Fable LI.
The Rain-cloud
A gread Cloud passed rapidly over a country which was parched by heat, but did not let
fall a single drop to refresh it. Presently it poured a copious stream of rain into the sea,
and then began boasting of its generosity in the hearing of a neighbouring Mountain.
But the Mountain replied,
"What good have you done by such generosity? and now can one help being pained at
seeing it? If you had poured your showers over the land, you would have saved a whole
district from famine. But as to the sea, my friend, it has plenty of water already, without
you adding to it."
[This fable is said to have been written on the occasion of certain grants of land made to
the Governor of the Province of Pskof, during the prevalence of a terrible famine in that
part of the country.]
Fable LII.
The Whisk
Great honours were suddenly conferred upon a dirty Whisk.* It will not now any longer
sweep the floors of kitchens; for the master's caftans are handed over to it, the servants
having, probably, got drunk.
Well, our Whisk set to work vigorously. It was never tired of belabouring the master's
clothes, and it thrashed the caftans like so much rye. Undoubtedly its industry was
great; only the misfortune was, that it was itself so dirty. Of what use, then, was all
its toil? The more it tried to clean anything, the dirtier did it make it.
Just as much harm is done when a fool interferes in what is out of his own line,
and undertakes to correct the work of a man of learning.
*In Russian, a Golik. This is a provincial word, a native of the Province of Smolensk. The Golik'is a bunch of
bare twigs — goly meaning bare — greatly resembling our scholastic birch. The Russians make great use of it
in their baths (see Dai's "Explanatory Lexicon of the living Great Russian Language," a work of the greatest
value to every one who wishes to become really well acquainted with Russian literature.)
Fable LIII.
The Eagle and the Spider
An eagle had soared above the clouds to the loftiest peak of the Caucasus.
There, on an ancient cedar it settled, and admired the landscape visible at its feet.
It seemed as if the borders of the world could be seen from thence.
Here flowed rivers, winding across the plains; there stood woods and meadows,
adorned with the full garb of spring; and, beyond, frowned the angry Caspian Sea,
black as a raven's wing.
"Praise be to thee, O Jove, that, as ruler of the world, thou hast bestowed on me such
powers of flight that I know of no heights to me inaccessible!" — thus the Eagle
addressed Jupiter — "insomuch that I now look upon the beauties of the world from
a point whither no other being has ever flown."
"What a boaster you are! "replies a Spider to it from a twig. "As I sit here, am I lower
than you, comrade?"
The Eagle looks up. Truly enough, the Spider is busy spinning its web about a twig
overhead, just as if it wanted to shut out the sunlight from the Eagle.
"How did you get up to this height?" asks the Eagle.
"Even among the strongest of wing there are some who would not dare to trust
themselves here. But you, weak and wingless, is it possible you can have crawled here?"
"No; I didn't use that means of rising aloft."
"Well, then, how did you get here?"
"Why, I just fastened myself on to you, and you brought me yourself from down below
on your tail-feathers. But I know how to maintain my position here without your help,
so I beg you will not assume such airs in my presence; for know that I"
At this moment a gust of wind comes suddenly flying by, and whirls away the Spider
again into the lowest depths.
Fable LIV.
The Merchant
"Come here, Andrew, my brother! Where have you got to? Come here, quickly,
and admire your uncle's doings. Deal as I do, and you 'll never suffer loss."
Thus in his shop spoke a Merchant to his nephew. "You know that remnant of Polish
cloth — the one we have had on our hands so long, because it was old, and damp,
and rotten? Well, I've just passed it off for English.
Here is a hundred-rouble note I have just this instant got for it. Heaven must have sent
a fool this way."
"Just so, uncle, just so," replied the nephew; "only I'm not quite sure as to which was the
fool. Just look here; you 'll see you 've taken a forged note."
To cheat! — the Merchant cheated: there's nothing wonderful in that. But if one looks
around in the world a little higher than where the shops are, one sees that even there
people go on in tfte self-same manner. Almost all of them are occupied in everything by
the same calculation; and that is, "How can one man best succeed in cheating another?"
Fable LV.
The Pig
A Pig once made its way into the courtyard of a lordly mansion, sauntered at its will
around the stables and the kitchen, wallowed in filth, bathed in slops, and then
returned home from its visit a thorough pig.
"Well, Kavronya, what have you seen? "says the Swineherd to the Pig. "They do say that
there is nothing but pearls and diamonds* in rich people's houses, and that there
each thing is richer than the rest."
