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A garden lover,
Half townsman, half farmer,
Owned in a certain village
A rather neat garden, and the adjoining enclosure.
He had closed this expanse with live plants.
There sorrel and lettuce grew at will,
Enough to make for Margot a bouquet for her feast,
A little Spanish jasmine, and plenty of wild thyme.
This bliss disturbed by a Hare
Made our man complain to the Lord of the village.
“”This cursed animal comes to take its morsel
Morning and evening, he said, and laughs at traps;
Stones and sticks lose their credit there:
He is a Sorcerer, I believe. – A sorcerer? I defy him,
Replied the Lord. Were he a devil, Miraut,
Despite his tricks, will catch him soon.
I will rid you of him, good man, on my life.
– And when? – And tomorrow, without delaying longer.””
The agreement thus made, he comes with his people.
“”Come, let us have lunch, he said: are your chickens tender?
The daughter of the house, let us see you, come here:
When shall we marry her? when shall we have sons-in-law?
Good man, this time it is necessary, you understand me
That you must dig into your purse.””
Saying these words, he becomes acquainted with her,
Has her sit beside him,
Takes a hand, an arm, lifts a corner of the handkerchief,
All stupidities from which the Beauty
Defends herself with great respect;
So much so that to the father at last this becomes suspect.
Meanwhile they fry, they rush into the kitchen.
“”When are your hams from? they look very good.
– Sir, they are yours. – Truly! said the Lord, I receive them, and with good heart.””
He lunches very well; so does his family,
Dogs, horses, and valets, all well-toothed people:
He commands at the host’s, takes liberties there,
Drinks his wine, caresses his daughter.
The embarrassment of the hunters succeeds the lunch.
Each one stirs and prepares:
The trumpets and horns make such a din
That the good man is astonished.
The worst was that they put in pitiful condition
The poor kitchen garden; farewell beds, squares;
Farewell chicory and leeks;
Farewell what to put in the soup.
The Hare was lodged under a master cabbage.
They seek him; they flush him, he flees through a hole,
Not a hole, but a gap, horrible and large wound
That was made in the poor hedge
By order of the Lord; for it would have been bad
That one could not leave the garden entirely on horseback.
The good man said: “”These are Prince’s games.””
But they let him say it; and the dogs and the people
Did more damage in one hour’s time
Than would have done in a hundred years
All the hares of the Province.
Little Princes, empty your disputes among yourselves:
To resort to kings you would be great fools.
One must never engage them in your wars,
Nor make them enter onto your lands.
Jean de La Fontaine
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/fable-the-gardener-and-his-lord-jean-de-la-fontaine/