Fable C.
The Monkeys
When folks imitate discreetly, there is no wonder in their gaining by the process.
But, as to indiscreet imitation — Heaven protect us! what a terrible thing that is!
I will give you an illustration of this, brought from a faroffland.
All who have seen monkeys know how fond they are of imitating everything.
Well, one day, in Africa, where monkeys are numerous, there was a whole troop of them
sitting on the boughs and branches of a thick tree, and looking aside at a hunter,
watching how he rolled about on the grass among his nets.
Each one gave her neighbour a quiet nudge in the ribs, and they all began to whisper to
each other —
"Just look at the fine fellow! Really it would seem that there is no end to his frolics!
How he rolls over and over — turns himself inside out, and coils himself up into a ball
so that one can't see either his hands or his feet!
It is true that we are already well skilled in everything, but such science as that has
never even been seen among us before.
Sister beauties! it would not be a bad idea for us to imitate it! That fellow seems to have
amused himself enough; perhaps he will go away, and then we will at once "
See, he really has gone away and left the nets to them. "There now!" they say,"
ought we to lose any time? Let's go and make an experiment."
The beauties descend.
For the dear guests a quantity of nets have been spread down below.
They begin to turn head over heels, to roll about, to envelope and entangle themselves in the toils.
They cry — they squeal! their joy is at its height. But see! when it comes to extricating
them selves from the nets, it is a bad business for them!
Their entertainer has been all along on the watch, and, when he sees the time has come,
he provides himself with sacks and walks up to his guests.
Fain would they take to flight, but not one of them can get free now; and so, one after
the other, they are all made prisoners.
Fable CI.
The Ducat
Is civilization profitable?
Profitable! — that is not the question.
But we often give the name of civilization to luxury's seductions, and even to
demoralization.
Therefore you must pay close attention, so that, when you rid people of their superficial
coarseness, you may not at the same time rob them of their good qualities, enfeeble
their souls, spoil their morals, deprive them of their simplicity, and, having given them in
exchange merely an empty brilliance, burden them with infamy instead of good repute.
About this sacred truth one might make a whole volume of serious sermons, but serious
speaking does not befit every one; so, half in jest, I am going to prove it to you by means of a fable.
A Peasant, a thorough blockhead (there are plenty of such people everywhere) found a
Ducat lying on the ground. The Ducat was dusty and dirty, but three double handfuls of
fivekopeck pieces were ready to be given to the Peasant in exchange for it.
"Stop a bit!" thinks the Peasant: "they 'll give me twice as much presently. I've hit on
such a plan that they 'll try to get it from me with both hands."
Hereupon, having taken sand, gravel, chalk, and brickdust, our Moujik sets to work,
and with all his might chafes the Ducat against the gravel, grinds it with sand and
brickdust, and rubs it with chalk.
Well, to speak briefly, he wants to make it shine like fire, and like actual fire the Ducat
begins to gleam.
Only — its weight diminished, and so the Ducat lost its ancient value.
[During the early years of the reign of Alexander I., a great deal was done in the name of
enlightenment. It was proposed to found educational establishments all over Russia.
Three Universities were reformed, and two were completely reconstituted; three High
Schools were founded, together with twenty-six Gymnasia and eighty District Schools.
A thirst for instruction began to make itself felt among all the classes of the Russian
people. The rich subscribed liberally; even the poor "laid their mite on the altar of
national enlightenment."
Between the years 1800 and 1812 more than three hundred educational establishments
of different kinds were opened. In the eventful year 1812 itself no less than fifty-one new
schools were made available.
Even the peasants contributed towards the funds which were subscribed for the new
colleges and schools. But in these new schools French teachers exercised great influence,
and Krilof detested that influence as being hostile to patriotic feeling.
Hence arose his want of sympathy with that desire for education which for a time seemed
likely to become universal.]
Fable CII.
The Travellers and the Dogs
One evening two friends were walking along, and carrying on a sensible conversation,
when suddenly from the threshold of a gateway a yard-dog began to bark at them.
After it began a second, then two or three others, and in another moment half a hundred
dogs had run together from all the courtyards.
Already was one of the travellers on the point of picking up a stone, when the other one said to him,
"Hold hard, brother! You won't prevent the dogs from barking; you will only provoke the
pack all the more. Let's go straight on. I know their nature better."