"I assure you they talk nonsense," grunted Kavronya. "I saw no riches at all — nothing
but dirt and offal; and yet you may suppose I didn't spare my snout, for I dug up the
whole of the back yard."
God forbid I should hurt any one by my comparison; but how can one help calling those
critics Kavronyas who, in whatever they have to discuss, have the faculty of seeing
only that which is bad?
*One of Krilof's Russian critics, who has attacked this fable as being "low" finds fault with the two words biser
and jemchug, used here by the Swineherd to describe something precious, saying that they both mean pearls.
His remark holds good for the old Slavonic; but in modern Russian biser means glass beads of various colours
used for stringing, and jemchug, the real pearl.
Fable LVI.
The Fox in the Ice
Very early one winter morning, during a hard frost, a Fox was drinking at an ice-hole,
not far from the haunts of men.
Meanwhile, whether by pure accident or from negligence doesn't much matter, the end of
its tail got wet, and froze to the ice. No great harm was done; the Fox could easily
remedy it. It had only to give a tolerably hard pull, and leave about a score of its hairs
behind; then it could run away home quickly, before any one came.
But how could it make up its mind to spoil its tail? Such a bushy tail as it was, so ample
and golden! No; better wait a little. Surely, men are sleeping still.
It's even possible that a thaw may, meanwhile, set in. In that case, it will be able to
withdraw its tail easily from the ice-hole. So it waits: it goes on waiting, but its tail only
freezes all the more. It looks round; the day is already beginning to dawn. People are
stirring; voices are to be heard.
Our poor Fox begins to rush about wildly — now this way, now that. But still it cannot
free itself from the hole.
Luckily, a Wolf comes running that way.
"Dear friend, gossip, father!" cries the Fox, "do save me I am all but lost!"
So the Wolf stopped, and set to work to rescue the Fox. Its method was a very simple
one: it bit the tail of the Fox clean off. So our foolish friend went home tailless,
but rejoicing that its skin was still on its back.
Fable LVII.
Miron
There lived in a certain city a rich man, named Miron.
Against this rich man arose complaints from his neighbours on all sides.
And the neighbours were so far right that, although he had millions in his strong box,
he never gave a copeck to the poor.
But who is there who does not like to gain a good reputation? In order to give a different
turn to the conversation about him, our Miron made it publicly known among the people,
that in future he meant to give away food to the needy every Saturday.
And, indeed, any one who passed his house, at the end of the week, could see that his
gates were not closed.
"Poor fellow!" they think, "he will be utterly ruined." But of that there was no fear;
for, every Saturday, he unchained a number of ferocious dogs, so that it was not a
question with the poor who visited him of eating or of drinking, but simply of escaping,
if Heaven willed it, with a whole skin.
In the meantime, Miron was looked upon as almost a saint. Every one said, "One can't
sufficiently admire Miron; only it's a pity that he keeps such savage dogs, and that it's
so difficult to get at him: otherwise, he is ready to give away all he has, even to the
uttermost copeck."
It has often occurred to me to see how hard of access are the palaces of great people.
But, of course, the fault is not due to the Mirons. It is always the dogs who are to blame.
Fable LVIII.
The Wolf and the Fox
A Fox, which had feasted on fowls to satiety, and had set aside a good store of spare
food, lay down under a haycock, one evening, to sleep.
Suddenly it looks up, and sees a hungry Wolf dragging itself along to pay it a visit.
"This is terrible, gossip! "says the Wolf. "I cannot any where find even the smallest of
bones to pick, and I am actually dying of hunger. The dogs are malicious, the shepherd
won't sleep, and I have nothing left but to hang myself."
"Really?"
"Really and truly."
"My poor old gossip! But won't you take a little hay? There is a whole haycock.
I am delighted to oblige my friend."
But what its friend wanted was meat, not hay; and about its stock of provisions the Fox
said never a word. So my grey-coated hero, though greatly caressed as to its ears by its
gossip, had to go to bed supperless.
Fable LIX.
The Owl and the Ass
A blind Ass, which had undertaken a long journey, wandered from the road into a forest.
As the night came on, our foolish fellow went so far into the thicket that it couldn't move
either backwards or forwards; and even one who had eyes would have been unable to
get out of that difficulty.
But an Owl, by good luck, happened to be in the neighbourhood, and offered to act as
a guide to the Ass. We all know how well Owls see at night.
