Let us keep silence about his last moments, for fear of
irritating
those
who never forgive.
who never forgive.
La Fontaine
Julian's Prayer
The Countryman Who Sought His Calf
Hans Carvel's Ring
The Hermit
The Convent Gardener of Lamporechio
The Mandrake
The Rhemese
The Amorous Courtesan
Nicaise
The Progress of Wit
The Sick Abbess
The Truckers
The Case of Conscience
The Devil of Pope-fig Island
Feronde
The Psalter
King Candaules and the Doctor of Laws
The Devil in Hell
Neighbour Peter's Mare
The Spectacles
The Bucking Tub
The Impossible Thing
The Picture
The Pack-Saddle
The Ear-maker, and the Mould-mender
The River Scamander
The Confidant Without Knowing It, or the
Stratagem
The Clyster
The Indiscreet Confession
The Contract
The Quid Pro Quo, or the Mistakes
The Dress-maker
The Gascon
The Pitcher
To Promise is One Thing, to Keep It, Another
The Nightingale
Epitaph of 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; Tasso, 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 pass 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 circumstances 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 classes of
books. We have seen the Roundelays, the Metamorphoses, the Crambos,
reign one after another. At present, these gallantries are out of date
and nobody 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 passport than the sole merit with
which they are filled.
The Countryman Who Sought His Calf
Hans Carvel's Ring
The Hermit
The Convent Gardener of Lamporechio
The Mandrake
The Rhemese
The Amorous Courtesan
Nicaise
The Progress of Wit
The Sick Abbess
The Truckers
The Case of Conscience
The Devil of Pope-fig Island
Feronde
The Psalter
King Candaules and the Doctor of Laws
The Devil in Hell
Neighbour Peter's Mare
The Spectacles
The Bucking Tub
The Impossible Thing
The Picture
The Pack-Saddle
The Ear-maker, and the Mould-mender
The River Scamander
The Confidant Without Knowing It, or the
Stratagem
The Clyster
The Indiscreet Confession
The Contract
The Quid Pro Quo, or the Mistakes
The Dress-maker
The Gascon
The Pitcher
To Promise is One Thing, to Keep It, Another
The Nightingale
Epitaph of 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; Tasso, 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 pass 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 circumstances 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 classes of
books. We have seen the Roundelays, the Metamorphoses, the Crambos,
reign one after another. At present, these gallantries are out of date
and nobody 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 passport than the sole merit with
which they are filled.
