, toyed
with her fichu, and took other silly and trifling liberties which the
girl resented with great self-respect, whilst the father grew a little
uneasy in his mind.
Nevertheless, the cooking went on. There was quite a run on the kitchen.
"How ripe are your hams? They look good."
"Sir," replied the flattered host, "they are yours."
"Oh, really now! Well I'll take them, and that right gladly."
The landlord and his family, his dogs, his horses, and his men-servants,
all take breakfast with hearty appetites. He assumes the host's place
and privileges, drinks his wine and caresses his daughter. After this a
crowd of hunters take seats at the breakfast table.
Now everybody is lively and busy with preparations for the hunt. They
wind the horns to such purpose that the good man is dumbfounded by the
din. Worse than that they make terrible havoc in the poor garden.
Good-bye to all the neat rows and beds! Good-bye to the chickory and the
leeks! Good-bye to all the pot-herbs!
The hare lies hidden under the leaves of a great cabbage, but being
discovered is quickly started, whereupon he rushes to a hole--nay, worse
than a hole, a great and horrible gap in the poor hedge, made by the
landlord's order, so that they might all burst out of the garden in fine
style; for it would have looked ridiculous for them to ride out at the
gate.
The poor man objected. "This is fine fun for princes, no doubt----"; but
they let him talk, whilst dogs and men together did more harm in one
hour than all the hares in the province would have done in a century.
Little princes, settle your own quarrels amongst yourselves. It is
madness to have recourse to kings. You should never let them engage in
your wars, nor even enter your domains.
IV
THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE
(BOOK I.--No. 11)
Once there was a man who loved himself very much, and who permitted
himself no rivals in that love. He thought his face and figure the
handsomest in all the world. Anything in the shape of a mirror that
could show him his own likeness he took care to avoid; for he did not
want to be reminded that perhaps he was over-rating his beauty. For this
reason he hated looking-glasses and accused them of being false. He made
a very great mistake in this respect; but that he did not mind, being
quite content to live in the happiness the mistake afforded him.
To cure him of so grievous an error, officious Fate managed matters in
such a way that wherever he turned his eyes they would fall on one of
those mute little counsellors that ladies carry and appeal to when they
are anxious about their appearance. He found mirrors in the houses;
mirrors in the shops; mirrors in the pockets of gallants; mirrors even
as ornaments on waist-belts of ladies.
What was he to do--this poor Narcissus? He thought to avoid all such
things by going far away from haunts of mankind, where he should never
have to face a mirror again. But in the woods to which he retreated a
clear rivulet ran. Into this he happened to look and--saw himself again.
Angrily he told himself that his eyes had been deluded by an idle fancy.
Henceforth he would keep away from the water! This he tried his utmost
to do; but who can resist the beauty of a woodland stream? There he was
and remained, always with that which he had determined to shun.
My meaning is easily seen. It applies to everybody; for everybody takes
some joy in harbouring this very error. The man in love with himself
stands for the soul of each one of us. All the mirrors wherein he saw
himself reflected stand for the faults of other people, in which we
really see our own faults though we hate to recognise them as such. As
for the brook, that, as every one knows, stands for the book of maxims
which the Duke de la Rochefoucauld[1] wrote.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: This fable was dedicated to the Duke de la Rochefoucauld.]
V
THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE
(BOOK VII.--No. 1)
One of those dread evils which spread terror far and wide, and which
Heaven, in its anger, ordains for the punishment of wickedness upon
earth--a plague in fact; and so dire a one as to make rich in one day
that grim ferryman who takes a coin from all who cross the river Acheron
to the land of the dead--such a plague was once waging war against the
animals. All were attacked, although all did not die. So hopeless was
the case that not one of them attempted to sustain their sinking lives.
Even the sight of food did not rouse them. Wolves and foxes no longer
turned eager and calculating eyes upon their gentle and guileless prey.
The turtle-doves went no more in cooing pairs, but were content to avoid
each other. Love and the joy that comes of love were both at an end.