Hills, hillocks, ditches, precipices — all these our Owl distinguished as if it had been
daylight, and, by daybreak, it had made its way with the Ass to the level road.
Now, how could any one part with such a guide? So the Ass entreated the Owl not to
desert it, and determined to visit the whole world in the Owl's company. Our Owl seated
itself like a lord on the back of the Ass, and the two friends began to continue their
journey. But did it prosper? No. The sun had scarcely begun to glow in the morning sky,
when a greater than nocturnal darkness hid everything from the Owl's eyes.
But our Owl is obstinate: it directs the Ass at random.
"Take care! "it cries. "We shall tumble into a pool, if we go to the right."
There was really no pool on the right; but on the left there was even worse.
"Keep more to the left — another pace to the left!"
And — the Owl and the Ass fell into the ravine together.
Fable LX.
The Monkey and the Spectacles
A Monkey became weak-sighted in old age.
Now it had heard men say that this misfortune was one of no great importance; only one
must provide oneself with glasses. So it gets half-a-dozen pairs of spectacles, turns them
now this way and now that, puts them on the top of its head, applies them to its tail,
smells them, licks them; still the spectacles have no effect at all on its sight.
"Good lack! "it cries, "what fools they be who listen to all the nonsense men utter!
They've told me nothing but lies about the spectacles. There isn't an atom of good in them."
Here the Monkey, in its vexation and annoyance, flung them down on a stone so violently
that they were utterly broken to bits.
Unfortunately, men behave in the same way. However useful a thing may be, an ignorant
man, who knows nothing about its value, is sure to speak ill of it, and, if he possesses
any influence, he persecutes it too.
Fable LXI.
The Elephant and the Pug-dog
An Elephant was being taken through the streets, probably as a sight. It is well known
that Elephants are a wonder among us; so crowds of gaping idlers followed the Elephant.
From some corner or other, a Pug-dog comes to meet him. It looks at the Elephant,
and then begins to run at it, to bark, to squeal, to try to get at it, just as if it wanted to fight it.
"Neighbour, cease to bring shame on yourself," says Shafka* to it. "Are you capable of
fighting an Elephant? Just see now, you are already hoarse; but it keeps straight on,
and does not pay you the slightest attention."
"Aye, aye! "replies the Pug-dog, "that's just what gives me courage.
In this way, you see, without fighting at all, I may get reckoned among the greatest
bullies. Just let the dogs say, 'Ah, look at Puggy! He must be strong, indeed, that's dear,
or he would never bark at an Elephant.' "
*Name given to a long-haired dog.
Fable LXII.
The Industrious Bear
Seeing that a Peasant, who employed himself in making dugas,* disposed of them
advantageously, a Bear determined to gain its living by the same business.
The forest resounded with knocking and cracking, and the noise of the Bear's pranks
could be heard a verst off. It destroyed a prodigious number of elms, birches, and
hazels; but its labours did not lead to a good result. (For dugas are bent by dint of
patience, and not in a moment.) So our Bear goes to the Peasant, and asks his advice, saying,
"Neighbour, what is the reason of this? I can break trees; but I haven't been able to bend
one into a duga.
Tell me, in what does the real secret of success consist?"
"In that," answered the Peasant, "of which, my friend, you haven't a bit — in patience."
*The duga is the wooden arch which, in a Russian cart or carriage, rises from the shafts above the horse's
neck. When gaily painted and provided with bells, it is supposed to appeal to the animal's aesthetic tastes,
and to encourage it to go on its way rejoicing.
There are factories now in which dugas are made wholesale by steampower.
Fable LXIII.
The Fox as Architect
A certain Lion was exceedingly fond of fowls, but they never throve with him. And that
was no wonder. They lived utterly free from all restrictions; and so some of them were
stolen, others disappeared of their own accord.
To remedy this unpleasantness and loss, the Lion determined to build a large
poultry-yard, and so cunningly to design and arrange it, as entirely to keep out thieves,
but to provide the fowls with plenty of space and all things needful.
Well, they inform the Lion that the Fox is a great hand at building, so the affair is
entrusted to him.
The building is begun and ended successfully, the Fox working at it with all conceivable
industry and talent.
The building is looked at and examined in detail.
Truly, it is a work which can not be too much admired. Everything is there which any
one can possibly desire — food close at hand, perches inserted everywhere, refuges from
cold and heat, and retired little places for the sitting hens.
