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A good man of my parents,
whom I knew in my young days,
was adored by all his neighborhood;
consulted, revered by small and great,
he lived on his land as a true sage.
He did not have many crowns,
but still enough to live in comfort;
in return, plenty of virtues,
good sense, wit besides,
and that gentleness that innocence gives.
When a poor man came to see him,
if he had money, he gave pistoles;
and if he had none, at least by his words
he gave him back a little courage and hope.
He mended families,
gently corrected the young scatterbrains,
laughed with the young girls,
and found them good husbands.
Indulgent toward the faults of others,
he often repeated: don’t we have our own?
These were born lame, those were born hunchbacked,
one a little less, another a little more:
nature in a hundred ways
wanted to afflict us: let us walk together in peace;
the road is bad enough
without still throwing stones at each other.
Now it happened one certain day
that our good old man found in a tower
a treasure hidden under the ground.
At first he sees in it only a means
to be able to do more good;
he takes it, carries it off, and locks it away.
Then, on reflection, there he is saying to himself:
this gold that I have found would bring more profit
if I increased my domain with it;
I would have more vassals, I would be more powerful.
I can do even better: in the nearby town
let us buy an office, and let us be president.
President! That is worth the trouble.
I have not studied law; but, with my money,
they will exempt me, since that can be bought.
While he dreams and plans,
his servant comes to warn him
that the young people of the village
are enjoying themselves in the castle courtyard.
On Sundays, it was the custom,
the lord took pleasure in dancing with them.
Oh! My faith, he answers, I have far other business;
let them dance without me. His mind full of chimeras,
he shuts himself up alone to torment himself better.
Then he goes to add to his sum
a little bag of money, left from the last month.
At that moment a poor man arrives
who, all in tears, comes to beg him
to lend him twenty crowns for his taille:
the collector, he says, is going to put me in prison,
and has left in my house
only six children on straw.
Our new Croesus answers him harshly
that he has no ready money.
The poor wretch looks at him, sighs,
and returns without a word.
But he was not far away when our good lord
suddenly finds his heart again;
he runs to the peasant, embraces him,
makes him a gift of a hundred crowns,
and even asks his pardon.
Then he has it proclaimed that in the great square
the assembled village should gather at once.
They obey: our good man
arrives with all his sum,
pours it out in a single heap.
My friends, he says to them, you see this money:
since it belongs to me, I am no longer the same;
my soul is hardened, and the voice of misfortune
no longer reaches my heart.
My children, save me from this extreme peril;
take and share this dangerous metal;
take your part, each to your own shelter:
divided among all, this gold can be useful;
united in one man, it does nothing but harm.
Let us be content with what is necessary
without ever wishing for superfluous treasures:
we must fear them as much as poverty;
like poverty, they drive out the virtues.
Florian
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-good-man-and-the-treasure-jean-pierre-claris-de-florian/