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The invention of the Arts being a birthright,
We owe the Fable to ancient Greece.
But this field cannot be so harvested
That latecomers find nothing to glean.
Fiction is a country full of empty lands.
Every day our Authors make discoveries there.
I want to tell you a tale quite well invented;
Long ago at Racan Malherbe recounted it.
These two rivals of Horace, heirs of his Lyre,
Disciples of Apollo, our Masters, to speak more truly,
Meeting one day all alone and without witnesses
(As they confided their thoughts and cares),
Racan begins thus: Tell me, I pray you,
You who must know the things of life,
Who through all its degrees have already passed,
And from whom nothing should escape at this advanced age,
What shall I resolve to do? It is time I thought of it.
You know my wealth, my talent, my birth.
Should I in the Provinces establish my residence,
Take employment in the Army, or else a post at Court?
Everything in the world is mixed with bitterness and charms.
War has its sweetness, Marriage has its alarms.
If I followed my taste, I would know where to aim;
But I have my own people, the court, the people to satisfy.
Malherbe thereto: Satisfy everyone!
Listen to this story before I answer.
I read somewhere that a Miller and his son,
One an old man, the other a child, not of the smallest,
But a boy of fifteen years, if I remember rightly,
Were going to sell their Donkey, on a certain fair day.
So that he might be fresher and sell better,
They tied his feet, they hung him up;
Then this man and his son carry him like a chandelier.
Poor people, idiots, ignorant and rustic couple.
The first who saw them burst out laughing.
What farce, said he, are these people going to play? The most donkey of the three is not the one you think.
The Miller at these words recognizes his ignorance;
He sets his beast on its feet, and makes it scamper off.
The Donkey, who greatly savored the other way of going,
Complains in his patois. The Miller does not care.
He makes his son mount, he follows, and by chance
Three good Merchants pass. This sight displeased them.
The oldest cried out to the boy as loud as he could:
Oh there! oh! get down, lest you be told again,
Young man, who lead a footman with a gray beard.
It was for you to follow, for the old man to mount.
– Gentlemen, says the Miller, you must be satisfied.
The child dismounts, and then the old man mounts,
When three girls passing, one said: It is a great shame
That one must see this young son thus hobble,
While this fool, seated like a Bishop,
Plays the calf on his Donkey, and thinks himself very wise.
– There are no more, says the Miller, Calves at my age:
Go your way, girl, and believe me.
After many jibes sent back one after another,
The man thought he was wrong, and put his son on the crupper.
After thirty steps, a third troop
Finds still something to gloss. One said: These people are mad,
The Ass can take no more; he will die under their blows.
What! load thus this poor donkey!
Have they no pity for their old servant?
No doubt at the Fair they are going to sell his skin.
– By Jove, says the Miller, he is truly brain-mad
Who claims to satisfy everyone and his father.
Let us try, however, if by some means
We shall succeed. They both dismount.
The Donkey, strutting, walks alone before them.
A certain man meets them, and says: Is it the fashion
That an Ass goes at ease, and the Miller inconveniences himself?
Who of the donkey or the master is made to tire?
I advise these people to have him set in a frame.
They wear out their shoes, and preserve their Donkey.
Nicolas on the contrary, for, when he goes to see Jeanne,
He mounts his beast; and the song says so. Fine trio of Asses! The Miller replied:
I am an Ass, it is true, I admit it, I confess it;
But henceforth let me be blamed, let me be praised;
Let them say something or let them say nothing;
I want to do as I please. He did so, and did well.
As for you, follow Mars, or Love, or the Prince;
Go, come, run; stay in the Provinces;
Take a wife, an Abbey, a Post, a Government:
People will talk about it, doubt it not.
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-miller-his-son-and-the-donkey-jean-de-la-fontaine/