And, in fact, they had only gone some fifty paces when the dogs gradually began to calm
down, and at last they could not be heard at all.
The envious can look at nothing without setting up a howl at it. But you go your own way.
They may continue barking for awhile — but they will leave off.
[A recent critic, M. Fleury, has called attention to the re semblance between this fable
and the following, extracted from the preface to Voltaire's "Alzire": "Un Voyageur
était importuné dans son chemin du bruit des cigales; il s'arrêta pour les tuer; il n'en vint
pas à bout, et ne fit que s'écarter de sa route. Il n'avait qu' a continuer paisible ment son
voyage; les cigales seraient mortes d'elles-mêmes au bout de huit jours."
But Krilof's fable has a wider signification than that of Voltaire, which refers mainly to literary critics.]
Fable CIII.
The Peasant and the Snake
A Snake came and asked a Peasant to take it into his house.
Not to live there idly without working — no, it wanted to look after his children.
Bread is sweetest when it is earned by labour.
"I know," it says," what a bad name snakes have got among you men — how they are all
supposed to be of the very worst character. From the remotest times rumour has
asserted that gratitude is unknown to them, that they know neither friendship nor
relationship, and that they devour even their own little ones.
All that may be true, but I am not one of that sort.
Not only have I never bitten anybody in my life, but I have such a loathing for everything
that is hurtful, that I would have had my sting pulled out of me if I could only have been
sure that I could live without one. To speak briefly: of all snakes I am the best.
Judge, then, how fond I shall be of your children!"
"Even supposing all that isn't all lies," answers the Peasant," yet it's quite impossible for
me to take you in. As soon as one specimen of the kind got to be liked among us,
a hundred bad snakes would come crawling in after the one good one, and would be the
ruin of all our children here.
Indeed I fancy, my dear creature, that it is impossible for you and me to live on good
terms together, for, according to my ideas, the very best of snakes is not good enough
for even the devil himself."
Fathers, do you understand what I am thinking about just now?
[After the campaign of 1812, the Vuimorozki,* as they were called — the remnants of
the Grande Armee — were dispersed about Russia, and very kindly treated, being made
much of at all convivial meetings, and readily accepted as tutors, sometimes as
husbands.
Against all this Krilof uttered several protests, one of which is embodied in the
present fable.]
*The spiritual essence obtained from frozen wine, etc.
Fable CIV.
The Flowers
At the open window of a sumptuous apartment, arranged in vases of many-coloured
porcelain, a number of Artificial Flowers waved proudly on their wire stalks — real
flowers standing beside them the while — and exhibited their charms to universal admiration.
But, see! a shower has begun to fall. The taffeta Flowers straightway adjure Jupiter,
asking if the rain cannot be stopped, abusing and defaming it in every way.
"O Jupiter," they pray," do put a stop to this shower! What good is there in it? what on
earth can be worse than it is? Why, see! walking in the streets is impossible, for it has
turned them into nothing but mud and puddles."
But Jupiter gave no heed to their idle prayer, and the shower had it all its own way,
dispelled the great heat, and made the air cool. All nature revived, and the verdure on
every side seemed to spring up anew.
Then, among other things, the real flowers in the window expanded in all their beauty,
fresher for the rain, softer and more fragrant. But by that time the Artificial Flowers, poor
things! had lost all their beauty, and they were thrown into the yard as rubbish.
Real talents are not angry with criticism: it cannot injure their charms.
It is only the false flowers that fear the rain.
Fable CV.
The Fire and the Diamond
Spreading from a spark into a conflagration, a Fire, in the dead of midnight, rushed with
furious impetuosity through a pile of buildings.
Meanwhile a Diamond, which had been lost in the universal alarm, faintly glimmered
through the dust of the road in which it lay.
"How thoroughly art thou, in spite of all thy play of light, annihilated in my presence!"
said the Fire.
"And how practised must be that sight which can distinguish thee, at a little distance,
from either a bit of glass or a drop of water in which my light or that of the sun shines
reflected! not to speak of how much damage is done to thee by any thing that falls upon
thee — any trifle, a mere scrap of ribbon. How often, for instance, does a single hair
which has wound itself about thee dim thy brilliance!
Not so easily is my radiance to be eclipsed when I encompass a building in my wrath.