All honour and glory to our good Fox!
A liberal reward is bestowed on him, and an order is given to transfer the fowls,
without loss of time, to their new abode.
But is the change of any use? Not at all. It is true that the building seems firm and
massive, and the walls enclosing it lofty.
But yet the fowls daily become fewer and fewer. No one can imagine whence this evil
springs. But the Lion orders a watch to be set; and whom do they catch?
Why that villain, the Fox. It is true that he had constructed the building so that no one
else could break in and steal; but he had taken care to leave a little hole by which he
could get into it himself.
Fable LXIV.
Fortune's Visit
At the extremity of a town stood a wretched old house. In it lived three brothers,
who could not get rich. Somehow, there was not a single thing that succeeded with
them. Whatever any one of them took in hand was sure to prove unsuccessful: on all
sides they met with hindrance and loss; and, according to them, it was all the fault of
Fortune.
It happened that Fortune paid them a visit as she was passing by, and, touched by their
great poverty, determined to do all she could to help them in everything they undertook,
and to spend a whole summer with them. A whole summer! — a long time indeed.
Well, the poor fellows soon find their affairs assuming a different aspect.
One of them, although he was a poor hand at trading, gets a great profit now on
everything he either buys or sells, utterly forgets that such a thing as loss exists,
and rapidly becomes as rich as Croesus. The second enters the public service.
At another time he would have stuck fast among the copyists; but now he reaps
successes on all sides.
Every time he gives a dinner, or pays a visit of ceremony, he gets either rank
conferred upon him or a place given him. See, he has an estate, a mansion in town,
and a box in the country.
And now you will ask, what advantage did the third brother obtain?
I suppose that Fortune really helped him also? Certainly; from his side she scarcely ever
absented herself. The third brother chased flies all the summer, and that with the most
wonderful success.
I don't know whether he used to be clever at that sort of thing in former days, but
during that summer his labour was never thrown away.
In whatever manner he moved his hand (thanks to Fortune), he never once missed his
shot.
But see! their guest, meanwhile, has brought her stay with the brothers to an end,
and has set out on a long journey. Two of the brothers have gained greatly. One of
them is rich; the other has got riches and rank besides. But the third brother curses his
fate, inasmuch as malignant Fortune has left him nothing but a beggar's wallet.
Fable LXV.
The Lion, the Chamois, and the Fox
A Lion was chasing a Chamois along a valley. He had all but caught it, and with longing
eyes was anticipating a certain and a satisfying repast.
It seemed as if it were utterly impossible for the victim to escape; for a deep ravine
appeared to bar the way for both the hunter and the hunted.
But the nimble Chamois, gathering together all its strength, shot like an arrow from a
bow across the chasm, and stood still on the rocky cliff on the other side. Our Lion pulled
up short.
But at that moment a friend of his happened to be near at hand. That friend was the Fox.
"What!" said he, "with your strength and agility, is it possible that you will yield to a
feeble Chamois? You have only to will, and you will be able to work wonders.
Though the abyss be deep, yet, if you are only in earnest, I am certain you will clear it.
Surely you can confide in my disinterested friendship.
I would not expose your life to danger if I were not so well aware of your strength and
dexterity."
The Lion's blood waxed hot, and began to boil in his veins. He flung himself with all his
might into space. But he could not clear the chasm; so down he tumbled headlong,
and was killed by the fall. Then what did his dear friend do?
He cautiously made his way down to the bottom of the ravine, and there, out in the open
space and the free air, seeing that the Lion wanted neither flattery nor obedience now,
he set to work to pay the last sad rites to his dead friend, and in a month picked his
bones clean.
Fable LXVI.
The Oracle
In a certain temple there was a wooden idol which began to utter prophetic answers,
and to give wise counsels. Accordingly, it rejoiced in a very rich attire, being covered
from top to toe with gold and silver; and was gorged with sacrifices, deafened by
prayers, and choked with incense. Every one believed blindly in the Oracle.
All of a sudden — wonderful to relate! — the Oracle began to talk nonsense — took to
answering incoherently and absurdly, so that, if any one consulted it about anything,
whatever our Oracle said was a lie; so that eveiy one wondered what had become of ist
prophetic faculty.
The fact was, that the idol was hollow, and the priests used to sit in it in order to reply
to the laity; and so, as long as the priest was discreet, the idol did not talk nonsense;
but when a fool took to sitting in it, the idol became a mere dummy.*
I have heard — can it be true? — that in days gone by there used to be judges who were
renowned for ability — so long as they kept an able secretary.