At length the lion called a council of all the beasts and addressed them
in these words: "My dear friends, it seems to me that it is for our sins
that Heaven has permitted this misfortune to fall upon us. Would it not
be well if the most blameworthy among us allowed himself to be offered
as a sacrifice to appease the celestial wrath? By so doing he might
secure our recovery. History tells us that this course is usually
pursued in such cases as ours. Let us look into our consciences without
self-deception or condoning. For my own part, I freely admit that in
order to satisfy my gluttony I have devoured an appalling number of
sheep; and yet what had they done to me to deserve such a fate? Nothing
that could be called an offence. Sometimes, indeed, I have gone so far
as to eat the shepherd too! On the whole, I think I had better render
myself for this act of sacrifice; that is, if we agree that it is a
thing necessary to the general good. And yet I think it would be only
fair that every one should declare his sins as well as I; for I could
wish that, in justice, it were the most culpable that should perish."
"Sire," said the fox, "you are really too yielding for a king, and your
scruples show too much delicacy of feeling. Eating sheep indeed! What of
that?--a foolish and rascally tribe! Is that a crime? No! a hundred
times no! On the contrary your noble jaws did but do them great honour.
As for the shepherd, it may be fairly said that all the harm he got he
merited, since he was one of those who fancy they have dominion over the
animal kingdom." Thus spake the fox and every other flatterer in the
assembly applauded him. Nor did any seek to inquire deeply into the
least pardonable offences of the tiger, the bear, and the other mighty
ones. All those of an aggressive nature, right down to the simple
watch-dog, were something like saints in their own opinions.
When the ass stood forth in his turn he struck a different note: nothing
of fangs and talons and blood. "I remember," he said, "that once in
passing a field belonging to a monastery I was urged by hunger, by
opportunity, by the tenderness of the grass, and perhaps by the evil one
egging me on, to enter and crop just a taste, about as much as the
length of my tongue. I know that I did wrong, having really no right
there."
At these words all the assembly turned upon him. The wolf took upon
himself to make a speech proving without doubt that the ass was an
accursed wretch, a mangy brute, who certainly ought to be told off for
sacrifice, since through his wickedness all their misfortunes had come
about. His peccadillo was judged to be a hanging matter. "What! eat the
grass belonging to another? How abominable a crime! Nothing but death
could expiate such an outrage!" And forthwith they proved as much to the
poor ass.
Accordingly as your power is great or small, the judgments of a court
will whiten or blacken your reputation.
VI
THE UNHAPPILY MARRIED MAN
(BOOK VII.--No. 2)
If goodness were always the comrade of beauty I would seek a wife
to-morrow; but as divorce between these two is no new thing, and as
there are so few lovely forms that enshrine lovely souls, thus uniting
both one and the other delight, do not take it amiss that I refrain from
seeking such a rare combination.
I have seen many marriages, but not one of them has held out allurements
for me. Nevertheless, nearly the whole four quarters of mankind
courageously expose themselves to this the greatest of all hazards,
and--the whole four quarters usually repent it.
I will tell you of one who, having repented, found that there was
nothing for it but to send home again his quarrelsome, avaricious, and
jealous spouse. She was one whom nothing pleased; for her, nothing was
right. For her, one rose too late; one retired too early. First it was
this, then it was that, and then again 'twas something else. The
servants raged. The husband was at his wit's end. "You think of nothing,
sir." "You spend too much." "You gad about, sir." "You are idle."
Indeed she had so much to say that, in the end, tired of hearing such a
termagant, he sent her to her parents in the country. There she mixed
with those who minded the turkeys and pigs until she was thought to be
somewhat tamed, when the husband sent for her again.
"Well, my dear, how have you been getting on? How did you spend your
time? Did you like the simple life of the country?"
"Oh, pretty well!" she said, "but what annoyed me was to see the
laziness of those people. They are worse there than here. They showed no
care whatever for the herds and flocks they were supposed to mind. I
didn't forget to let them know what I thought of them. Of course, they
didn't like it, and they all hated me in the end."
"Ah! my dear. If you fell foul of people whom you saw for but a moment
or so in the day and when they returned in the evening--if you made them
tired of you; what will the servants in this house become, who must have
you railing at them the whole day long? And what will your poor husband
do whom you expected to have near you all day and night too? Return to
the village, my dear. Adieu! and if during my life the idea should
possess me to have you back again, may I, for my sins, have two such as
you for ever at my elbows in the world to come."
[Illustration]
VII
THE RAT RETIRED FROM THE WORLD
(BOOK VII.--No. 3)
The ancients had a legend which told of a certain rat who, weary of the
anxieties of this world, retired to a cheese, therein to live in peace.
