Academical quarrel, one in which his opponents did not display so great
an absence of courtesy. I refer to the controversy between the ancient
and modern schools, which was revived in full Academy by Christopher
Perrault. Boileau was as eager in the matter as Racine. La Fontaine
enrolled himself in their ranks, with less of partisanship, but equal
decision. Thus, the three best instances that the panegyrist of the
moderns could have employed in support of his position, were found
ranged against him. The turn which the dispute took is singular indeed.
Those who were really the rivals of antiquity declared themselves in
its favour, while writers of mediocrity, who had much less personal
interest in the question than they themselves imagined, proclaimed with
fervour the superiority of the moderns. Saint-Sorlin had begun the
battle. On Perrault's signal the weapons were snatched up once more,
and Lamotte-Houdard continued the war. Strange champions of progress in
letters! whom the absurdity of the contrast between their pretensions
on behalf of their school and the little merits of themselves, its
examples, have almost alone saved from oblivion. In fact, the only
thing which remains of the least interest in the bulky files of this
controversy is our poet's admirable epistle to the learned Huet, at the
time Bishop of Soissons.
As long as La Fontaine was under the watchful eye of Madame de la
Sablière, he was guilty of nothing worse than mere peccadilloes; but as
soon as she had closed her saloon--having been abandoned by the Marquis
de la Fare--and had given herself up to the practice of the most
austere devotion, the old infant, whom she had left without a guardian,
took advantage of his independence precisely as any school-boy might
have done. The princes of the house of Vendôme, who amused themselves
in the Temple like real Templars, invited him to their festivals,
and led him on by their example. Fresh seductions enticed him to an
improper indulgence in pleasures suited only to a time of life far
different from his own. It is sad to have to record these weaknesses
on the part of our poet, but we have, at least, the consolation of
knowing that they were expiated by a most sincere repentance.
A serious illness at length warned La Fontaine that it was time for
him to refrain from the pursuit of pleasure, and to contemplate the
approach of death. He had never, even in the midst of his wildest
dissipation, failed in respect for religion: he had neither insulted
nor neglected it. The easy morals of men and women of the world in
the seventeenth century were by no means a systematic revolt against
religious principles. Such persons were quite conscious that they were
offending against that which is right, and had no idea of maintaining
the contrary. The most licentious of them intended to repent some day.
Where such a tone of feeling prevails, a change of life need not be
despaired of. It must be acknowledged that La Fontaine was slow to make
such a change; but when he did make it, he returned completely to that
fervent piety which had led him to resolve in his youth to adopt the
sacred calling. Racine, who had long since discarded the brief errors
of his youth, nursed his friend during this illness, and procured his
reconciliation with the Church. It was he, when at the sick man's
pillow, to whom La Fontaine naively proposed to distribute in alms the
price which he was to receive for certain copies of a new edition of
his "Tales." However, his illness grew daily more serious, and a young
vicar of Saint Roch, the Abbé Poujet, was charged with the duty of
giving the final direction to Fontaine's penitence. He found him in the
best frame of mind, and La Fontaine not only consented to disavow and
apologise for his literary offences before a deputation of the Academy,
but also promised, should he survive, to write only on moral or
religious subjects; and, finally, agreed to sacrifice to the scruples
of his director, and the Sorbonne, a comedy in verse, which was about
to be represented, and which the poet loved as the child of his old
age. This sacrifice was truly meritorious, for it was not accomplished
without many regrets. No doubt could exist as to the sincerity of his
conversion. La Fontaine accordingly received the last sacrament; and
when a rumour was spread abroad that he was dead, it was declared that
he had died as a saint. This rumour of his departure, however, was
not well founded, for health had returned with peace of soul, and he
was yet allowed time to prove, by the rigorous practice of the duties
of a Christian, the sincerity of his repentance. Whilst following all
the phases of this solemn preparation for death, I am astonished and
saddened by the fact that I can behold around the sick man's couch
academicians, clergy, and crowds of friends, but neither wife nor child.
