Fable LXXVI.
The Fox and the Marmot
"Where are you running so fast, gossip, without ever looking back?" a Marmot asked a Fox.
"Oh, my friend, my dear gossip, I have had a calumnious accusation brought against
me, and I have been dismissed as an extortioner. You know, I was the judge of the
poultryyard. In that position I lost my health and my peace of mind. From the press of
business, I never had time to get a comfortable meal, and at nights I could not sleep
soundly. And now, in return for this, I have incurred the wrath of my employers, and all
on account of a calumny. Only just think! Who in the world shall be without reproach,
if calumnies are listened to?
I an extortioner! Do they suppose I've gone out of my mind? Now, I appeal to you,
have you ever seen that I took part in that wickedness? Think the matter over; reflect on it well."
"No, gossip, no; but I have often remarked that there was some down on your muzzle."
Many an official complains that he is forced to spend every rouble he has; and all the
town knows that, originally, he had nothing, and that he got nothing with his wife.
But see! little by little he builds a house; he buys an estate. Now, in what manner can
you reconcile his salary with his expenditure?
Although you can prove nothing against him legally, yet you will not be committing a sin
if you say, "That fellow has down on his muzzle."
Fable LXXVII.
The Peasant and the Robber
A Peasant, who was beginning to stock his little farm, had bought a cow and a milk-pail
at a fair, and was going quietly homewards by a lonely path through the forest,
when he suddenly fell into the hands of a Robber.
The Robber stripped him as bare as a lime tree.*
"Have mercy!" cried the Peasant." I am utterly ruined. You have reduced me to beggary.
For a whole year I have worked to buy this dear little cow. I could scarcely bear to
wait for this day to arrive."
"Very good," replied the Robber, touched by compassion; "don't cry out against me.
After all, I shall not want to milk your cow, so I'll give you back your milk-pail."
*i.e. Bare as a lime tree after it has been stripped of its bark, of which the peasants make shoes, baskets, &c.
Fable LXXVIII.
The Ant
A certain Ant had extraordinary strength, such as had never been heard of even in the
days of old. It could even, as its trustworthy historian states, lift up two large grains of
barley at once!
Besides this, it was also remarkable for wonderful courage.
Whenever it saw a worm, it immediately stuck its claws into it, and it would even go
alone against a spider. And so it acquired such a reputation on its ant-hill, that it became
the sole subject of conversation.
Extravagant praise I consider poison; but our ant was not of the same opinion:
it delighted in it, measured it by its own conceit, and believed the whole of it.
At length its head became so turned that it determined to exhibit itself to the
neighbouring city, that it might acquire fame by showing off its strength there.
Perched on the top of a lofty cart-load of hay, having proudly made its way to the side of
the moujik in charge, it enters the city in great state. But, alas! what a blow to its
pride! It had imagined that the whole bazaar would run together to see it, as to a fire.
But not a word is said about it, every one being absorbed in his own business.
Our Ant seizes a leaf, and jerks it about, tumbles down, leaps up again. Still not a soul
pays it any attention.
At last, wearied with exerting itself, and holding itself proudly erect, it says, with
vexation, to Barbos, the mastiff, lying beside its master's cart,
"It must be confessed, mustn't it, that the people of your city have neither eyes nor
brains? Can it really be true that no one remarks me, although I have been straining my
self here for a whole hour? And yet I'm sure that at home I am well known to the whole
of the ant-hill."
And so it went back again, utterly crestfallen.
Fable LXXIX.
The Slanderer and the Snake
On the occasion of some triumphal procession in the realms below, the Snake and the
Slanderer refused to yield each other precedence, and began a noisy quarrel as to which
of the two had the best right to go first.
Now, in the infernal regions, as is well known, he takes precedence who has done most
harm to his fellow-creatures. So in this hot and serious dispute, the Slanderer showed his
tongue to the Snake; and the Snake boastingly talked to the Slanderer about its sting,
hissed out that it was unable to put up with an affront, and strove hard to crawl past
him. The Slanderer actually found himself being left behind. But Beelzebub could not
allow this: he himself took the Slanderer's part, and drove the Snake back, saying,
"Although I recognise your merit, yet I justly assign precedence to him. You are
excessively venomous, and dangerous in the extreme to everything which is near you;
your sting is fatal, and you sting — which is no small merit — without provocation.