Profound solitude reigned around the hermit. He worked so hard with his
feet and his teeth that in a few days he had a spacious dwelling and
food in plenty. What more could he desire? He thrived well, growing
large and fat. Blessings are showered upon those who are vowed to
simplicity and renunciation!
One day a deputation from Rat-land waited upon him, begging that out of
his abundance he would grant a slight dole towards fitting out a journey
to a strange country where the rats hoped to get succour in their great
war against the cat-tribe. Ratopolis was besieged, and owing to the
poverty of the beleaguered republic they were forced to start with empty
wallets. They asked but little, believing that in a few days help would
arrive. "My friends," said the hermit, "earthly affairs no longer
concern me. In what way could a poor recluse assist you? What could he
do but pray for the help you need! My best hopes and wishes you may be
assured of." With these words this latest among the saints shut his
door.
Whom have I in mind, do you think, when I speak of this rat, so sparing
of his help? A monk?--Oh, no! A dervish rather, for a monk, I suppose,
is at all times charitable.
VIII
THE MAIDEN
(BOOK VII.--No. 5)
A certain damsel of considerable pride made up her mind to choose a
husband who should be young, well-built, and handsome; of agreeable
manners and--note these two points--neither cold nor jealous. Moreover,
she held it necessary that he should have means, high birth, intellect;
in fact, everything. But whoever was endowed with everything?
The fates were evidently anxious to do their best for her, for they sent
her some most noteworthy suitors. But these the proud beauty found not
half good enough. "What, men like those! You propose them for me! Why
they are pitiable! Look at them--fine types, indeed!" According to her
one was a dullard; another's nose was impossible. With this it was one
thing; with that it was another; for superior people are disdainful
above all things.
After these eligible gentlemen had been dismissed, came others of less
worth, and at these too she mocked. "Why," said she, "I would not bemean
myself to open the door to such. They must think me very anxious to be
married. Thank Heaven my single state causes me no regrets."
The maiden contented herself with such notions until advancing age made
her step down from her pedestal. Adieu then to all suitors. One year
passed and then another. Her anxiety increased, and after anger came
grief. She felt that those little smiles and glances which, at the
bidding of love, lurk in the countenances of fair maidens were day by
day deserting her. Finally, when love himself departed, her features
gave pleasure to none. Then she had recourse to those hundred little
ruses and tricks of the toilet to repair the ravages of time; but
nothing that she could do arrested the depredations of that despicable
thief. One may repair a house gone to ruin: but the same thing is not
possible with a face!
Her refined ladyship now sang to a different tune, for her mirror
advised her to take a husband without delay. Perhaps also her heart
harboured the wish. Even superior persons may have longings! This one at
last made a choice that people would at one time have thought
impossible; for she was very pleased and happy in marrying an ugly
cripple.
IX
THE WISHES
(BOOK VII.--No. 6)
When the Great Mogul held empire, there were certain little sprites who
used to undertake all sorts of tasks helpful to mankind. They would do
housework, stable-work, and even gardening. But if one interfered with
them, all would be spoilt.
One of these friendly sprites cultivated the garden of a worthy family
living near the Ganges. His duties were performed deftly and
noiselessly. He loved not only his master and mistress, but the garden
also. Possibly the zephyrs, who are said to be friends of the sprites,
helped him in his tasks. At any rate he did his very best, and never
ceased in his efforts to load his hosts with every pleasure. To prove
his zeal he would have stayed with these people for ever, in spite of
the natural propensity of his kind for waywardness. But his mischievous
fellow-sprites fell to plotting. They induced the chief of their band to
remove him to another field of labour. This the chief promised and,
either by caprice or by policy, finally brought about. Orders came that
the devoted worker should set out for the uttermost part of Norway,
there to take charge of a house which at all times of the year was
covered with snow. So from being an Indian, the poor thing became a
Laplander.
"I am forced to leave you," he said to his hosts, "but for what fault of
mine this has come to pass I cannot tell. I only know that go I must,
and in a very little while too; a month perhaps, or maybe only a week.
Make the most of the interval. Fortunately, I can fulfil three wishes
for you; but not more than three."