While the illustrious and henceforth Christian guest of Madame de la
Sablière was recovering his health, his patroness had died at the
Incurables, to which she had retired. La Fontaine had scarcely regained
his health, when he had to leave the mansion which had afforded him an
asylum for more than twenty-two years; he was on the point of quitting
it when he met M. d'Hervart, who had come to propose that he should go
with him to his hotel in the Rue Plâtrière. La Fontaine's answer is
well known. He accepted the offer.
"Which of them loved the other the better?"
It was in this magnificent abode, adorned by the pencil of Mignard,
that La Fontaine passed in peace the two years which yet remained to
him of life. He still visited the Academy, but he went more frequently
to church; he put a few psalms into verse, paraphrased the <i>Dies
Iræ</i>, and even yet occasionally found time for the composition of
fresh fables. It was in this way that Fénélon was able to give him a
share in the education of the young Duke of Burgundy, who furnished
subjects which the good old poet put into verse with an infantine
delight. The preceptor and his royal pupil rivalled each other in
delicate attentions towards the amiable old man, who had not lost by
his conversion either his good temper or his wit. Thanks to this high
protection, to the vigilance of friendship and the consolation of
religion, we shall be able to say, of him when he shall have closed his
eyes, "His end was as calm as the close of a summer day."
La Fontaine passed away gently, after a few weeks of extreme weakness,
on the 13th of February, 1695, in the seventy-fourth year of his age.
Racine saw him die with extreme regret, and Fénélon, deeply affected,
expressed in exquisite terms the admiration of his contemporaries.
Let us quote the last sentences of this brief funeral oration:--"Read
him, and then say whether Anacreon be more gracefully playful; whether
Horace has adorned morality with more varied and more attractive
ornaments; whether Terence has painted the manners of mankind with more
nature and truth; and finally, whether Virgil himself is more touching
or more harmonious." We shall not seek for any further homage to his
genius; but, as regards his character, we obtain a precious testimony,
which has hitherto been unknown to his biographers. On learning of the
death of his old friend, Maucroix wrote these touching lines:--"My
very dear and faithful friend, M. de La Fontaine, is dead. We were
friends for more than fifty years; and I thank God that he allowed our
great friendship to survive to a good old age without any interruption
or diminution, and that I am able sincerely to say, that I have also
tenderly loved him, as much at the last as at the first. God, in his
merciful wisdom, has thought fit to take him to his own holy repose.
His soul was the most sincere and candid that I have ever met with, and
was totally free from anything like guile. I believe that he never told
a falsehood in his life."
GERUZEZ.
THE LIFE OF ÆSOP, THE PHRYGIAN.
We have no certain records concerning the births of either Homer or
Æsop; and scarcely any important circumstance is known respecting
their lives: which is somewhat strange, since history readily fathers
facts far less interesting and useful. Many destroyers of nations,
many ignoble princes, too, have found chroniclers of the most
trifling particulars of their lives, and yet we are ignorant of the
most important of those of Homer and Æsop--that is to say, of the
two persons who have most deserved well of posterity: for Homer is
not only the father of the gods, but also of all good poets; whilst
Æsop seems to me to be one of those who ought to be reckoned amongst
the wise men for whom Greece is so celebrated, since he taught true
wisdom, and taught it with more skill than is employed by those who lay
down mere definitions and rules. Biographies of these two great men
have certainly been written, but the best critics regard both these
narratives as fabulous, and particularly that written by Planudes.
For my own part I cannot coincide in this criticism; for as Planudes
lived in an age when the remembrance of circumstances respecting Æsop
might well be still kept alive,[1] I think it is probable that he had
learnt by tradition the particulars he has left us concerning him.
Entertaining this belief, I have followed him, suppressing nothing
which he has said of Æsop,[2] save such particulars as have appeared to
me either too puerile or else wanting in good taste.
Æsop was a Phrygian, a native of a town called Amorium, and was
born about the fifty-seventh Olympiad, some two centuries after the
foundation of Rome. It is hard to say whether he had to thank or to
complain of Nature; for whilst she gave him a keen intelligence, she
also afflicted him with a deformed body and ugly face--so deformed
and so ugly, indeed, that he scarcely resembled a man; and, moreover,
she had almost entirely deprived him of the use of speech. Encumbered
by such defects as these, if he had not been born a slave, he could
scarcely have failed to become one; but at the same time his soul ever
remained free and independent of the freaks of fortune.