But can you wound from afar, like the deadly tongue of the Slanderer, from whom there
is no escape, even though mountains or oceans intervene? It is clear, then, that he is
more deadly than you; so give place to him, and in future behave more quietly."
Since that time, Slanderers have been honoured more than Snakes in hell.
[In the first edition of this fable, which appeared in May; 1814, the triumphal procession
was represented as taking place "on the birthday of Attila or Nero, or perhaps of
Napoleon: I am afraid of stating which, for fear of making a mistake.
But, after all, it's no matter. In Satan's realms, such names are inscribed on a tablet,
and great solemnities are appointed in their honour."
Krilof was "a good hater;" and he certainly did not like Napoleon.]
Fable LXXX.
The two Dogs
Barbos, the faithful yard-dog, who serves his master zealously, happens to see his old
acquaintance Joujou, the curly lap-dog, seated at the window on a soft down cushion.
Sidling fondly up to her, like a child to a parent, he all but weeps with emotion;
and there, under the window, he whines, wags his tail, and bounds about.
"What sort of a life do you lead now, Joujoutka, ever since the master took you into his
mansion? You remember, no doubt, we used often to suffer hunger out in the yard.
What is your present service like?"
"It would be a sin in me to murmur against my good for tune," answers Joujoutka.
"My master cannot make enough of me.
I live amidst riches and plenty, and I eat and drink off silver.
I frolic with the master, and, if I get tired, I take my ease on carpets or on a soft couch.
And how do you get on?"
"I?" replied Barbos, letting his tail dangle like a whip, and hanging his head.
"I live as I used to do. I suffer from cold and hunger; and here, while guarding my
master's house, I have to sleep at the foot of the wall, and I get drenched in the rain.
And if I bark at the wrong time, I am whipped.
But how did you, Joujou, who were so small and weak, get taken into favour,
while I jump out of my skin to no purpose? What is it you do?"
" 'What is it you do?' A pretty question to ask!" replied Joujou, mockingly."I walk upon my hind legs."
[This fable is suspiciously like that by Izmailof, called "The Two Cats," which, in its turn,
was adapted from Florian.]
Fable LXXXI.
The Stone and the Worm
"What a fuss eveiy one is making!
How wanting in manners!" observed, with respect to a shower, a Stone which lay in a
field. "Have the kindness to look. Every one is delighted with it. They have longed for it
as if it were the best of guests; but what is it that it has done? It has come foja couple
of hours or so — no more.
But they should make a few inquiries about me. Why I have lain here for centuries.
Modest and unassuming, I lie quietly where I am thrown. And yet I have never heard
from a single person so much as a 'Thank you!'
It is not without reason that the world gets reviled. I cannot see a grain of justice
anywhere in it."
"Hold your tongue!" exclaimed a Worm." This shower, brief as it has been, has
abundantly watered the fields, which were being rendered sterile by the drought, and has
revived the hopes of the farmer.
But you contribute nothing to the ground but a useless weight."
Thus many a man will boast of having served the state for forty years; but as for being
useful, he has never been a bit more so than the Stone.
Fable LXXXII.
The Kite
A Kite, which had been allowed to soar to the clouos, called out from on high to a
Butterfly down below in the valley,
"I can assure you that I can scarcely make you out. Confess now that you feel envious
when you watch my soclofty flight."
"Envious? No, indeed! You have no business to ihink so much of yourself. You fly high,
it is true; but you are always tied by a string. Such a life, my friend, is very far
semoved from happiness.
But I, though in truth but little exalted, fly wherever I wish. I should not like all my life
long to have to conduce to some. one else's foolish amusement."
Fable LXXXIII.
The Squirrel in Service
A Squirrel once served a Lion: I know not how, or in what capacity.
But this much is certain, that the Squirrel's service found favour in the Lion's eyes;
and to satisfy the Lion is, certainly, no light affair.
In return for this, it was promised a whole waggon-load of nuts. Promised — yes; but,
meanwhile, time continues to fly by. Our Squirrel often suffers hunger, and has tears in
its eyes while grinning in the Lion's presence.
When it looks round in the forest, its former comrades show themselves here and there
high up among the trees. It looks at them till its eyes begin to blink; but they keep on
always cracking nuts. Our Squirrel takes a step towards the nut-bushes, looks at them —
it can do no more. At one time it is called away, at another it is even dragged off, on the
Lion's service.