To mankind there is nothing very out-of-the-way in merely wishing. These
good people decided that their first wish should be for abundance, and
straightway. Abundance, by the double-handful, poured gold into their
coffers; wheat into their granaries; wine into their cellars. Repletion
was everywhere. But, alas, what cares of direction, what account
keeping; what time and anxiety this affluence involved!
Thieves plotted against them. Great lords borrowed from them. The prince
taxed them. They were, in fact, reduced to misery by this excess of good
fortune. At last they could endure it no longer. "Take back this awful
overplus of wealth," they cried. "Even the poor are happy in comparison
with us, and poverty is more covetable than such riches. Away, then,
with these treasures! And thou, sweet Moderation, mother of all peace,
sister of repose, come to us again!" With these words, which made their
second wish, lo! Moderation returned and they received her with open
arms, once again enjoying peace.
Thus at the end of these two wishes they were exactly where they were in
the first place, and so it is with all who are given to wishing, and
wasting in dreams the time they had better have spent in doing. But
being philosophical people they laughed, and the sprite laughed with
them. To profit by his generosity when he had left them, they hazarded
their third wish and asked for wisdom. Wisdom is a treasure which never
embarrasses.
X
THE DAIRY-WOMAN AND THE PAIL OF MILK
(BOOK VII.--No. 10)
A young country woman named Perrette set out one morning from her little
dairy-farm with a pail of milk which she cleverly balanced upon her head
over a pad or cushion. She hurried with sprightly steps to the market
town, and so that she might be the less encumbered, wore a kirtle that
was short and light--in truth a simple petticoat--and shoes low and
easy. As she went, her thoughts ran upon the price to be gained for her
milk, and she schemed a way to lay out the sum in the purchase of one
hundred eggs. She was sure that with care and diligence these would
yield three broods. "It would be quite easy to me," she said, "to raise
the chicks near the house. The fox would be clever who would not leave
me enough to buy one pig. A pig would fatten at the cost of a little
bran, and when he had grown a fair size I should make a bargain of him
for a good round sum. And then, considering the price he will fetch,
what is to prevent my putting into our stable a cow and a calf? I can
fancy how the calf will frisk about among the sheep!" Thereupon Perrette
herself frisked for joy, transported with the picture of her affluence.
Over toppled the milk! Adieu to calf and cow and pig and broods! This
lady of wealth had to leave, with tearful eyes, her dissipated fortunes,
and go straight to her husband framing excuses to avoid a beating.
[Illustration: Overtoppled the milk.]
The farce became known to the whole countryside, and people called
Perrette by the name of "Milkpail" ever after.
Who has never talked wildly? Who has never built castles in Spain? Wise
men as well as milkmaids; sages and fools, all have waking dreams and
find them sweet! Our senses are carried away by some flattering
falsehood, and then wealth, honours, and beauty seem ours to command.
Alone with my thoughts I challenge the bravest. I dethrone monarchs and
the people rejoicing crown me instead, showering diadems upon my head.
Then lo! a little accident happens to bring me back to my senses, and I
am Poor Jack as before.
XI
THE PRIEST AND THE CORPSE
(BOOK VII.--No. 11)
There was a funeral. The dead body was progressing sadly towards its
last resting place; and following rather gladly, was the priest who
meant to bury it as soon as possible.
The dead man, in a leaden coffin, was borne in a coach, and was properly
shrouded in that robe the dead always wear be it summer or winter. As
for the priest, he sat near it, intoning as hard as he could all sorts
of orisons, psalms, lessons, verses, and responses, in the hope that the
more he gave the more would be paid for. "Leave it to me, Mr. Deadman,"
his actions seemed to say. "I'll give you a nice selection; a little of
everything. It's only a matter of fees, you know." And the Rev. John
Crow kept his eye on his silent charge as if he expected some one would
make off with it. "Mr. Deadman," his looks proclaimed, "by you I shall
receive so and so much in money, so and so much in wax candles, and,
possibly, a little more in incidental profits.
On the strength of these calculations he promised himself a quarter-cask
of the best wine the neighbourhood could offer. Beyond that he settled
that a certain very attractive niece of his, as well as his housekeeper
Paquette, should both have new dresses.
Whilst these pleasant and generous thoughts were running in his mind
there came a terrific shock. The car overturned. The Rev. John Crow's
head was broken by the coffin which fell upon him. Alas for the poor
priest! he went to heaven with the parishioner he thought only to bury.