The first master whom he had sent him to labour in the fields, either
because he thought him unfitted for anything else, or because he
wished to avoid the sight of so disagreeable an object. It happened,
on a certain occasion, that this master, on paying a visit to his
country house, was presented by a peasant with some figs, which he
found so good that he had them carefully locked up, giving directions
to his butler, who was named Agathopus, to bring them to him when he
should leave the bath. It chanced that Æsop had occasion to visit the
mansion at this time, and as soon as he had entered it, Agathopus
took advantage of the opportunity to share the figs with some of
his friends, and then throw the blame of the theft on Æsop, never
supposing that he would be able to defend himself from the charge, as
he not only stammered, but appeared to be an idiot. The punishments
inflicted on their slaves by the ancients were very cruel, and this
was an aggravated theft. Poor Æsop threw himself at his master's feet,
and making himself understood as well as he could, he begged that his
punishment might be deferred for a few moments. This favour having been
accorded him, he fetched some warm water, and having drunk it in his
master's presence, thrust his finger down his throat. He vomited, and
nothing came up but the water as it went down. Having thus proved his
own innocence, he made signs that the others should be compelled to
do as he had done. Every one was astonished, scarcely believing that
Æsop could have devised such a scheme. Agathopus and his companions in
the theft drank the water and thrust their fingers down their throats,
as the Phrygian had done, and straightway the figs, still undigested,
re-appeared with the water. By this means Æsop proved his innocence,
and his accusers were punished for their theft and malice.
On the following day, when the master had set off for town, and Æsop
was at his usual work, some travellers who had lost their way entreated
him, in the name of hospitable Jove, to show them their right road to
the town. Upon this, Æsop first prevailed upon them to repose for a
time in the shade, and then, after having refreshed them with a slight
collation, became himself their guide, not leaving them until he had
put them well on their right road. The good people raised their hands
to heaven, and besought Jupiter that he would not leave this charitable
act unrewarded. Æsop had scarcely left them, when, overcome with heat
and with weariness, he fell asleep. During his slumber he dreamt the
goddess Fortune appeared before him, and, having untied his tongue,
bestowed upon him that art of which he may be termed the author.
Startled with delight at such a dream, he at once awoke, and, leaping
up, exclaimed, "What is this? my voice is free, and I can pronounce the
words 'plough,' 'rake,' and, in fact, everything I choose!"
This miracle was the cause of his changing masters, for a certain
Zenas, who acted as steward on the estate, and who superintended the
slaves, having beaten one outrageously for a fault which did not merit
such severe punishment, Æsop could not refrain from reproving him, and
threatened to make known his bad conduct. Zenas, with the purpose of
anticipating Æsop and avenging himself upon him, went to the master
and told him a prodigy had happened in his house--that the Phrygian
had recovered the use of speech, but that the wretch only made use of
his gift to blaspheme and say evil things of his master. The latter
believed him, and went beyond this, for he gave Æsop to Zenas, with
liberty to do what he liked with him. On returning to the fields, Zenas
was met by a merchant, who asked him whether he would sell him some
beast of burden. "I cannot do that," said Zenas; "but I will sell you,
if you like, one of our slaves;" and then sent for Æsop. On seeing
Æsop the merchant said, "Is it to make fun of me that you propose to
sell me such a thing as that? One would take him for an ape." Having
thus spoken, the merchant went off, half grumbling and half laughing
at the beautiful object which had just been shown him. But Æsop called
him back, and said, "Take courage and buy me, and you will find that
I shall not be useless. If you have children who cry and are naughty,
the very sight of me will make them quiet; I shall serve, in fact,
as a real old bogy." This suggestion so amused the merchant, that he
purchased Æsop for three oboli, and said to him, laughing, "The gods be
praised! I have not got hold of any great prize; but then on the other
hand I have not spent much money."