But see! At last the Squirrel has grown old, and become tedious to the Lion. It is time for
it to retire. They have granted the Squirrel its discharge, and they have actually given it
the full load of nuts.
Excellent nuts — such as the world has never seen before.
All picked fruit — one as good as another; a perfect marvel: only one thing is unlucky
— the Squirrel has long ago lost all its teeth.
Fable LXXXIV.
The Peasant and the Axe
A Moujik, who was building a hut, got vexed with his Axe. The Axe became disagreeable
to him; the Moujik waxed wroth.
The fact was, he himself hewed abominably; but he lay all the blame on the Axe.
What ever happened, the Moujik found an excuse for scolding it.
"Good-for-nothing creature! "he cries, one day, "from this time forward I will never use
you for anything but squaring stakes. Know that, with my cleverness and industry,
and my dexterity to boot, I shall get on very well without you, and will cut with a
common knife what another wouldn't be able to hew with an axe."
"It is my lot to work at whatever you lay before me," quietly replied the Axe to the angry
rebuke," and so your will, master, is sacred for me. I am ready to serve you in whatever
way you please. Only reflect now, that you may not have to repent by-and-bye.
You may blunt me on useless labour, if you will; but you will certainly never be able to
build huts with a knife."
Fable LXXXV.
The Squirrel and the Thrush
A Crowd collected in a village, one holiday, under the windows of the seignorial mansion,
looking, with openmouthed wonder, at a Squirrel in a revolving cage.
A Thrush also was wondering at it, perched on a neighbouring birch tree. The Squirrel ran
so fast that his feet seemed to twinkle, and its bushy tail spread itself straight out.
"Dear old compatriot," asked the Thrush," can you tell me what you are doing there?"
"Oh, dear friend, I have to work hard all day. I am, in fact, the courier of a great noble.
So that I can never stop to eat, nor to drink, nor even to take breath; "and the
Squirrel betook itself anew to running round in its wheel.
"Yes," said the Thrush, as it flew away," I can see plainly enough that you are running;
but, for all that, you are always there at the same window."
Look at some busybody or other. He worries himself; he rushes to and fro; every one
wonders at him. It seems as if he were going to jump out of his skin; only, in spite of all
that, he does not make any more progress than the Squirrel in the wheel.
Fable LXXXVI.
The Ass and Jupiter
When Jupiter stocked the universe with the various tribes of animals, the Ass, among
others, came into the world.
But, either purposely or from an accident owing to the press of work at such a busy time,
the Cloud-compeller made a sad mistake, and the Ass came out of its mould no larger
than a squirrel. Scarcely any one ever took any notice of the Ass, although the Ass
yielded to no one in pride. The Ass was much inclined towards boasting. But what was it
to boast of? With such a puny stature, it was ashamed to show itself in the world. So our
conceited Ass went to Jupiter, and began to pray for a larger stature.
"Have pity on me!" it cried: "how can I bear this misery? Lions, panthers, elephants,
all obtain honour every where, and, from the highest to the lowest, every one goes on
talking about them only.
Why have you treated Asses so unkindly that they never obtain any honour, and not a
word is ever spoken about them by any one?
But, if I were only as big as a calf, I would lower the pride of the lions and panthers,
and all the world would be talking about me."
Every day our Ass continued to sing this same song to Jupiter, and bothered him so that
at last he granted its request, and the Ass became a big beast. But, besides this,
it acquired such a savage voice that our long-eared Hercules dismayed the whole forest.
"Whatever is that brute? What family does it belong to? It has very long teeth, anyhow,
hasn't it? and no end of horns!"
At last, nothing else was talked about besides the Ass.
But how did it all end? Before the year was out, every one had discovered what the Ass
really was. Our Ass became proverbial for stupidity, and, ever since that time, Asses
have been beasts of burden.
Noble birth and high office are excellent things; but how can they profit a man whose
soul is ignoble?
Fable LXXXVII.
The Cat and the Nightingale
A Cat, which had caught a Nightingale, stuck its claws into the poor bird, and, pressing it
lovingly, said, "Dear Nightingale, my soul! I hear that you are every where renowned for
song, and that you are considered equal to the finest singers.
My gossip, the Fox, tells me that your voice is so sonorous and wonderful that, at the
sound of your entrancing songs, all the shepherds and shepherdesses go outof their wits.