In reality, life over and over again is nothing but the fate of the Rev.
John Crow who counted on his dead, and of Perrette who counted on her
chickens.
XII
THE MAN WHO RAN AFTER FORTUNE AND THE MAN WHO WAITED FOR HER IN HIS BED
(BOOK VII.--No. 12)
Who does not run after Fortune?
I would I were in some spot whence I could watch the eager crowds
rushing from kingdom to kingdom in their vain chase after the daughter
of Chance!
They are indeed but faithful followers of a phantom; for when they think
they have her, lo! she is gone! Poor wretches! One must pity rather than
blame their foolishness. "That man," they say with sanguine voice,
"raised cabbages; and now he is Pope! Are we not as good as he?" Ah!
yes! a hundred times as good perhaps; but what of that? Fortune has no
eyes for all your merit. Besides, is Papacy, after all, worth peace,
which one must leave behind for it? Peace--a treasure that once was the
possession of gods alone--is seldom granted to the votaries of Dame
Fortune. Do not seek her; and then she will seek you. That is the way
with women!
There once were two friends, who lived comfortably and prospered
moderately in a village; but one of them was always wishing to do
better. One day he said to the other, "Suppose we left this place and
tried our luck elsewhere? You know that a prophet is never received in
his own country!"
"You try, by all means," returned his friend, "but as for me, I am
contented where I am. I desire neither better climate nor better
possibilities. You please yourself. Follow your unquiet spirit. You'll
soon return, and I shall sleep soundly enough awaiting you."
So the man of ambition, or the money-grubber, whichever you like to call
him, took to the road, and arrived next day at a place where, if
anywhere, Dame Fortune should be found, namely, the court. He stayed at
court for some long time, never missing an opportunity to put himself in
the way of favours. He was in evidence when the king went to bed, when
he arose, and on all other propitious occasions.
"What's amiss?" he said at last. "Fortune, I am convinced, dwells here;
for I have seen her the guest now of this one and now of that one. How
is it that I cannot entertain the capricious creature? I must try her
elsewhere. I have already been told that the people of this place are
exceedingly ambitious. Evidently there is no room for me here. So,
adieu! gentleman of the court, and follow to the bitter end this
will-o'-the-wisp! They tell me that Dame Fortune has temples in Surat.
Very well! We will go there."
He embarked at once. What hearts of bronze have humankind! The man who
first attempted this awful route and defied its terrors must have had a
heart of adamant. Often did our traveller turn his eyes towards his
little home as first pirates, then contrary winds, then calms, then
rocks--all agents of death--in turn assailed him. Strange it is that men
should take such pains to meet death, since it will come only too
quickly to them in their homes!
Our adventurer arrived in India. There they told him that Japan was the
place where Fortune dispensed her favours. He hurried there. The sea
wearied of carrying him about. In the end all the profit his long
voyages brought him was the lesson which he learnt from savages, and
that was: "Stop in your own country and let Nature instruct you." Japan,
India, or anywhere else; no one place was better than another as a
hunting ground for Fortune; so the conclusion was forced upon him that
he had been wiser had he stayed in his own village. At last he renounced
all these ungrateful wanderings and returned to his own country; and as
he caught sight of his homestead from afar he wept for joy, and cried:
"Happy is the man who, staying in his home, finds constant occupation in
adjusting his desires to his surroundings. To him the court, the sea,
and the land of Fortune are but hearsay. Thou, fickle Dame, flaunting
before our eyes dignities and wealth, dost cause us to follow after
these allurements to the ends of the earth, only to find them empty
shams. Henceforth I wander no more, for here at home a hundred times
more success shall I find."
Having registered this vow against Fortune the wanderer came to the door
of his friend, and lo! there sat Fortune, waiting on the threshold,
whilst his friend slumbered within.
XIII
AN ANIMAL IN THE MOON
(BOOK VII.--No. 18)
Whilst one philosopher tells us that men are constantly the dupes of
their own senses, another will swear that the senses never deceive. Both
are right. Philosophy truly affirms that the senses will deceive so long
as men are content to take upon trust the evidence the senses bring. But
if this evidence is weighed, measured, and tested by every available
resource of science the senses can deceive no one.