Amongst other goods this merchant bought and sold slaves: and as he
was on his way to Ephesus to offer for sale those that he had, such
things as were required for use on the journey were laid on the backs
of each slave in proportion to his strength. Æsop prayed that, out of
regard to the smallness of his stature, and the fact that he was a new
comer, he might be treated gently; his comrades replied that he might
refrain from carrying anything at all, if he chose. But as Æsop made it
a point of honour to carry something like the rest, they allowed him to
select his own burden, and he selected the bread-basket, which was the
heaviest burden of all. Every one believed that he had done this out
of sheer folly; but at dinner-time the basket was lightened of some of
its load; the same thing happened at supper, then on the following day,
and so on; so that on the second day he walked free of any burden, and
was much admired for the keenness of his wit.
As for the merchant, he got rid of his slaves, with the exception of
a grammarian, a singer, and Æsop, whom he intended to expose for sale
at Samos. Before taking them to the market-place he had the two first
dressed as well as he could, whilst Æsop, on the other hand, was only
clad in an old sack, and placed between his two companions to set them
off. Some intending purchasers soon presented themselves, and amongst
others a philosopher named Xantus. He asked of the grammarian and the
singer what they could do. "Everything," they replied; on which Æsop
laughed in a manner which may be well imagined, and, indeed, Planudes
asserts that his grin was so terrible that the bystanders were almost
on the point of taking flight. The merchant valued the singer at
a thousand oboli, the grammarian at three thousand, and said that
whoever first purchased one of the two should have the other thrown
in. The high price of the singer and the grammarian disgusted Xantus,
but, that he might not return home without having made some purchase,
his disciples persuaded him to buy that little make-believe of a man
who had laughed with such exquisite grace. He would be useful as a
scarecrow, said some; as a buffoon, said others. Xantus allowed himself
to be persuaded, and consented to give sixty oboli for Æsop, but before
he completed the bargain demanded of him, as he had of his comrades,
for what work he was fitted; to which Æsop replied, "For nothing, as
his two companions had monopolised all possible work." The clerk of the
market, taking the droll nature of the purchase into consideration,
graciously excused Xantus from paying the usual fee.
Xantus had a wife of very delicate tastes, who was extremely particular
as to the style of persons she allowed to be about her. Xantus knew,
therefore, that to present his new slave to her in the ordinary way
would be to excite not only her ridicule but her anger. He resolved,
accordingly, to make the presentation a subject of pleasantry, and
spread a report through the mansion that he had purchased a young slave
as handsome as ever was seen. Having heard this, the young girls who
waited on the mistress were ready to tear each other to pieces for the
sake of having the new slave as her own particular servant; and their
astonishment at the appearance of the new-comer may well be imagined.
One hid her face in her hands, another fled, and a third screamed. The
mistress of the house, for her part, said that she could very well see
that this monster had been brought to drive her away from the house,
and that she had long perceived that the philosopher was tired of her.
Word followed word, and the quarrel at length became so hot that the
lady demanded her goods, and declared that she would return to her
parents. Xantus, however, by means of his patience, and Æsop by means
of his wit, contrived to arrange matters. The lady resigned her project
of insisting upon a divorce from bed and board, and admitted that she
might possibly in time become accustomed to even so ugly a slave.
I have omitted many little circumstances in which Æsop displayed
the liveliness of his wit; for although they all serve as proofs of
the keenness of his mind, they are not sufficiently important to be
recorded. We will merely give here a single specimen of his good sense
and of his master's ignorance. The latter on a certain occasion went
to a gardener's to choose a salad for himself; and when the herbs had
been selected, the gardener begged the philosopher to satisfy him
with respect to something which concerned him, the philosopher, as
much as it concerned gardening in general, and it was this: that the
herbs which he planted and cultivated with great care did not prove
so valuable as those which the earth produced of itself without any
thought. Xantus attributed the whole thing to the will of Providence,
as persons are apt to do when they are puzzled. Æsop having overheard
the conversation, began to laugh, and having drawn his master aside,
advised him to say that he had made so general a reply because it was
not suited to his dignity to answer such trivial questions, but that he
would leave its solution to his slave-boy, who would doubtless satisfy
the inquirer. Then, Xantus having gone to walk at the other end of
the garden, Æsop compared the garden to a woman who, having children
by a first husband, should espouse a second husband who should have
children by a first wife. His new wife would not fail to form feelings
of aversion for her step-children, and would deprive them of their
due nourishment for the sake of benefiting her own. And it was thus
with the earth, which adopted only with reluctance the productions of
labour and culture, and reserved all her tenderness and benefits for
her own productions alone--being a step-mother to the former, and a
passionately fond mother of the latter. The gardener was so delighted
with this answer, that he offered Æsop the choice of anything in his
garden.