I have greatly desired to hear you — don't tremble so, and don't be obstinate, my dear:
never fear; I haven't the least wish to eat you.
Only sing me something; then I will give you your liberty, and release you to wander
through the woods and forests. I don't yield to you in love for music, and I often purr
myself to sleep."
Meanwhile our poor Nightingale scarcely breathed under the Cat's claws.
"Well, why don't you begin?" continued the Cat." Sing away, dear, however little it may be."
But our songster didn't sing; only uttered a shrill cry.
"What! is it with that you have entranced the forest?" mockingly asked the Cat.
"Where is the clearness, the strength, of which every one talks incessantly? Such a
squeaking I 'm tired of hearing fiom my kittens.
No; I see that you haven't the least skill in song. Let's see how you will taste between my teeth."
And it ate up the poor singer, bones and all.
[This fable, which was published in the year 1824, is said to be intended to depict the
painful position which Russian literature occupied at the time, with respect to the Censor
ship. During that period of reaction, the press was terribly weighted; and it seemed that,
at last, there would be no subjects left of which it was not forbidden to take notice.
The censors acted just as they thought fit — altered manuscripts, prohibited books,
and stopped the publication of newspapers "till the editors should have knowledge
enough to conduct them properly."
It is a pleasure to compare the position which the Russian press holds now, with that
which it occupied then.]
Fable LXXXVIII.
The Peasant and the Horse
A Peasant was sowing oats one day. Seeing that, a young Horse began to reason about
it, grumbling to itself.
"A pretty piece of work this, for which he brings such a lot of oats here! And yet they say
men are wiser than we are. Can anything possibly be more foolish or ridiculous than to
plough up a whole field like this, in order to scatter one's oats over it afterwards to no
purpose? Had he given them to me, or to the bay here, or had he even thought fit to
fling them to the fowls, it would have all been more like business.
Or even if he had hoarded them up, I should have recognised avarice in that. But to fling
them uselessly away! No; that is sheer stupidity."
Meanwhile time passed; and in the autumn the oats were garnered, and the Peasant fed
his very Horse on them.
Reader, there can be no doubt that you do not approve of the Horse's opinions.
But from the oldest times to our own days, has not man been equally audacious in
criticising the designs of Providence, although, in his blind folly, he sees nothing of its
means or ends?
Fable LXXXIX.
The Gnat and the Shepherd
Having confided his sheep to the care of his dogs, a Shepherd went to sleep in the shade.
Remarking that, a snake glided towards him from under the bushes, brandishing its
forked tongue.
The Shepherd would have passed away from the world, had not a Gnat taken pity on
him, and stung him with all its might. Roused from his slumber, the Shepherd killed the
snake. But first, while half awake and half asleep, he hit the Gnat such a slap that the
poor thing was utterly done for.
There is no lack of examples of this. If the weak, even with the best intentions, try to
open the eyes of the strong, you may expect that they will meet with the same fate as the Gnat.
Fable XC.
The Wolf and the Cat
A Wolf ran out of the forest into a village — not for a visit, but to save its life; for it
trembled for its skin. The huntsmen and a pack of hounds were after it. It would
fain have rushed in through the first gateway; but there was this unfortunate
circumstance in its way, that all the gateways were closed.
Our Wolf sees a Cat on a partition fence, and says, pleadingly,
"Vaska, my friend, tell me quickly which of the moujiks here is the kindest, so that I may
hide myself from my evil foes? Listen to the cry of the dogs and the terrible sound of the
horns! All that noise is actually made in chase of me!"
"Go quickly, and ask Stefan," says Vaska the Cat; "he is a very kind moujik."
"Quite true; only I have torn the skin off one of his sheep."
"Well, then, you can try Demian."
"I'm afraid he's angry with me, too. I carried off one of his kids."
"Run over there, then. Trofim lives there."
"Trofim! I should be afraid of even meeting him. Ever since the spring, he has been
threatening me about a lamb."
"Dear me, that's bad! But perhaps Klim will protect you."
"Oh, Vaska, I have killed one of his calves."
"What do I hear, gossip? You've quarrelled with all the village," said Vaska to the Wolf."
What sort of protectioncan you hope for here? No; our moujiks are not so destitute of
sense as to be willing to save you to their own hurt And, really, you have only yourself to
blame. What you have sown, that you must now reap."
Fable XCI.