See how I despise all the efforts people are making against me! How I devour with a
crackling all that I encounter! while my glare, playing upon the clouds, brings fear upon
all the land around!"
"It is true that my light is really but a poor one compared with thine," answered the
Diamond." But I am harmless.
None can accuse me of having injured any one, and to envy alone is my light distasteful.
But thou shinest, thou flashest, only by means of that which destroys; there fore,
see how all, uniting their whole strength, strive that thou mayest be extinguished as
soon as possible.
And the more furiously thou blazest, the quicker, perhaps, dost thou draw to thy end."
Meanwhile the people strove with all their might to put out the Fire. By the morning
nothing was left of it but smoke and stench. But the Diamond was soon recovered,
and it became the chief ornament of the royal crown.
Fable CVI.
The Pond and the River
"How comes it," said to a River a neighbouring Pond, "that one never looks at you
without finding your waters always in movement? Is it possible, sister dear, that you do
not grow tired? Besides, I see that you are almost always supporting either heavily-laden
ships or long lines of timber-rafts;
I say nothing at present about boats and barges: their number is infinite! When will you
have done with such a life? I should really dry up from vexation if mine were like it.
"But, in comparison with yours, how pleasant is my lot! It is true that I am not known to fame.
I do not meander across a whole sheet of the map; no dulcimer player twangs out
praises in my honour: all that is, in reality, mere nonsense. But I, on my soft and slimy
banks, repose in tranquil indulgence, like a fine lady on cushions of down.
And not only have I no ships or rafts to fear, but I do not even know what the weight
of a boat is.
Nay, more, I think it a great event if a leaf, which the breeze has wafted to me,
undulates on my waters. What equivalent could be offered for a life so free from cares?
Left behind, unruffled by the winds from whatever quarter they may blow, I know no
movement, but look on, as in a dream, at the world's anxieties, and philosophize the while."
"But, while philosophizing, do you bear in mind this law," replied the River, "that only by
movement can water preserve its freshness?
If I have become a great river, it has been because, spurning rest, I obey that law.
Therefore is it that, year after year, I benefit by the abundance and purity of my waters,
and gain honour and glory. It may be, too, that for ages to come I shall still flow on,
when you will no longer exist even in memory, and all mention of you will have utterly
come to an end."
The words of the River were fulfilled: to this day it still flows on. But the poor Pond,
becoming every year less liquid, and more and more choked up with thick ooze,
turned mouldy, produced a crop of sedge, and finally dried up.
Fable CVII.
The Eagle and the Mole
An Eagle and his mate flew into a deep forest, and determined to make it their
permanent abode. So they chose an oak, lofty and wide-spreading, and began to build
themselves a nest on the top of it, hoping there to rear their young in the summer.
A Mole, who heard about all this, plucked up courage enough to inform the Eagles that
the oak was not a proper dwelling-place for them ; that it was almost entirely rotten
at the root, and was likely soon to fall, and that therefore the Eagles ought not to make
their nest upon it.
But is it becoming that an Eagle should accept advice coming from a Mole in a hole?
Where then would be the glory of an Eagle having such keen eyes? And how comes
it that Moles dare to meddle in the affairs of the King of Birds?
So, saying very little to the Mole, whose counsel he despised, the Eagle set to work
quickly — and the King soon got ready the new dwelling for the Queen.
All goes well, and now the Eagles have little ones. But what happens? One day, when at
early dawn the Eagle is hastening back from the chase, bringing a rich breakfast to his
family, as he drops down from the sky he sees — his oak has fallen, and has crushed
beneath it his mate and his little ones!
"Wretched creature that I am!" he cries, anguish blotting out from him the light; "for my
pride has Fate so terribly punished me, and because I gave no heed to wise counsel.
But could one expect that wise counsel could possibly come from a miserable Mole?"
Then from its hole the Mole replies:
"Had not you despised me, you would have remembered that I burrow within the earth,
and that, as I live among the roots, I can tell with certainty whether a tree be sound or no."
Fable CVIII.
The Starling
A certain Starling learnt, in early life, to sing as like a goldfinch as if it had been born a goldfinch itself.
The whole forest was enlivened by its sportive little lay, and the dear Starling was the
theme of universal praise.
Any other bird would have been content with such honours. But our Starling heard the
nightingale being praised. Our Starling, to its sorrow, became jealous.