* * * * *
In England, not long ago, when a large telescope was levelled to observe
the moon, the observer was astounded to see what he took to be some new
animal in this lovely planet. Everybody was excited about the marvellous
appearance. Something had occurred up above there which, without doubt,
must betoken great changes of some sort. Who could tell but that all the
dreadful wars that were then convulsing Europe had not been caused by
it? The king, who patronised the sciences, hastened to the observatory
to see the sight, and see it he did. There was the monster right
enough!
And what was it after all?--Nothing but a poor little mouse that had by
some unlucky chance got in between the lenses of the telescope. Here was
the cause of all the devastating wars! Everybody laughed....
XIV
THE FORTUNE-TELLERS
(BOOK VII.--No. 15)
Reputations may be made by the merest chances, and yet reputations
control the fashions. That is a little prologue that would fit the case
of all sorts of people. Everywhere around one sees prejudices, scheming,
and obtuseness; but little or no justice. Nothing can be done to stem
this torrent of evil. It must run its course. It always has been and
always will be.
A woman in Paris once made it her profession to tell fortunes. She
became very popular and had great success. Did anybody lose a bit of
finery; had any one a sweetheart; had any wife a husband she was tired
of; any husband a jealous wife, to the prophetess such would run simply
to be told the thing that it was comforting to hear.
The stock-in-trade of this fortune-teller consisted merely of a
convincing manner, a few words of scientific jargon, a great deal of
impudence, and much good luck. All these things together so impressed
the people that as often as not they would cry, "Miraculous!" In short,
although the woman's ignorance was quite twenty-three carat she passed
for a veritable oracle.
Notwithstanding the fact that this oracle only lived in a garret, she
found so many ready to pay her well for her shams that she soon grew
rich enough to improve the position of her husband, to rent an office,
and buy a house.
The garret being left empty was shortly tenanted by another woman to
whom all the town--women, girls, valets, fine gentlemen--everybody in
fact swarmed, as before, to consult their destiny. The former tenant had
built up such a reputation that the garret was still a sibyl's den, in
spite of the fact that quite a different creature dwelt in it. "I tell
fortunes? Surely you're joking! Why, gentlemen, I cannot read, and as
for writing, I never learnt more than to make my mark." But these
disclaimers were useless. People insisted on having their fortunes told,
and she had to do it. In consequence, she put by plenty of money, being
able to earn, in spite of herself, quite as much as two lawyers could.
The poverty of her home was a help rather than a hindrance. Four broken
chairs and a broom-handle savoured of a witch's frolic.
If this woman had told the truth in a room well-furnished she would have
been scorned. The fashion for a garret had set in, and garret it must
be.
In her new chambers the first fortune-teller waited in vain; for it was
the outward sign alone that brought customers, and the sign was poverty.
I have seen in a palace a robe worn awry win much distinction and
success, such crowds of followers and adherents did it draw. You may
well ask me why!
[Illustration: The garret was still a sybil's den.]
XV
THE COBBLER AND THE FINANCIER
(BOOK VIII.--No. 2)
There was once a cobbler who was so light hearted that he sang from
morning to night. It was wonderful to watch him at his work, and more
wonderful still to hear his runs and trills. He was in fact happier than
the Seven Sages.
This merry soul had a neighbour who was exactly the reverse. He sang
little and slept less; for he was a financier, and made of money, as
they say. Whenever it happened that after a sleepless night he would
doze off in the early morning, the cobbler, who was always up betimes,
would wake him up again with his joyful songs. "Ha!" thought the man of
wealth, "what a misfortune it is that one cannot buy sleep in the open
market as one buys food and drink!" Then an idea came to him. He
invited the cobbler to his house, where he asked him some questions.
"Tell me, Master Gregory, what do you suppose your earnings amount to in
a year?"
"In a year," laughed the cobbler, "that's more than I know. I never keep
accounts that way, nor even keep one day from another. So long as I can
make both ends meet, that's good enough for me!"
"Really!" replied the financier. "But what can you earn in one day?"
"Oh, sometimes more and sometimes less. The mischief of it is that there
are so many fête days and high-days and fast-days crowded into the year,
on which, as the priest tells us, it is wicked to work at all; and worse
still he keeps on finding some new saint or other to give weight to his
sermons. If it were not for that, cobbling would be a fine paying game."
At this the wealthy man laughed. "Look here, my friend, to-day I'll lift
you to the seats of the mighty! Here is a hundred pounds. Guard them and
use them with care."
