The Tales and Novels.

by Jean de La Fontaine.

LIFE OF JEAN DE LA FONTAINE

Jean de La Fontaine was born on the 8th of July, 1621, at Chateau-Thierry, and his family held a respectable position there.

His education was neglected, but he had received that genius which makes amends for all. While still young the tedium of society led him into retirement, from which a taste for independence afterwards withdrew him.

He had reached the age of twenty-two, when a few sounds from the lyre of Malherbe, heard by accident, awoke in him the muse which slept.

He soon became acquainted with the best models: Pheedrus, Virgil, Horace and Terence amongst the Latins; Plutarch, Homer and Plato, amongst the Greeks; Rabelais, Marot and d'Urfe, amongst the French; Ta.s.so, Ariosto and Boccaccio, amongst the Italians.

He married, in compliance with the wishes of his family, a beautiful, witty and chaste woman, who drove him to despair.

He was sought after and cherished by all distinguished men of letters.

But it was two Ladies who kept him from experiencing the pangs of poverty.

La Fontaine, if there remain anything of thee, and if it be permitted to thee for a moment to soar above all time; see the names of La Sabliere and of Hervard pa.s.s with thine to the ages to come!

The life of La Fontaine was, so to speak, only one of continual distraction. In the midst of society, he was absent from it. Regarded almost as an imbecile by the crowd, this clever author, this amiable man, only permitted himself to be seen at intervals and by friends.

He had few books and few friends.

Amongst a large number of works that he has left, everyone knows his fables and his tales, and the circ.u.mstances of his life are written in a hundred places.

He died on the 16th of March, 1695.

Let us keep silence about his last moments, for fear of irritating those who never forgive.

His fellow-citizens honour him in his posterity to this day.

Long after his death, foreigners went to visit the room which he had occupied.

Once a year, I shall go to visit his tomb.

On that day, I shall tear up a fable of La Mothe, a tale of Vergier, or several of the best pages of Grecourt.

He was buried in the cemetery of Saint-Joseph, by the side of Moliere.

That spot will always be held sacred by poets and people of taste.

THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE

TO THE FIRST VOLUME OF THESE TALES

I had resolved not to consent to the printing of these Tales, until after I had joined to them those of Boccaccio, which are those most to my taste; but several persons have advised me to produce at once what I have remaining of these trifles, in order to prevent from cooling the curiosity to see them, which is still in its first ardour. I gave way to this advice without much difficulty, and I have thought well to profit by the occasion. Not only is that permitted me, but it would be vanity on my part to despise such an advantage. It has sufficed me to wish that no one should be imposed upon in my favour, and to follow a road contrary to that of certain persons, who only make friends in order to gain voices in their favour by their means; creatures of the Cabal, very different from that Spaniard who prided himself on being the son of his own works.

Although I may still be as much in want of these artifices as any other person, I cannot bring myself to resolve to employ them; however I shall accommodate myself if possible to the taste of the times, instructed as I am by my own experience, that there is nothing which is more necessary.

Indeed one cannot say that all seasons are suitable for all cla.s.ses of books. We have seen the Roundelays, the Metamorphoses, the Crambos, reign one after another. At present, these gallantries are out of date and n.o.body cares about them: so certain is it that what pleases at one time may not please at another! It only belongs to works of truly solid merit and sovereign beauty, to be well received by all minds and in all ages, without possessing any other pa.s.sport than the sole merit with which they are filled. As mine are so far distant from such a high degree of perfection, prudence advises that I should keep them in my cabinet unless I choose well my own time for producing them. This is what I have done, or what I have tried to do in this edition, in which I have only added new Tales, because it seemed to me that people were prepared to take pleasure in them. There are some which I have extended, and others which I have abridged, only for the sake of diversifying them and making them less tedious. But I am occupying myself over matters about which perhaps people will take no notice, whilst I have reason to apprehend much more important objections. There are only two princ.i.p.al ones which can be made against me; the one that this book is licentious; the other that it does not sufficiently spare the fair s.e.x. With regard to the first, I say boldly that the nature of what is understood as a tale decided that it should be so, it being an indispensable law according to Horace, or rather according to reason and common sense, that one must conform one's self to the nature of the things about which one writes. Now, that I should be permitted to write about these as so many others have done and with success I do not believe it can be doubted; and people cannot condemn me for so doing, without also condemning Arios...o...b..fore me and the Ancients before Ariosto. It may be said that I should have done better to have suppressed certain details, or at least to have disguised them. Nothing was more easy, but it would have weakened the tale and taken away some of its charm: So much circ.u.mspection is only necessary in works which promise great discretion from the beginning, either by their subject or by the manner in which they are treated. I confess that it is necessary to keep within certain limits, and that the narrowest are the best; also it must be allowed me that to be too scrupulous would spoil all. He who would wish to reduce Boccaccio to the same modesty as Virgil, would a.s.suredly produce nothing worth having, and would sin against the laws of propriety by setting himself the task to observe them. For in order that one may not make a mistake in matters of verse and prose, extreme modesty and propriety are two very different things. Cicero makes the latter consist in saying what is appropriate one should say, considering the place, the time, and the persons to whom one is speaking. This principle once admitted, it is not a fault of judgment to entertain the people of to-day with Tales which are a little broad. Neither do I sin in that against morality. If there is anything in our writings which is capable of making an impression on the mind, it is by no means the gaiety of these Tales; it pa.s.ses off lightly; I should rather fear a tranquil melancholy, into which the most chaste and modest novels are very capable of plunging us, and which is a great preparation for love. As to the second objection, by which people reproach me that this book does wrong to womankind, they would be right if I were speaking seriously: but who does not see that this is all in jest, and consequently cannot injure? We must not be afraid on that account that marriages in the future will be less frequent, and husbands more on their guard. It may still be objected that these Tales are unfounded or that they have everywhere a foundation easy to destroy; in short that they are absurdities and have not the least tinge of probability.