"Just wait a little, my friends," it thinks; " I will sing in the nightingale's style too,
and every bit as well."
And it really did begin singing, only it was in a style quite different from anything else.
It squeaked, it growled, it whimpered like a kid, and, without the least reason for doing
so, mewed like a kitten.
To be brief, its singing made all the other birds take to flight.
Well, my dear Starling! what have you gained by that? Better sing a goldfinch's song
well, than a nightingale's badly.
Fable CIX.
The Tree
"Dear friend," cried a young Sapling to a peasant, whom it saw carrying an axe,
"please clear away the forest around me. I cannot grow comfortably, nor can I see the
light of the sun; my roots have not space enough, and the breezes are not at liberty to
sport around me; such arches has it thought fit to weave above me.
If it were not for its impeding my growth I should become the ornament of the neighbourhood
in a year, and all the valley would be covered by my shade.
But as it is I am thin and frail, almost like a withered branch."
The peasant took to his axe and rendered service to the Tree as to a friend. Around the
sapling a great space was cleared, but not long did its triumph last! At one time it was
parched by the sun, at another it was knocked about by hail or rain, and at last it was
snapped in two by the wind.
"Fool!" then said to it a Snake, "have you not brought your misfortune upon yourself?
If you had grown up, hidden by the forest, neither heat nor storm would have been able
to hurt you. The old trees would have protected you; and if a time had come when their
season was past and they disappeared, then you, in your turn, would have so flourished,
would have become so strongly built and firmly rooted, that your present misfortune
would never have happened to you, and you would, perhaps, have been able to
encounter even the hurricane.
Fable CX.
The Peasant and the Fox
"Tell me, gossip, how is it you have such a passion for stealing fowls?" said a Peasant to
a Fox he happened to meet.
"I declare I feel quite sorry for you. Listen now; we are alone here, and I will tell you the
whole truth. In your way of living there really is not a grain of good to be seen — not to
mention that theft is a sin and a shame, and that all the world curses you; and there
never is a single day on which you are not afraid, by way of payment for your dinner or
supper, of leaving your skin behind you in the poultry-yard.
Now, are all the fowls in the world worth this?"
"Who could find such a life endurable?" answered the Fox. "I am so disgusted with
everything in it that I find my very food distasteful; and if you only knew how pure I am
in heart! But what is one to do?
I have wants; I have children. Besides, dear gossip, the thought sometimes comes into
my head that, perhaps, I am not the only one in the world who lives by stealing, and yet
that profession is to me just as it were a sharp knife stuck into me."
"Very good," says the Peasant. "If you are really not telling lies, I will save you from
sinning, and provide you with honest food. Hire yourself to me to guard my poultryyard
against the foxes. Who but a fox is likely to know all foxish tricks?
And in return for this you shall want for nothing: in my service you will roll like a cheese in butter."
The bargain was struck, and from that very hour the Fox went upon guard. The Fox led a
life of abundance at the Peasant's.
The Fox grew fuller, the Fox grew fatter, but the Fox did not grow more honest. Food
which had not een stolen soon became distasteful to him, and our gossip ended his
service by taking advantage of an unusually dark night, and throttling every fowl his dear
friend possessed.
Fable CXI.
The Gardener and the Philosopher
One spring, a Gardener took to digging away among his beds as vigorously as if he were
in hopes of digging up a treasure.
A mettlesome workman was the Moujik, and stout and fresh to look at. Before long he
had prepared some fifty beds for cucumbers alone.
Next door to him lived an amateur of gardens, both kitchen and flower — a veiy fine
talker, a friend of Nature, as he called himself, a philosopher of the superficial school,
one who chatted away about gardens from book-knowledge only.
One day he took it into his head to look after his own garden, and he, too, determined to
rear cucumbers, and in the meantime he thus flouted his neighbour:
"Sweat away, neighbour, as much as you like, but my work will leave yours far behind,
and by the side of my garden yours will look like a desert.
Yes, to tell the truth, I have often been quite astounded at seeing that that miserable
little garden of yours gets on at all.
How is it you have not been ruined before now? I suppose you have never paid the least
attention to science?"
"Never had the time," was the neighbour's answer. "Industry, practice, a pair of arms —
these are all the sciences I have. But just as they are, God gives me bread with them."
"Clodhopper! Do you dare to set yourself up against science?"