When the cobbler held the bag of money in his hand he imagined that it
must be as much as would be coined in a hundred years.
Returning home he buried the cash in his cellar. Alas! he buried his joy
with it, for there were no more songs. From the moment he came into
possession of this wealth, the love of which is the root of all evil,
his voice left him, and not only his voice, but his sleep also. And in
place of these came anxiety, suspicion, and alarms; guests which abode
with him constantly. All day he kept his eye on the cellar door. Did a
cat make a noise in the night, then for a certainty that cat was after
his money.
At last, in despair, the wretched cobbler ran to the financier whom he
now no longer kept awake. "Oh, give me back my joy in life, my songs, my
sleep; and take your hundred pounds again."
XVI
THE POWER OF FABLE
(BOOK VIII.--No. 4)
In the old, vain, and fickle city of Athens, an orator,[2] seeing how
the light-hearted citizens were blind to certain dangers which
threatened the state, presented himself before the tribune, and there
sought, by the very tyranny of his forceful eloquence, to move the heart
of the republic towards a sense of the common welfare.
But the people neither heard nor heeded. Then the orator had recourse to
more urgent arguments and stronger metaphors, potent enough to touch
hearts of stone. He spoke in thunders that might have raised the dead;
but his words were carried away on the wind. The beast of many heads[3]
did not deign to hear the launching of these thunderbolts. It was
engrossed in something quite different. A fight between two urchins was
what the crowd found so engaging; not the orator's warnings.
What then did the speaker do? He tried another plan. "Ceres," he began,
"made a voyage one day with an eel and a swallow. After a time the
three travellers were stopped by a river. This the eel got over by
swimming and the swallow by flying----"
"Well! what about Ceres? What did she do?" cried the crowd with one
voice.
"She did what she did!" retorted the speaker in anger. "But first she
raged against you. What! Does it take a child's story to open your ears,
you who should be eager for any news of the peril that menaces; you, the
only state in Greece that takes no heed? You ask what Ceres did. Why do
you not ask what Philip[4] does?"
At this reproach the assembly was stirred. A mere fable brought them
open-eared to all the orator would say.
We are all Athenians in this respect. I myself am, even as I point this
moral. I should take the utmost pleasure now in hearing "The Ass's
Skin"[5] told to me. The world is old, they say: so it is; but,
nevertheless, it is as greedy of amusement as a child.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 2: Elizur Wright explains that the orator was Demades.]
[Footnote 3: Horace spoke of the Roman people as a beast with many
heads.]
[Footnote 4: Philip of Macedon, who was at war against the Greeks.]
[Footnote 5: An old French nursery tale.]
XVII
THE DOG WHO CARRIED HIS MASTER'S DINNER
(BOOK VIII.--No. 7)
Our hands are no more proof against gold than our eyes are proof against
beauty. There are but few who guard their treasures with care enough.
A certain dog who had been taught to carry to his master the mid-day
meal was one day trotting along with the savoury burden slung around his
neck. He was tempted to take a taste himself; but knew that it would be
wrong to do so, and being a temperate, self-governed dog he refrained.
We of the human race allow ourselves to be tempted by covetable things
often enough; but, strange as it is, there seems to be more difficulty
in teaching mankind to resist temptation than there is in teaching dogs
to do so.
On this particular day the dog was met by a mastiff who at once wanted
the dinner, but did not find it so easy to capture as he thought; for
our dog put it down and stood guard over it. There was a mighty tussle.
Soon others arrived; curs that were used to knocks and kicks while
picking up a living in the streets. Seeing that he should be badly
over-matched, and that his master's dinner was in danger of being
devoured by the crowd, he bethought himself how he too might have his
share, if shared it must be. So he very wisely exclaimed, "No fighting,
gentlemen, my bit will suffice me. Do as you please with the rest." With
these words he snapped up a portion, upon which all the rest began to
pull and jostle to their utmost and feasted merrily.
In this I seem to see the picture of one of those unfortunate towns or
states which occasionally have suffered from the greed of their
ministers and officials. Each functionary has an eye to his own
advantage, and the smartest sets a pattern for the others. The way in
which the public funds disappear is amusing. If one sheriff or provost,
having a scruple of conscience, finds a trifling argument in defence of
the public interest the others show him that he is a fool if he utters
half a word. So, with a very little trouble, he gives way, and often
becomes the leading offender.