*The word used is bolvan — the term irreverently applied by the common folic in Russia to most of their
outdoor statues.
Fable LXVII.
The Ass and the Peasant
A Peasant, who had hired an Ass for his garden during the summer, set it to drive away
the impudent race of crows and of sparrows.
The Ass was one of a most honest character, utterly unacquainted with either rapacity
or theft. It never profited by a single leaf belonging to its master, and it would indeed be
a sin to say that it connived at the proceedings of the birds.
Still the Peasant got but little good out of his garden. The Ass, as it chased the birds with
all its might, galloped across all the beds, backwards and forwards, in such a manner
that it trod underfoot and trampled in pieces everything that grew in the garden.
Seeing then that all his pains were thrown away, the Peasant took a cudgel and revenged
himself for his loss on the back of the Ass.
"No wonder! " says every one; "serve the beast right! Was it for a creature of its parts to
under take such a business?"
But I say — though not with the intention of defending the Ass; it was certainly in fault,
and it has already paid the penalty — surely he also was to blame who set the Ass to
guard his garden.
Fable LXVIII.
The Sheep and the Dogs
In a certain flock of Sheep, it was resolved that the number of dogs should be increased,
in order that the wolves might worry no more.
What was the result?
Why, the number increased so greatly that at last, truly enough, the Sheep were no
longer annoyed by the wolves. But dogs, too, must live. So, first, they deprived the
Sheep of their fleeces, and then they tore their skins off them, choosing them by lot.
At last, only five or six of the Sheep remained, and those also the dogs ate up.
[In former days, whenever there was a difficulty about setting straight anything that ha
gone wrong in Russia, the only idea which suggested itself to the minds of the
authorities was to increase the number of those officials who had to deal with the matter.
But as these officials were miserably paid, they had to make a livelihood out of the
people who were confided to their charge, and who, accordingly, fared no better than the
sheep in the fable.
Latterly, a different system has been introduced, and fewer but better paid officials are
now employed.]
Fable LXIX.
The String of Carts
A Number of Carts, laden with pottery, were going along in a string, and had to descend
a steep hill. Having left the others to wait a little on the top of the hill, the owner began
very cautiously to lead down the first cart. The good horse which drew it almost
supported the weight on its croup, not allowing it to roll down too fast.
But a young Horse up on top took to blaming the poor animal for every step it made:
"Ah, praiseworthy animal! how wonderful! Just see, it crawls like a crab. See there, it has
almost stumbled over a stone! Look how awry, how askew, are its movements!
Ah! it's bolder now. There's a jostle again! Only here you ought to have gone a little
more to the left. Oh, what a donkey!
It would be all very well if this were night, or it it were going uphill. But now it is going
downhill, and by daylight. One loses all patience while watching it.
Really it's a water-carrier you ought to be, if you have no sense in you. But just look at
us! — see how we will dash along. Never fear for us; we wont lose a moment: we shall
not so much carry our loads as whirl them down."
With these words, straining its back and inflating its chest, the young Horse sets its load
in motion. But no sooner does it commence the descent than the weight begins to press
upon it heavily, the Cart to roll rapidly.
The Horse, urged on from behind, and thrust from side to side, dashes on splendidly at
a gallop. Over stones, across gullies, went the Cart amid shocks and boundings. More to
the left — still to the left, till at last the Cart and its load goes headlong into the ditch
with a crash! Farewell to the master's crockery.
[This fable alludes to the criticisms evoked by Kutuzof's unwillingness to precipitate
matters in dealing with Napoleon. When he refused to fight under the walls of Moscow,
the people began to clamour against him, as they had done against Barclay de Tolly;
and the younger officers under his command were especially indignant with him.
But Krilof took his part throughout.]
Fable LXX.
The Divers
A certain King, says Krilof,* could not make up his mind as to whether knowledge and
science produce more good or harm. He consulted divers learned men on the subject,
but they could not solve the problem to his satisfaction.
At last, one day, he met a venerable and remarkably intelligent hermit, to whom he
confided his doubts, and who favoured him with the following apologue:
"There was once a fisherman, in India, who lived on the sea-coast. After a long life of
poverty and privation, he died, leaving three sons.
They, seeing that their nets brought them in but a scanty livelihood, and detesting their
father's avocation, determined to make the sea yield them a richer recompense —
not fish, but pearls.