"No, master; don't go twisting my words askew like that. If you invent anything clever,
I'll always be ready to copy you."
"Well, well! we shall see; just let's wait till summer"
"But, master, isn't this, the time for taking the matter in hand? I've already begun
sowing and planting, but you haven't even dug over your beds yet."
"Why, no, I haven't done any digging yet for want of leisure.
I've been spending all my time in reading, trying to find out from my books whether
I should dig the beds with a spade, or whether it would not be better to use one of the
two kinds of ploughs, and if so, which of the two? But the season is not going to pass
away just yet."
"Not from you, perhaps; but it won't be much inclined to wait for me," said the Gardener,
turning away and taking to his spade again.
The Philosopher went home and began reading, making extracts, inquiring, and digging
away in his library and in his garden, always at work from morn till eve. Scarcely had
he finished one piece of work, hardly had anything come up in the beds, when he would
find some fresh discovery in the newspapers.
Straightway he would dig up everything, transplant everything, on another plan, to a new tune.
What, then, was the result of all this? Everything the Gardener had sown came up and
ripened. His affairs went well, and brought him in profit. But as for the Philosopher —
not a single cucumber had he.
Fable CXII.
The Dog
A Gentleman had a dog that was given to thieving. And yet there was nothing it stood in
need of. Anyother dog in such a kind of life would have been happy and contented,
and would never have dreamt of stealing.
But this one had such a mania for it that whenever, it got hold of a piece of meat it
instantly bolted with it.
In spite of all the pains his master gave himself, he could not get on with it, until at last
a friend interfered and helped him with this piece of advice:
"Listen," he said. "Athough you are severe, it seems, yet you only accustom your dog to
steal, inasmuch as you always let him keep his stolen morsel. But suppose you beat him
less in future, only take away from him what he has stolen."
Scarcely had the dog experienced the effect of this wise counsel when — the dog gave up stealing.
[This fable, like that of "The Bear among the Bees," refers to the corruption which used
to be so prevalent in Russian official circles. In the dog of the one story and the bear of
the other, individual functionaries of evil repute were in all probability represented,
but their real names are unknown.]
Fable CXIII.
The Ape
A Peasant at the dawn of day went toiling over his bit of ground behind his plough.
So hard did our peasant toil that the sweat poured off him like hail.
Our Moujik was a thorough workman, and therefore everybody who went past called out
to him, "Well done! Good luck to you!"
This made an Ape jealous. Praise is tempting: how can one help longing for it? So the
Ape took it into his head to work, got hold of a log, and just did plague himself over it.
The Ape's mouth becomes full of trouble. Now he lifts up the log, and now embraces it,
first this way, then that; now he drags it along, now he rolls it about. The sweat runs off
the poor creature in a stream.
At last, groaning and gasping, he can scarcely draw his breath.
And yet, in spite of all this, he does not hear a soul give him an atom of praise.
And no wonder, my dear! You take a world of pains, but what you do is utterly useless.
[This fable is suspiciously like one of Sumarokof's, called "The Ploughman and the
Monkey," in which the man gets praised, while the monkey, who is toiling away with
a stone, gets nothing but a scolding, and cannot make out why.]
Fable CXIV.
The Cask
A certain man asked a friend to lend him a cask for two or three days. Now, in friendship,
a readiness to oblige is a holy thing. You see, if the matter had been one of money, that
would have been quite another question. In that case friendship would have been beside
the mark, and it would have been possible to refuse.
But as to lending a cask — why shouldn't one?
When it had been returned, they began carrying water in it again. And everything would
have been all right about it if it had not been for this—that a spirit merchant had used
it for keeping brandy in, and it had become so saturated with the spirit in a couple of
days, that it communicated a flavour of brandy to everything that was put into it —
to kvass or beer, whichever had been brewed, or even to eat ables.
Almost an entire year did its owner bother himself about it: at one time scalded it,
at another hung it out to air in the breeze. But let him pour into it what he liked,
the spirituous flavour would not go out of it a bit.
And so, at last, he was obliged to part with the cask.
Fathers! try not to forget this fable.
If in his young days one of us has ever happened to be steeped in the current of
a hurtful teaching, then in all his actions and behaviour after wards, whatever he may be
in words, there will always be perceptible a kind of after-taste of it.
