Fables of La Fontaine — a New Edition, with Notes

by Jean de La Fontaine

[XX].--DISCORD.

The goddess Discord, having made, on high,
Among the gods a general grapple,
And thence a lawsuit, for an apple,
Was turn'd out, bag and baggage, from the sky.
The animal call'd man, with open arms,
Received the goddess of such naughty charms,--
Herself and Whether-or-no, her brother,
With Thine-and-mine, her stingy mother.
In this, the lower universe,
Our hemisphere she chose to curse:
For reasons good she did not please
To visit our antipodes--
Folks rude and savage like the beasts,
Who, wedding-free from forms and priests,
In simple tent or leafy bower,
Make little work for such a power.
That she might know exactly where
Her direful aid was in demand,
Renown flew courier through the land,
Reporting each dispute with care;
Then she, outrunning Peace, was quickly there;
And if she found a spark of ire,
Was sure to blow it to a fire.
At length, Renown got out of patience
At random hurrying o'er the nations,
And, not without good reason, thought
A goddess, like her mistress, ought
To have some fix'd and certain home,
To which her customers might come;
For now they often search'd in vain.
With due location, it was plain
She might accomplish vastly more,
And more in season than before.
To find, howe'er, the right facilities,
Was harder, then, than now it is;
For then there were no nunneries.
So, Hymen's inn at last assign'd,
Thence lodged the goddess to her mind.[[25]]

[[25]] La Fontaine, gentle reader, does not mean to say that Discord lodges with all married people, but that the foul fiend is never better satisfied than when she can find such accommodation.--Translator.

[XXI].--THE YOUNG WIDOW.[[26]]

A husband's death brings always sighs;
The widow sobs, sheds tears--then dries.
Of Time the sadness borrows wings;
And Time returning pleasure brings.
Between the widow of a year
And of a day, the difference
Is so immense,
That very few who see her
Would think the laughing dame
And weeping one the same.
The one puts on repulsive action,
The other shows a strong attraction.
The one gives up to sighs, or true or false;
The same sad note is heard, whoever calls.
Her grief is inconsolable,
They say. Not so our fable,
Or, rather, not so says the truth.
To other worlds a husband went
And left his wife in prime of youth.
Above his dying couch she bent,
And cried, 'My love, O wait for me!
My soul would gladly go with thee!'
(But yet it did not go.)
The fair one's sire, a prudent man,
Check'd not the current of her woe.
At last he kindly thus began:--
'My child, your grief should have its bound.
What boots it him beneath the ground
That you should drown your charms?
Live for the living, not the dead.
I don't propose that you be led
At once to Hymen's arms;
But give me leave, in proper time,
To rearrange the broken chime
With one who is as good, at least,
In all respects, as the deceased.'
'Alas!' she sigh'd, 'the cloister vows
Befit me better than a spouse.'
The father left the matter there.
About one month thus mourn'd the fair;
Another month, her weeds arranged;
Each day some robe or lace she changed,
Till mourning dresses served to grace,
And took of ornament the place.
The frolic band of loves
Came flocking back like doves.
Jokes, laughter, and the dance,
The native growth of France,
Had finally their turn;
And thus, by night and morn,
She plunged, to tell the truth,
Deep in the fount of youth.
Her sire no longer fear'd
The dead so much endear'd;
But, as he never spoke,
Herself the silence broke:--
'Where is that youthful spouse,' said she,
'Whom, sir, you lately promised me?'

[[26]] Abstemius.

EPILOGUE.

Here check we our career:
Long books I greatly fear.
I would not quite exhaust my stuff;
The flower of subjects is enough.
To me, the time is come, it seems,
To draw my breath for other themes.
Love, tyrant of my life, commands
That other work be on my hands.
I dare not disobey.
Once more shall Psyche be my lay.
I'm call'd by Damon to portray
Her sorrows and her joys.
I yield: perhaps, while she employs,
My muse will catch a richer glow;
And well if this my labour'd strain
Shall be the last and only pain
Her spouse[[27]] shall cause me here below.

[[27]] Her spouse.--Cupid, the spouse of Psyche. The "other work on my hands" mentioned in this Epilogue (the end of the poet's first collection of Fables) was no doubt the writing of his "Psyche," which was addressed to his patron the Duchess de Bouillon, and published in 1659, the year following the publication of the first six Books of the Fables. See also Translator's Preface.

---