So, as they knew how to swim and to dive, they gave themselves up to collecting that
form of tribute from it.
But the three brothers met with very different kinds of success.
"The first, the laziest of the family, spent his time in sauntering along the shore. He had
an objection to wetting even so much as his feet, so he confined his expectations to
picking up such pearls as the waves might wash ashore at his feet. But the result of this
laziness of his was that he scarcely made enough to keep him alive. As to the second,
he used to dive, and find rich pearls at the bottom of the sea, never sparing any pains,
and knowing how to choose those depths only which it lay within his power to sound.
"But the third brother, troubled by a craving after vast treasures, reasoned with himself
as follows:
'It is true that there are pearls which one can find near the shore; but what treasures,
apparently, might I not expect if I could only succeed in reaching the lowest depths of
the open sea!
There, no doubt, lie heaps of countless riches — corals, pearls, and precious stones —
all of which one might pick up and carry away at will.'
Captivated by this idea, the foolish fellow straightway sought the open sea, chose the
spot where the depths seemed blackest, and plunged into the abyss.
But his recklessness cost him his life ; for the deep swallowed him down, and he never
returned to the light of day.
"O King," continued the hermit, "no doubt we recognise in knowledge the source of many
benefits. But those who seek it in an irreverent spirit may find in it an abyss in which
they may perish, like the diver, but with this difference, that they may too often involve
others in their own ruin."
*I have thought it best to abridge the introduction, which is of inordinate length in the original.
Fable LXXI.
The Trigamist
A certain sinner, while his wife was still alive, married two other women. As soon as the
news of this reached the King, who was a severe king, and disinclined to permi such
scandals, he immediately ordered the polygamist to be tried for the offence,
and ordained that such a punishment should be discovered for him as would terrify the
whole people, so that no one should in future be capable of at tempting so great a crime.
"But if I see that his punishment is a light one," he added, "the will hang all the judges
around the judgment-seat."
This pleasantry is disagreeable to the judges. Fear bathes them in a cold sweat. For three
whole days they deliberate as to what punishment can be contrived for the culprit.
Punishments are plentiful; but experience has proved that none of them will deter people
from sinning. However, at last Heaven inspired them. The criminal was brought into court
for the announcement of the judicial decision, by which they unanimously decreed. —
That he should live with all his three wives at once!
At such a decision the people were lost in astonishment, and expected that the King
would hang all the judges.
But, before the fifth day arrived, the Trigamist had hanged himself.
And the sentence produced such alarm that since that time no man has committed
trigamy in that country.
[This fable is not altogether original, being founded on a misogynical pleasantry of great
antiquity; but it is given as a specimen of Krilof's terse style of story-telling.]
Fable LXXII.
The Cuckoo and Turtle-Dove
A Cuckoo sat on a bough, bitterly complaining.
"Why art thou so sad, dear friend?" sympathisingly cooed the Turtle-dove to her,
from a neighbouring twig.
"Is it because spring has passed away from us, and love with it; that the sun has sunk
lower, and that we are nearer to the winter?"
"How can I help grieving, unhappy one that I am?" replies the Cuckoo: "thou shalt
thyself be the judge. This spring my love was a happy one, and, after a while, I became
a mother. But my offspring utterly refuse even to recognise me. Was it such a return that
I expected from them? And how can I help being envious when I see how ducklings
crowd around their mother — how chickens hasten to the hen when she calls to them.
Just like an orphan I sit here, utterly alone, and know not what filial affection means."
"Poor thing!" says the Dove, "I pity you from my heart. As for me, though I know such
things often occur, I should die outright if my dovelets did not love me.
But tell me, have you already brought up your little ones? When did you find time to
build a nest? I never saw you doing anything of the kind: you were always flying and
fluttering about."
"Yes, indeed!" says the Cuckoo. "Pretty nonsense it would have been if I had spent such
fine days in sitting on a nest! That would, indeed, have been the highest pitch of
stupidity! I always laid my eggs in the nests of other birds."
"Then how can you expect your little ones to care for you?" says the Turtle-dove.
Fathers and mothers! let this fable read you a lesson. I have not written it as an excuse
for undutiful children. Irreverence on their part, and want of love towards their parents,
must always be a great fault.
But, if they have grown up apart from you, and you have entrusted their education to
hireling hands, have not you yourselves to blame, if in old age you obtain but little
happiness from them?