The Cannon and the Sails
A fierce quarrel arose on board a ship between ist Cannon and its Sails.
Poking their muzzles out of the Dort-holes, the Cannon thus murmured heavenward:
"O ye gods! was ever such a thing seen, as that a set of trumpery linen fabrics should
have the insolence to set up for being as useful as we are?
In the whole course of our laborious voyage, what have they done?
The moment a breeze begins to blow, they proudly swell out their breasts, carrying
themselves above the waves as pompously as if they were really of great importance,
but yet do nothing more than show off their airs. But, as for us, we thunder in battles.
Is it not due to us that our ship rules the waves? Do not we carry with us everywhere
terror and death? No; we do not wish to live any longer with the Sails. We can do every
thing for ourselves without them. Fly, then, to our aid, mighty Boreas, and quickly tear
them into rags."
Boreas heard, and, flying thither, breathed on the sea. Immediately the waters were
overcast and turned black, a heavy cloud covered the sky, and the waves ran mountains
high. Thunder deafened the ear; lightning blinded the eye. Boreas roared, and tore the
sails into shreds. When nothing was left of them, the tempest ceased.
But what followed? Deprived of its sails, the ship became a sport to the winds and waves,
and drifted about at sea like a log.
And in the first encounter with a hostile vessel, which thundered terrible broadsides along
its whole length, our ship, now unable to move, was soon riddled like a sieve, and went
down to the bottom like a stone — Cannon' and all.
Every state is strong when its elements are wisely balanced. By its Cannon it is terrible to
its foes; but its civil powers play the part of the Sails.
Fable XCII.
The Eagle and the Bee
Seeing how a Bee was busying itself about a flower, an Eagle said to it, with disdain,
"How I pity thee, poor thing, with all thy toil and skill! All through the summer,
thousands of thy fellows are moulding honeycomb in the hive.
But who will afterwards separate and distinguish the results of thy labour? I must
confess, I do not understand what pleasure thou canst take in it.
To labour all one's life, and to have in view — what? Why, to die without having achieved
distinction, exactly like all the rest. What a difference there is between us! When I spread
my sounding pinions, and am borne alono near the clouds, I am everywhere a cause of alarm.
The birds do not dare to rise from the ground; the shepherds fear to repose beside
their well-fed flocks; and the swift does, having seen me, will not venture out into the plains."
But the Bee replies,
"To thee be glory and honour!
May Jupiter continue to pour on thee his bounteous gifts! I, however, born to work
for the common good, do not seek to make my labour dis tinguished.
But, when I look at our honeycombs, I am consoled by the thought that there are in
them a few drops of my own honey."
Fortunate is he, the field of whose labour is conspicuous! He gains added strength from
the knowledge that the whole world witnesses his exploits.
But how deserving of respect is he who, in humble obscurity, hopes for neither fame nor
honour in return for all his labour, for all his loss of rest — who is animated by this
thought only, that he works for the common good!
Fable XCIII.
The Lion
When the Lion became old and weak, his hard bed began to annoy him. It made his very
bones ache; besides, it did not warm him. So he summons his nobles to his side,
long-haired and shaggy wolves and bears, and says,
"Friends, to old bones like mine, my bed has now become intolerably hard. So find out
some way, without oppressing either the poor or the rich, to collect fleeces for me,
that I may not have to sleep on the bare stones."
"Most illustrious Lion!" answer the grandees," who would think of grudging you his skin,
not to speak of his fleece? And are there but few shaggy beasts among us here? As to
stags, hinds, chamois, and goats, they scarcely pay any tribute at all.
We will take their fleeces from them at once. They will not be any the worse for that;
on the contrary, indeed, they will be all the lighter for it."
This very wise advice was immediately carried out.
The Lion could not sufficiently praise the zeal of his friends. But in what had they shown
themselves zealous? Only in this, that they caught the poor creatures, and sent them
away completely shorn.
But they themselves, though they were twice as hirsute, did not contribute so much as a
single hair of their own; on the contrary, each of them who happened to be on the spot
turned that tribute to good account, and provided himself with a mattress for the winter.
Fable XCIV.
The Swan, the Pike, and the Crab
A Swan, a Crab, and a Pike once undertook to draw a load, and all three yoked
themselves to it together. They strain away as if they would burst, but the load makes
no way. Its weight would have seemed but a light one for them.