[This fable seems only an expansion of the lines of Horace:
"Nunc adbibe puro
Pectore verba, puer, nunc te melioribus offer.
Quo semel est imbuta recens servabit odorem
Testa diu." — Epist. I. 2.
An idea which was expanded by St. Jerome as follows: "Difficulter eraditur, quod rudes
animi perbiberunt. Lanarum conchylia quis in pristinum colorem revocet? Rudis testa diu
et saporem retinet et odorem, quo primum imbuta est." — Epist. ad Lætam.
In a quaint version published in 1630, the passage is thus translated:
"That is hardly scraped out, which young unfashioned mindes have drunke in. Who shall
be able to reduce purple woolls to the former whitenes? A new vessell long retaynes
both the odour and taste, whereof it received the first im pression."
Krilof felt strongly on the subject of education, to which he devoted three of his fables:
"The Peasant and the Snake," "The Cask," and "The Education of the Lion," besides two
comedies —the "Fashions Shop," and the "Lesson for Daughters." In his "Spirit Post" he
says: "A hundred years ago people educated their children themselves, caring only about
their being honest, brave in war, and firm under misfortune.
Parents tried to be good in those days in order to set a good example to their children.
People were not eloquent, but they spoke truths which stood in no need of eloquence.
But now it is thought that a man cannot be a good citizen unless he can dance, play
cards, talk French, and chatter away all the day long. And for all that French tutors are needed."
Krilof hated these French tutors, for he remained firmly attached to old-fashioned views
about religion and politics. At the time when the fable was written, in the year 1814,
the Empire had been greatly influenced by the teachings of the Mysticists on the one
hand and the Freethinkers on the other.
After 1812, so many Frenchmen remained in Russia as teachers, that French ideas
spread widely among the younger Russians of the upper class.
"Græcia capta ferum victorem cepit et artes
Intulit agresti Latio."]
Fable CXV.
The Nobleman and the Philosopher
A Nobleman chatting with a Sage during an idle hour about one thing and the other, said,
"Tell me, you who thoroughly know the world, and read the hearts of people like a book,
how is it that, whenever we lay the foundation of an assembly or a learned society,
we scarcely have time to take a look around us, before the blockheads manage to worm
themselves in among the first comers?
Is it possible that absolutely no remedy exists against them?"
"I think not," replied the Sage. "The fate of learned societies is the same, between
ourselves, as that of houses made of wood."
"How so?"
"Why, this way. I have just now finished building one for myself. Its proprietors have not
yet moved into it, but the crickets have ever so long ago taken up their quarters in it."
Fable CXVI.
The Horse and its Rider
A certain Cavalier had so schooled his horse, that he could do whatever he liked with it.
He scarcely made any use of the reins: the Horse obeyed his mere word.
"There's no use in bridling such horses," said its master one day.
"Upon my word, I've hit on a capital idea!"
And riding out afield he unbridled the horse.
When it felt itself free, the horse at first only increased its pace a little, and, tossing its
head and shaking its mane, it speeded with playful gait as if to amuse its rider.
But when it remarked how weak was now the power that used to control it, the
mettlesome horse soon began to follow its own will. Its blood boiled, its eyes glowed.
No longer listening to the voice of its rider, it whirled him along at full speed right across
the open country.
In vain did our unfortunate rider attempt with trembling hands to throw the bridle over its head.
The horse only became the fiercer, and away it tore, until at last it flung its rider far from its back.
Then away, like a whirling stormwind, it rushed, blind to the light of heaven, not seeing
where it went, until it fell headlong into a ravine, and was knocked to pieces.
"My poor horse!" said its rider, when he heard of its death. "It was I who brought about
thy misfortune. If I had not taken off thy bridle, I should certainly have been able to guide thee.
Then thou wouldst not have thrown me, nor wouldst thou have died so pitiful a death!"
How alluring is liberty! But for a people it is no less destructive, unless reasonable
bounds are set to it.
[It has been supposed that Krilof meant this fable to apply to the revolutionary agitation
in Russia, which began to manifest itself after the war with Napoleon, and which went
on increasing till its unfortunate outbreak in 1825. But it was written before that agitation
commenced, the original MS. being dated May 12, 1814, and it is probable that Krilof,
when he composed it, was thinking only of the French Revolution.