XVIII
THYRSIS AND AMARANTH
(BOOK VIII.--No. 13)
A shepherd who was deeply in love with a shepherdess was sitting one day
by her side trying to find words to express the emotions her charms
created in his breast.
"Ah! Amaranth, dear," he sighed, "could you but feel, as I do, a certain
pain which, whilst it tears the heart, is so delightful that it
enchants, you would say that nothing under heaven is its equal. Let me
tell you of it. Believe me, trust me. Would I deceive you? You, for whom
I am filled with the tenderest sentiments the heart can feel!"
"And what, my Thyrsis, is the name you give this pleasing pain?"
"It is called love," said Thyrsis.
"Ah!" responded the maiden, "that is a beautiful name. Tell me by what
signs I may know it, if it come to me. What are the feelings it gives
one?"
Thyrsis, taking heart of grace, replied with much ardour: "One feels an
anguish beside which the joys of kings are but dull and insipid. One
forgets oneself, and takes pleasure in the solitudes of the woods. To
glance into a brook is to see, not oneself, but an ever-haunting image.
To any other form one's eyes are blind. It may be that there is a
shepherd in the village at whose voice, at the mention of whose name,
you will blush; at the thought of whom you will sigh. Why, one knows
not! To see him will be a burning desire, and yet you would shrink from
him."
"Oho!" said Amaranth. "Is this then the pain you have preached so much!
It is hardly new to me. I seem to know something of it." The heart of
Thyrsis leapt, for he thought that at last he had gained his end; when
the fair one added, "'Tis just in this way that I feel for Cladimant!"
Imagine the vexation and misery of poor Thyrsis!
How many like him, intending to work solely for themselves, prove only
to have been stepping stones for others.
XIX
THE RAT AND THE ELEPHANT
(BOOK VIII.--No. 15)
An uncommonly small rat was watching an uncommonly big elephant and
sneering at the slowness of his steps.
The enormous animal was heavily laden. On his back rose a three-storied
howdah, wherein were accommodated a celebrated sultana, her dog, her
cat, her monkey, her parrot, her old servant, and all her household.
They were going upon a pilgrimage.
The rat wondered why all the people should express astonishment at
seeing this enormous bulk--"As if the fact of occupying more or less
space implied that one was the more or less important accordingly! What
is it you admire in him, you men? If it is only the weight of his body
which fills the children with terror, then we rats, small as we are,
consider ourselves not one grain less than the elephant." He would have
said more; but the cat, bounding out of her cage, let him see in an
instant that a rat is not an elephant.
XX
THE HOROSCOPE
(BOOK VIII.--No. 16)
Our destiny is frequently met in the very paths we take to avoid it.
A father had an only son whom he loved excessively. His devoted
affection caused him to be so anxious as to the boy's welfare that he
sought to learn from astrologers and fortune-tellers what fate was in
store for the son and heir. One of these soothsayers told him that an
especial danger lay with lions, from which the youth must be guarded
until the age of twenty was reached, but not after. The father, to make
sure of this precaution, upon the issue of which depended the life of
his loved one, commanded that by no chance should the boy ever be
permitted to go beyond the threshold of the house. Ample provision was
made for the satisfaction of all the wishes proper to youth in the way
of play with his companions, jumping, running, walking, and so forth. As
the age approached when the spirits of youth yearn for the chase, he was
taught to hold that sport in abhorrence.
But temperament cannot be changed by persuasion and counsel, nor by
enlightenment. The young man, eager, ardent, and full of courage, no
sooner felt the promptings of his years than he sighed for the
forbidden pleasures. The greater the hindrance the stronger the desire.
Knowing the reason of his galling restrictions, and viewing day by day
in his palatial home the hunting scenes pictured in paint and tapestry
on every wall, his excitement became unrestrained.
Once his eye fell upon a pictured lion. "Ah! Monster!" he exclaimed in a
transport of indignation. "It is to you that the shade and fetters in
which I live are due!" With that he struck the lion's form a heavy blow
with his fist. Hidden under the tapestry a great nail offered its cruel
point, and upon this his hand was impaled. The wound grew beyond the
reach of medical skill, and in the end this life, so guarded and
cherished, was lost by means of the very care taken to preserve it.