But the Swan wings its way into the clouds, the Crab crawls backwards, and the Pike
flops into the water. Which of them was in the right, and which in the wrong, it is not for
us to decide.
But the load remains there to the present day.
["From the very commencement of the alliance between France and England for the
protection of Turkey," says Mr. Sutherland Edwards, in his "Russians at Home,"
"Russia asserted — the wish being, of course, father to the assertion — that such a union
could never lead to any practical result. In illustration of this idea, a swan, a crab, and a
pike, each in its own way a water-animal, were represented in the act of drawing a
load — or rather of attempting to do so, for the load remained stationary.
Beneath the engraving was printed the fable (by Krilof) from which the idea was taken."]
Fable XCV.
The Corn-Flower
A Corn-Flower which grew in a retired spot suddenly lost its strength, withered away to
little more than half its former size, and, bowing down its head over its stalk, sorrowfully
awaited its end. Meanwhile it whispered its complaining to the breeze:
"Ah me! if only the day would soon break, and the shining sun would illumine the fields,
perhaps it might revive even me!"
"Why, what a simpleton you are, my friend!" answered a Beetle, which happened to be
delving near at hand.
"Do you suppose the sun has nothing else to do than to see how you are getting on,
and whether you are flourishing or fading? You may be sure that he has neither the time
nor the will to do that!
If you had flown about like me, and learnt to know the world, you would have perceived
that all these meadows, sweeping pastures, and corn-fields owe to him alone both their
life and their happiness. He warms the huge oaks and cedars by his heat, and he richly
clothes with wondrous beauty the sweet-smelling flowers. But those flowers are utterly
different from you.
So precious are they and so beautiful, that Time himself pities them as he mows them
down. But as for you, you are neither splendid nor fragrant, so don't annoy the sun by
your importunity! Make up your mind that he won't spare you a ray, and cease to
strive after what cannot be got. Hold your tongue, and wither!"
But the sun arose, illuminating all nature, and widely scattering its beams over the
kingdom of Flora. And the poor Corn-flower, which had begun to fade away in the night,
was brought back to life by its celestial regard.
O ye upon whom Fate has conferred high dignity, take as an example for yourselves this
sun of which I have spoken. Wherever his light falls, there it benefits all alike, whether it
be a cedar or, a blade of grass, and there it leaves behind it joy and happiness;
wherefore, also, its image glitters in the hearts of all, as shines in Eastern crystals a
limpid light, and all things that be invoke blessings upon it.
[In 1823 Krilof was for some time seriously ill. When the Empress Maria Fedorovna heard
of his attack, she told his friends to send him to Pavlovsk, where she was staying at that
time, saying, "He will recover quicker under my charge."
Accordingly he went there as soon as he became convalescent, and remained there for
some time. Before he left he composed the poem of the Corn-flower, and placed it one
day in an album belonging to the Empress, which he found lying in the "Pavilion of Roses."]
Fable XCVI.
Parnassus
After the Gods had been driven out of Greece, and when their domains were being
divided among mortals, a certain man had Parnassus itself allotted to him. The new
landlord turned out a number of Asses to graze on it.
Now these Asses had learnt, somehow or other, that the Muses used to live there in
former times; so they said,
"It wasn't for nothing that we were turned out on Parnassus. It is evident that the world
is tired of the Muses, and it wants us to take to singing here."
Then one exclaimed,
"Look sharp there, and don't lose heart. I will lead off: mind you are not behindhand.
We must not be timid, friends. Rather will we lift up our voices louder than those of the
Nine Sisters, rendering our herd illustrious.
And we will form our own choir, and, in order that our confraternity may not be
disconcerted, we will establish among ourselves such a regulation as this — that we will
not admit upon Parnassus any but those in whose voices the asinine charm is to be found."
The Asses approved of the beautiful and artistically-constructed speech of the Ass,
and the novel choir set up a screech that sounded as if a train of waggons were rolling
along on a thousand unoiled wheels.
But how did the varied beauty of the singing end?
Why, the landlord, losing all patience, drove them away from Parnassus into his stable.
If it will not hurt the feelings of the uncultivated, I should like to quote the ancient saw:
"To a head that is empty no art can add brains:
Though you place it in office — it empty remains."
[This fable is supposed to refer to the downfall of what was called the "English"
Ministry in Russia, after the meeting which took place at Tilsit between Alexander I.
and Napoleon.