There is a poem by Derjavine called the Kolesnitsa, or "Chariot," to which this fable bears
a strong likeness.]
Fable CXVII.
The good Fox
A Sportsman killed a redcap one spring.
Would that the evil he wrought had ended with her life! But, no — after hers three more
lives had to be lost.
The sportsman had made orphans of her three little ones, poor creatures! Only just out
of the shell, feeble and ignorant, they suffered from cold and hunger, calling in vain upon
their dam with plaintive cry.
"How can one help grieving at the sight of these little ones, and whose heart does not
ache for them?"
Thus were the neighbouring birds addressed by a Fox, who was sitting on a bit of stone
opposite the nest of the orphans. "Don't leave these young creatures unassisted, my
dear friends. If you will only bring the poor little darlings a tiny grain apiece, if each of
you will only add to their dear little nest ever so small a straw, you will thereby save their
lives. And what is more holy than a good deed?
"O cuckoo dear! just see how thou art moulting! Would it not be as well for thee to allow
thyself to be plucked a little, and to give thy feathers to garnish their little bed?
Really, thou art now losing them uselessly.
"O lark! suppose that, instead of turning and tumbling about high up in the air, thou wert
sometimes to look for food in the corn-field and the meadow, and to share it with the orphans.
"O turtle-dove! thy young ones have now grown up; they are able to procure their own
food now, so it is possible for thee to fly from thy own nest, and take their mother's
place over these little ones, leaving God to watch over thy own offspring.
"O swallow! suppose thou wert to catch flies, so as to make the fare of the orphans a
little more dainty.
"And thou, dear nightingale, thou knowest how all things feel the charm of thy voice.
Why shouldst thou not lull the little ones to rest by thy sweet song, while the zephyr
rocks them in their nest?
"By such kindness, I am convinced, ye would make up to them for their sad loss.
Only listen to me — we will prove that there are kind hearts in the forest, and that —"
As the Fox was saying these words, all three of the poor little birds, prevented by their
hunger from keeping still, fell down on the ground j ust in front of him.
What did their kind friend do?
Gobbled them up immediately, without finishing his sermon!
[This fable bears a good deal of resemblance to Florian's "Renard qui prêche" which was
translated by Dmitrief under the title of "The Preaching Fox."
Kenevich thinks that it relates to the subscriptions which were organized in 1814 —
the year in which it appeared — for the benefit of the families which had been ruined
during the French invasion.
Some of the persons who got up these subscriptions, or who wrote letters about them to
the papers, were supposed to be actuated by not quite disinterested motives.]
Fable CXVIII.
The Communal Assembly
The Wolf asked the Lion to appoint him inspector over the Sheep. Thanks to the pains
taken by his gossip the Fox, a friendly word had been spoken about him to the Lioness.
But, inasmuch as wolves have a bad name in the world, and in order that it might not be
said that the Lion shows favour to persons, therefore orders were given to the whole
animal kingdom to meet together in a general assembly, and there to inquire on all sides
what any one knew, good or bad, about the Wolf.
The order was obeyed. The animals were all convoked, and their voices were gathered
befittingly in the assembly.
Against the Wolf not a word was said. So the Wolf was appointed to preside over the sheep-fold.
But the Sheep? What did they say? Of course they were at the assembly?
Well, it seems they weren't. Somehow the Sheep had been forgotten.
And yet it was they whose opinion was wanted the most.
Fable CXIX.
The two Casks
There go two casks. One full of wine, the other empty. See how silently, at a mere foot's
pace, the first drags itself along; but the other flies past at a gallop, with a sound of
thunder from its banging along the road, and a pillar of dust above it.
Hearing it afar off, the passer-by hurries aside in fear.
But, noisy as that cask may be, there is not as much use in it as in the other.
There is little real good in a man who never ceases telling every one about his own
performances. He who is really great in deeds is generally sparing of words.
A great man makes a noise only by what he does, shaping in silence his firm resolve.
Fable CXX.
The false Accusation
There lived in the East a certain Brahmin, who, though fervently orthodox in his words,
was not so in his way of life. Even among Brahmins there are hypocrites: but that is
beside the mark.
This only is to the point, that he alone of all the brotherhood was a man of that kind.
All the rest were men of holy lives, and — what was, above all things, distasteful to our
friend — their chief was of an exceedingly strict character, so that no one could ever
venture to break the rules.