Fable LXXIII.
The Leaves and the Roots
On a beautiful summer day, the Leaves on a tree whispered softly to the zephyrs;
and, as their shadow fell upon the valley, thus did they speak, vaunting their luxuriant verdure:
"Is it not true that we are the pride of the whole valley? Is it not by us that this tree is
rendered so bushy and widespreading, so stately and majestic? What would it be with out us?
Yes, indeed; we may praise ourselves without committing a sin!
Do not we, by our cool shade, protect the shepherd and the traveller from the heat?
Do not we, by our beauty, attract the shepherdess to dance here? From among us, in the
morning and the evening twilight, the night ingale sings; and as to you, zephyrs, you
scarcely ever desert us."
"You might add a word of thanks even to us," answered a feeble voice from underground.
"Who is it that dares thus audaciously to call us to account? Who are you who are talking
there?" the Leaves began to lisp, noisily tossing on the tree.
"We are they," was the reply from down below, "who, burrowing in darkness here,
provide you with nourishment. Is it possible that you do not recognise us? We are the
roots of the tree on which you flourish.
Go on rejoicing in your beauty: only remember there is this difference between us,
that with the new spring a new foliage is born; but, if the roots perish, neither you nor
the tree can survive."
[In the large illustrated edition of the fables, published four years ago, at St. Petersburg,
this story is accompanied by one of Trutofsky's spirited drawings, which renders its
meaning very clear.
A couple of gentlemen and a lady, evidently belonging to the proprietor class, are sitting
at their ease in a balcony; and down below, regarded by them with contemptuous
wonder, stand half-a-dozen peasants, their clothes tattered, their figures emaciated,
their faces worn with care.
The fable was written in 1811, at a time when the question of the emancipation of the
serfs was occupying considerable attention.]
Fable LXXIV.
The Wolf and the Cuckoo
"Farewell, neighbour! "said a Wolf to a Cuckoo. "In vain have I deluded myself with the
idea of finding peace in this spot.
Your people and dogs are all alike here — one worse than the other: even if you were an
angel, you couldn't help quarrelling with them."
"And is my neighbour going far? and where is that people so pious that you think you will
be able to live in harmony with them?"
"Oh! I am going right away to the forest of the happy Arcadia. There, it is said, they
don't know what war is. The men are as mild as lambs, and the rivers flow with
nothing but milk. There, in a word, the Age of Gold is to be found. Every one treats his
neighbour like a brother; and it is even said that the dogs never bark there, much less
bite. Tell me, dear friend, would it not be charming to find one self, even in a dream,
in so peaceful a land as that?
Farewell! Don't retain an unpleasant remembrance of me. There I shall really be able to
live in harmony, in plenty, and in indulgence, and not, as here, have to be always on
guard by day, and be deprived of one's quiet repose at night."
"A happy journey to you, dear neighbour," says the Cuckoo." But, tell me, do you leave
your teeth and your habits behind you, or do you take them with you?"
"How could I possibly leave them behind me? What nonsense are you talking?"
"Then, mark my words! your skin won't remain long on your back there."
Fable LXXV.
The Impious
In the days of old there was a people, to the shame, be it said, of the nations of the
earth, which became so hard ened in heart, that it took up arms against the gods.
Noisily, with countless banners displayed, the insurgent crowds over run the plains,
some armed with bows, others with slings. In order to kindle more fury among the
people, the ringleaders, in the insolence of their hearts, declare that the tribunal of
Heaven is harsh and foolish — that the gods either sleep or judge unreasonably —
that the time has come to read them an unceremonious lesson — and that, as to the
rest, it will not be difficult to hurl stones at the gods from the nearest, hills, and
to fill all Olympus with arrows.
Disquieted by the insolent blasphemies these fools uttered, all Olympus applied to Jupiter
with the prayer that he would avert this evil. And even all the heavenly council was of
opinion that, in order to confute the rebels, it would not be amiss to make manifest, at all
events, a little miracle — a deluge or an earthquake, with thunder and lightning, or,
perhaps, to crush them under a shower of stones.
"Let us wait a little," replied Jupiter; "for if they do not become quiet, but go on with
their foolish violence, not fearing the immortals, they will be punished by their own deeds."
Then, with a roar, the banded rebels against the gods shot into the air a mass of arrows,
a cloud of stones. But, laden with innumerable deaths, inevitable and terrible,
their weapons fell back again upon their own heads.