When Alexander came to the throne he displaced most of the old Ministers, and gave their
portfolios to young men who shared his own liberal ideas. They held office for five years.
Then came the change in Alexander's policy, which drove them out, so that by the end of
1807 not one of them was left in power.
Krilof, as a Conservative, and an admirer of the old school of politicians formed under
Catherine II., was delighted at the fall of the "Young-Russian" Ministry]
Fable XCVII.
The Linnet and the Hedgehog
A timid Linnet, a lover of solitude, was chirruping away to itself one morning at daybreak,
but not because it wanted to be applauded — and, indeed, there could not have been any
reason for applauding it; its song flowed from it involuntarily.
But, see! in all his blaze of glory resplendent Phœbus rose from out of the waves,
seeming to bring life to all things along with him; and to welcome him, a chorus of
clear-voiced nightingales made the dense woods resound with song.
Our Linnet became silent.
"But you, my friend, why don't you sing?" tauntingly asked the Hedgehog.
"Because my voice is not fit for worthily extolling Phœbus," answered the poor Linnet,
through its tears. "With a feeble voice I cannot venture to sing of Phœbus."
So I, too, grieve, and complain that Pindar's lyre did not fall to my lot.
Had that been the case I would have sung of Alexander.
[This little poem derives its main interest from the fact that Krilof refers in it to himself.
When Alexander I. was on his way back to Russia after the occupation of Paris, the
poets of the day broke out into a chorus of congratulatory song.
Krilof's friends advised him to write a poem on the subject. But about a month before
Alexander returned, Krilof paid a visit to the Empress-Dowager, Maria Fedorovna,
and recited to her this little fable.]
Fable XCVIII.
The Wood and the Fire
One winter day the remains of a Fire were smouldering in a Wood, forgotten there,
no doubt, by some chance travellers. Hour by hour the Fire grew weaker. No fresh fuel
being supplied to it, our Fire almost ceased to burn, and, seeing its end near at hand,
thus spoke to the Wood:
"Tell me, dear Wood, why your fate is so hard that not a leaflet can be seen on you,
and you are freezing in utter bareness?"
"Because," replied the Wood, "I cannot put forth buds or foliage in the winter-time,
when the snow is over all."
"A mere trifle!" continues the Fire. "Only ally yourself with me. I will assist you.
I am the Sun's brother; and, in the winter season, I work miracles as much as the Sun.
Ask about the fire in hothouses: inside them, during the winter, when the snow falls and
the storm-wind is blowing without, everything is either blossoming or ripening, and that
is all due to me. Self-praise is unbecoming, and I de test bragging ; but as far as
strength is concerned I will in nowise yield to the Sun. However proudly he may have
shone here, he has gone to his bed without doing any harm to the snow.
But around me, only see how the snow has melted. So if you want to grow green in
winter, just as in spring and summer, grant me a little corner of your space."
See, the matter is agreed about: already, there, in the wood, have the smouldering
embers become a fire; and that fire does not sleep.
It runs along the branches and among the twigs.
A black smoke soars in wreaths to the clouds, and a fierce flame suddenly enwraps the
whole Wood. All perishes utterly; and there, where upon sultry days the traveller used to
find a refuge in the shade, only blackened stumps stand out a little from the ground.
Not that there is anything to wonder at in this, for how can wood and fire be friends?
Fable XCIX.
The Titmouse
A Titmouse made assault upon the sea, boasting that it would burn the sea up.
Immediately there went abroad through all the world much talk about that.
Fear seized upon the inhabitants of Neptune's metropolis. The birds flew in troops,
and the beasts ran down together from the forests, to see in what manner the ocean
would take fire, and whether it would burn furiously.
It is even said, on the authority of the feathered tribe, that the human haunters of festal
tables were among the first to appear on the shore, all provided with spoons, so as to
enjoy so rich a fish soup as not even the most liberal of contractors had ever given to
Government officials.
They swarm around. Each one marvels at the prodigy beforehand, and, in utter silence,
fixing his eyes upon the sea, awaits the result. Only at times will one of them whis per,
"There, it is going to boil! Look! it will begin to burn in a minute!"
Not a bit of it! the sea does not burn.
But at all events doesn't it boil? It does not even boil. Well, then, how did these
stupendous projects end? Why, the Titmouse had to fly away home in disgrace.
The Titmouse had made a noise in the world, but it had not set the sea on fire.