But our Brahmin did not lose courage. A fast-day comes, but he meditates as to whether
it may not be possible for him to obtain a secret indulgence for something luscious.
Having laid his hands on an egg, and having waited till midnight, he lights a candle and
sets to work to cook his egg above it. Steadily does he turn the egg above the flame,
never takes his eyes off it, and already swallows it in anticipation.
Meanwhile he thinks about his chief, chuckling to himself,
"You won't find me out, my long-bearded friend!
This egg anyhow I shall eat with relish."
But at this moment the chief suddenly enters the Brahmin's cell, and, at the sight of such
a sin, asks in a terrible voice what the Brahmin has to say for himself.
The proof is there before his eyes: it is too late to deny the fact.
"Forgive me my sin! holy father, forgive!" the Brahmin implores between his tears.
"I cannot tell what led me into this temptation. Ah, yes! it was the accursed Evil One
who put the idea into my head."
But at that moment a little demon cried out from behind the stove:
"What a shame it is to be always calumniating us! Why, I myself have just been taking
a lesson from you; for, I assure you, this is the first time I ever saw how to cook eggs at a candle."
Fable CXXI.
The Frog and Jupiter
A Frog which lived in a swamp at the foot of a hill, changed its quarters one spring, and
went up the hill. There it found a muddy corner in a little hollow, and set up a small
abode, like a tiny Paradise, amidst grass and in the shade of a bush.
But it did not long enjoy itself there.
The summer came, and the heat with it, and the Croaker's country seat became so dry
that the flies wandered about over it without wetting their feet.
"O ye gods!" prayed the Frog from its hole, "don't destroy poor me, but send a deluge
over the face of the earth as high as this hill, so that the water may never dry up in
these my domains!"
The Frog went on coml laining incessantly, and at last took to upbraiding Jupiter, and
saying that there was neither sense nor pity in him.
"Idiot!" cried Jupiter, who evidently was not in a bad humour just then; "what pleasure
can you find in croaking such nonsense? Why should I drown mankind for your whims?
Wouldn't it be better for you to crawl down to your swamp again?"
Fable CXXII.
The Eagle and the Fowls
Wishing to enjoy a bright day to the utmost, an Eagle soared into the upper regions of
the air, and floated about in the birthplace of the thunderbolt.
At length, having come down from those cloudy heights, the King of Birds settled on a
kiln for drying corn, and there took breath.
To be sure it was not a becoming perch for an eagle.
But kings have their whims. Perhaps he wanted to do honour to the kiln, or else there
was no object near, no oak, no granite rock, on which he could be seated as be came his
rank. What his fancy may have been I know not, but only this, that he remained sitting
there but a short time, and then flew across to another kiln.
Having seen that, a tufted brood-hen thus chattered to her gossip:
"Why are eagles so highly honoured?
It can't be for their flight, my sweet neighbour.
Why, upon my word, if I felt inclined, I also could fly across from kiln to kiln.
We won't be such fools in future as to consider eagles of higher repute than ourselves.
They haven't more feet or eyes than we have, and you yourself saw, this very moment,
that they fly close to the ground, just like us fowls."
Tired of listening to this nonsense, the Eagle replied,
"There is something in what you say, but you're not quite right. It sometimes happens
that eagles stoop even below the level of barndoor fowls, but never that such fowls soar
into the clouds."
Fable CXXIII.
Apelles and the Ass Colt
Apelles invited to his house a young Ass whom he happened to meet.
The very bones jumped for joy within the Donkey's frame, and it began to bore the forest
to death by its bragging, addressing the other animals in such words as these:
"How tired I am of Apelles! I find him a regular nuisance. Why, I never meet him but
what he invites me to his house.
I suppose, my friends, that he means to paint a 'Pegasus' from me."
"No," said Apelles, who happened to be close by; "but as I intend to paint a 'Judgment of
Midas,' I wanted to take your ears as a model for his; and so I shall be glad if you will
come to my house.
I've come across a good many donkeys' ears in my time, but such splendid ones as yours
it has never been my luck to see possessed not merely by an ass colt, but even by any
full-grown ass."
[This fable is said to have been intended for the benefit of a young author named
Katenin, who, after the fabulist had twice asked him to his house, went about saying that
Krilof was boring him with invitations.]