Fables of La Fontaine — Fables CLXIII and CLXIV
FABLE CLXIII.
THE ADVANTAGE OF BEING CLEVER.
Between two citizens there once Arose a quarrel furious;
The one was poor, but full of knowledge Ripe, and rare, and curious;
The other had not been to college, And was, though rich, a perfect dunce.
He, far too fondly oft proclaiming The items of his hoarded pelf, Declared that learned men but came in A rank far underneath himself.
The man was quite a fool, and I Can never understand the why Or wherefore wealth alone should place A man above the learned race.
The rich one to the wise one said, Full often, "Is your table spread As well as mine?
And if not, tell What boots it that you read so well?
Night after night you sadly clamber To the dull third-floor's backmost chamber;
And in December's cold you wear What in hot June would be too bare;
Whilst as for servants, you have none, Unless you call your shadow one.
Alack!
explain to me the fate Of this or any other State, If all were there like you, and I Spent nothing on my luxury?
We rich ones use our wealth, God knows!
And forth from us to artisan, To tradesman and to courtesan, In glorious golden floods it flows.
And even you, who write your works Chiefly to use the knives and forks Of rich financiers, get your meed Of what you call our <i>hoarded</i> greed."
These foolish words, need scarce be said, Simply contemptuous answer had.
The wise man had too much to say In answer, and so went away.
But, worse than sarcasm, the sword Of rough invader met the hoard Of him who had the wealth: the town In which he dwelt was toppled down.
They left the city, and the one Who ignorant was [was] soon undone, And met all men's contempt; whilst he Who knew the sciences was free Of all men call society.
The quarrel so at last was ended;
But this is what I always say: In spite of the fool's yea or nay, The wise must be commended.
FABLE CLXIV.
THE WOLF AND THE HUNTER.
O Avarice!
thou monster, mad for gain;
Whose mind takes in but one idea of good!
How often shall I use my words in vain?
When shall my tales by thee be understood?
Oh, when will man, with heart so cold, Still ever heaping gold on gold, Deaf to the bard as to the wise, At length from his dull drudgery rise, And learn how sagely to employ it,-- Or know, in plain truth, to enjoy it?
Towards this course make haste, my friend, For human life has soon an end.
And yet, again, a volume in one word compressing, I tell you, wealth is only, when enjoyed, a blessing.
"Well," you reply, "to-morrow 'twill be done!"
My friend, you may not see to-morrow's sun;
Ah!
like the Hunter and the Wolf, you'll find 'Tis hard to die, and leave your wealth behind.
A Hunter, having deftly slain A Stag of ten, beheld a Doe;
So, having taken aim again, Upon the green sward laid it low.
This booty was sufficient quite For modest Hunter's appetite;
But, lo!
a Boar, of form superb, Starting from the tangled herb, Tempted the Archer's greed anew,-- The bow was twanged, the arrow flew,-- With futile shears the sister dread Had frayed his boarship's vital thread.
Full grimly did she now resume The work at her Tartarean loom, Nor yet achieved the monsters doom.
[Illustration: THE WOLF AND THE HUNTER.
] Not yet content?
--nor ever will be he Who once has quaffed the cup of victory.
The Boar has just begun to rise, When, swift, a red-legged partridge flies Right in the greedy Hunter's view,-- A wretched prize, 'tis very true, Compared with those already got: And yet the sportsman takes a shot;
But ere the trigger's pulled, the Boar, Grown strong for just one effort more, The Hunter slays, and on him dies: With thanks, away the partridge flies.
The covetous shall have the best;
The miserly may take the rest.
-- A Wolf that, passing by, took note Of this sad scene, said, "I devote To Mistress Luck a sumptuous fane.
What!
corpses four together slain?
It seems scarce true!
But I must be Prudent midst this satiety, For such good seldom comes to me."
(This is, of many vain excuses, The one the miser mostly uses.
) "Enough," the Wolf continued, "here, To give me for a month good cheer.
Four bodies with four weeks will fit, But, nathless, I will wait a bit, And first this Hunter's bowstring chew, For scent proclaims it catgut true."
Thus saying, on the bow he flings His hungry form; when, taking wings, The undischarged bolt quickly flies Through the Wolf's carcase, and he dies.
And now my text I will repeat-- Wealth, only when enjoyed, is sweet.
Oh, reader, from these gluttons twain Take warning, ere it be too late.
Through greed was the keen Hunter slain;
Through hoarding up Wolf met his fate.
FABLE CLXV.