Some time after this a great difference took place between Xantus
and his wife. The philosopher, being at a feast, put aside certain
delicacies, and said to Æsop, "Carry these to my loving pet;" upon
which Æsop gave them to a little dog of which his master was very fond.
Xantus, on returning home, did not fail to inquire how his wife liked
his present, and as the latter evidently did not understand what he
meant, Æsop was sent for to give an explanation. Xantus, who was only
too willing to find a pretext for giving his slave a thrashing, asked
him whether he had not expressly said, "Carry those sweet things from
me to <i>my loving pet?</i>" To which Æsop replied, that Xantus's loving
pet was not his wife, who for the least word threatened to sue for
a divorce, but his little dog, who patiently endured the harshest
language, and which, even after having been beaten, returned to be
caressed. The philosopher was silenced by this reply, but his wife
was thrown into such a passion by it that she left the house. Xantus
employed in vain every relation and friend to endeavour to induce her
to return, both prayers and arguments being equally lost upon her. In
this dilemma Æsop advised his master to have recourse to a stratagem.
He went to the market, and having bought a quantity of game and such
things, as though for a sumptuous wedding, managed to be met by one of
the lady's servants. The latter, of course, asked why he had bought
all those good things, upon which Æsop replied that his master, being
unable to persuade his wife to return to him, was about to wed another.
As soon as the lady heard this news she was naturally constrained, by
the spirit of jealousy and contradiction, to return to her husband's
side. She did not do this, however, without being resolved to be
avenged some time or other on Æsop, who day after day played some
prank, and yet always succeeded by some witty scheme in avoiding
punishment. The philosopher found his new slave more than his match.
On a certain market-day Xantus, having resolved to regale some friends,
ordered Æsop to purchase the best of everything, and nothing else.
"Ah!" said the Phrygian to himself, "I will teach you to specify what
you want, and not to trust to the discretion of a slave." He went
accordingly and purchased a certain number of tongues, which he had
served up with various sauces as entrées, entremets, and so forth.
When the tongues first appeared at table, the guests praised the
choice of this dish, but when it appeared in constant succession, they
became disgusted with it; and Xantus exclaimed, "Did I not bid you buy
whatever was best in the market?" "Well," replied Æsop, "and what is
better than the tongue? It is the very bond of civilised life, the key
of all the sciences, the organ of reason and truth; by its aid we build
cities and organise municipal institutions; we instruct, persuade, and,
what is more than all, we perform the first of all duties, which is
that of offering up prayers to the gods." "Ah! well," said Xantus, who
thought that he would catch him in a trap at last, "purchase then for
me to-morrow the worst of everything; the same gentlemen who are now
present will dine with me, and I should like to give them some variety."
On the following day Æsop had only the same dish served at table,
saying that "the tongue is the worst thing which there is in the world;
for it is the author of wars, the source of law-suits, and the mother
of every species of dissension. If it be argued that it is the organ
of truth, it may with equal veracity be maintained that it is the
organ of error, and, what is worse, of calumny. By its means cities
are destroyed, and men exhorted to the performance of evil deeds. If,
on the one hand, it sometimes praises the gods, on the other it more
frequently blasphemes them." Upon this one of the company said to
Xantus, that certainly this varlet was very necessary to him, for he
was more calculated than any one else to exercise the patience of a
philosopher.