I reply in a few words that I have my authorities: and besides it is neither truth nor probability which makes the beauty and the charm of these Tales: it is only the manner of telling them. These are the princ.i.p.al points on which I have thought it necessary to defend myself.

I abandon the rest to the censors; the more so as it would be an infinite undertaking to pretend to reply to all. Criticism never stops short nor ever wants for subjects on which to exercise itself: even if those I am able to foresee were taken from it, it would soon have discovered others.

TALES AND NOVELS OF J. DE LA FONTAINE .......

JOCONDE

IN Lombardy's fair land, in days of yore, Once dwelt a prince, of youthful charms, a store; Each FAIR, with anxious look, his favours sought, And ev'ry heart within his net was caught.

Quite proud of beauteous form and smart address, In which the world was led to acquiesce, He cried one day, while ALL attention paid, I'll bet a million, Nature never made Beneath the sun, another man like me, Whose symmetry with mine can well agree.

If such exist, and here will come, I swear I'll show him ev'ry lib'ral princely care.

A n.o.ble Roman, who the challenge heard, This answer gave the king his soul preferr'd --Great prince, if you would see a handsome man, To have my brother here should be your plan; A frame more perfect Nature never gave; But this to prove, your courtly dames I crave; May judge the fact, when I'm convinc'd they'll find: Like you, the youth will please all womankind; And since so many sweets at once may cloy, 'Twere well to have a partner in your joy.

THE king, surpris'd, expressed a wish to view This brother, form'd by lines so very true; We'll see, said he, if here his charms divine Attract the heart of ev'ry nymph, like mine; And should success attend our am'rous lord, To you, my friend, full credit we'll accord.

AWAY the Roman flew, Joconde to get, (So nam'd was he in whom these features met;) 'Midst woods and lawns, retir'd from city strife, And lately wedded to a beauteous wife; If bless'd, I know not; but with such a fair, On him must rest the folly to despair.

THE Roman courtier came, his business told The brilliant offers from the monarch bold; His mission had success, but still the youth Distraction felt, which 'gan to shake his truth; A pow'rful monarch's favour there he view'd; A partner here, with melting tears bedew'd; And while he wavered on the painful choice, She thus address'd her spouse with plaintive voice:

CAN you, Joconde, so truly cruel prove, To quit my fervent love in courts to move?

The promises of kings are airy dreams, And scarcely last beyond the day's extremes By watchful, anxious care alone retain'd, And lost, through mere caprice, as soon as gain'd.

If weary of my charms, alas! you feel, Still think, my love, what joys these woods conceal; Here dwell around tranquillity and ease; The streams' soft murmurs, and the balmy breeze, Invite to sleep; these vales where breathe the doves, All, all, my dear Joconde, renew our loves; You laugh!--Ah! cruel, go, expose thy charms, Grim death will quickly spare me these alarms!

JOCONDE'S reply our records ne'er relate, Nor what he did, nor how he left his mate; And since contemp'raries decline the task; 'Twere folly, such details of me to ask.

We're told, howe'er, when ready to depart, With flowing tears she press'd him to her heart; And on his arm a brilliant bracelet plac'd, With hair around her picture nicely trac'd; This guard in full remembrance of my love, She cried;--then clasped her hands to pow'rs above.

TO see such dire distress, and poignant grief, Might lead to think, soon death would bring relief; But I, who know full well the female mind, At best oft doubt affliction of the kind.

JOCONDE set out at length; but that same morn; As on he mov'd, his soul with anguish torn, He found the picture he had quite forgot, Then turn'd his steed, and back began to trot.

While musing what excuse to make his mate, At home he soon arriv'd, and op'd the gate; Alighted un.o.bserv'd, ran up the stairs; And ent'ring to the lady unawares, He found this darling rib, so full of charms; Intwin'd within a valet's brawny arms!

'MIDST first emotions of the husband's ire; To stab them while asleep he felt desire; Howe'er, he nothing did; the courteous wight; In this dilemma, clearly acted right; The less of such misfortunes said is best; 'Twere well the soul of feeling to divest; Their lives, through pity, or prudential care; With much reluctance, he was led to spare; Asleep he left the pair, for if awake, In honour, he a diff'rent step would take.-- Had any smart gallant supplied my place, Said he, I might put up with this disgrace; But naught consoles the thought of such a beast; Dan Cupid wantons, or is blind at least; A bet, or some such whim, induc'd the G.o.d, To give his sanction to amours so odd.

THIS perfidy Joconde so much dismay'd; His spirits droop'd, his lilies 'gan to fade; No more he look'd the charmer he had been; And when the court's gay dames his face had seen; They cried, Is this the beauty, we were told, Would captivate each heart, or young or old?

Why, he's the jaundice; ev'ry view displays The mien of one,--just fasted forty days!

WITH secret pleasure, this, Astolphus learn'd; The Roman, for his brother, risks discern'd, Whose secret griefs were carefully conceal'd, (And these Joconde could never wish reveal'd;) Yet, spite of gloomy looks and hollow eyes, His graceful features pierc'd the wan disguise, Which fail'd to please, alone through want of life, Destroy'd by thinking on a guilty wife.

THE G.o.d of love, in pity to our swain, At last revok'd BLACK CARE'S corroding reign; For, doubtless, in his views he oft was cross'd, While such a lover to the world was lost.