Fables

by Fénelon

Archbishop of Cambrai

Rendered in English from the

THIRD EDITION

——

PARIS

LIBRAIRIE HACHETTE ET C^ie

BOULEVARD SAINT-GERMAIN, 79

—

1872

This little book was composed by Fénelon for the education of the Duke of Burgundy, to whom he was tutor. It is a collection of fables, reflections and short stories, written with amiable negligence, and in which we still find the pure and gentle morality and style of Telemachus.

François de Salignac de Lamothe-Fénelon, born in 1651, at the Château de Fénelon in Quercy, of a noble family, entered the ecclesiastical state early, where he was immediately distinguished by his talent for preaching. He was one of the missionaries appointed to work for the conversion of Protestants; and his mission was most successful, although he employed no other weapons than those of persuasion.

The Duke of Beauvilliers, governor of the Duke of Burgundy, wanted Fénelon as his collaborator. Thus did he arrive at court, where he made himself respected for his virtues, admired for his talents and loved for the infinite charms of his manners and character. The young prince especially was not long in feeling for his tutor an affection which never lessened.

Presently a little family formed, of which Fénelon was the spiritual father, and into which entered the Duke of Burgundy, his governor the Duke of Beauvilliers, the Duke of Chevreuse, and even, in the early days, Madame de Maintenon. Fénelon's influence on the mind of the young prince, the spiritual family of which he had become the father, a perhaps excessive mysticism which was already apparent in his writings, and, more than all that, certain passages of Telemachus in which it was easy to see a fairly strong criticism of the government of Louis XIV, alarmed the orthodoxy of Bossuet, then all-powerful in the Church, and gave umbrage to the king, his mistress and his ministers. They resolved to separate the Duke of Burgundy abruptly from a tutor whom he adored. Fénelon was made Archbishop of Cambrai: he was forced to reside there, and remained there as if in exile until his death, which occurred in 1715.

From the depths of his diocese, Fénelon never ceased to occupy the world. A purely theological discussion had arisen between Bossuet and him on the subject of Madame Guyon's doctrines on pure love. A large number of writings were published on both sides; and the case was finally brought to the court of Rome, where the Archbishop of Cambrai was condemned. He submitted immediately with perfect modesty and humility, and took it upon himself to announce his condemnation from the pulpit. Despite everything, Louis XIV never ceased to hold it against him; and when the Duke of Burgundy passed through Cambrai on his way to take command of the Army of Flanders, his former master was hardly allowed to see him for a moment and to embrace him in the presence of his whole retinue.

There was, however, a moment when one could believe that Fénelon would be called upon to play a great role in the State: it was when the Duke of Burgundy became Dauphin by the death of his father. All ambitious men then took the road to Cambrai, and the Archbishop, who had hitherto lived only among his priests, solely occupied with good works, with the fervor of an apostle and the charity of a saint, suddenly found himself surrounded by a veritable court. This outburst did not last long. The Dauphin died; and Fénelon, struck to the heart, survived him only three years.

We have a large number of works by him, among which we will cite only Telemachus, the Letter on Eloquence, the Demonstration of the Existence of God, the Sermons and the Spiritual Works.

I.

Patience and Education Correct Many Faults.

A Bear had just given birth to a cub that was horribly ugly. She did not recognize in him any animal shape: he was a formless and hideous mass. The Bear, very ashamed of having such a son, went to find her neighbor the Crow, who was noisily cackling under a tree.

"What shall I do," she said to her, "my friend, with this little monster? I want to kill him."

"Calm down," said the confidant; "I have seen other Bears in the same situation. Come, gently lick your son; it will soon be pretty, cute and fit to do you honor."

The mother wanted to believe what was said in favor of her son, and patiently licked him for a long time. At last, he began to become less deformed, and she went to thank the Crow: "If you had not eased my impatience, I would have cruelly torn my son, who is now the apple of my eye."

II.

The Bee and the Fly.

One day a Bee saw a Fly near her hive. "What are you doing here?" she told him in a furious tone. "Really, it's uppity of you, vile creature, to mingle with the queens of the air!"

"You are right," replied the Fly coldly; "it is always wrong to approach a nation as fiery as yours."

"Nothing is wiser than we are," said the Bee; "we alone have laws and a well-policed republic; we browse only fragrant flowers; we only make delicious honey that equals the nectar of the gods. Get out of my presence, nasty intrusive Fly, which only buzzes and lives on filth."

"We live as best we can," answered the Fly; "poverty is not a vice, but anger is a great one. You make honey which is sweet, but your heart is still bitter; you are wise in your laws, but wild in your conduct; your anger, which stings your enemies, kills you, and your mad cruelty does you more harm than anyone."

III.

The Two Foxes.

Two Foxes entered a henhouse by stealth at night; they killed the cock, the hens and the young chickens;¹ after this carnage, they appeased their hunger. One, who was young and passionate, wanted to devour everything; the other, who was old and miserly, wanted to set some aside for the future.

Said the older: "My child, experience has made me wise; I have seen much during my time in this world. Let's not eat all our booty in one day. We made a fortune; it is a treasure that we have found, and it must be spared."

The younger replied, "I want to eat it all while I'm at it, and be full for eight days; as for coming back here, empty words! It won't do any good tomorrow: the farmer, to avenge the murder of his hens, will kill us."

After this conversation, each followed his own way. The youth ate so much, that he burst and could barely go back to his burrow to die. The senior, who thought himself much wiser to moderate his appetites and live economically, returned the next day to his prey, and was beaten to death by the farmer.

Thus every age has its faults: young people are fiery and insatiable in their pleasures; the old are incorrigible in their avarice.

¹Fr. poulets "young chickens" as distinct from poussins "chicks" or poulettes "pullets."

IV.

The Wolf and the Young Sheep.

The sheep were safe in their pen; the dogs slept, and the shepherd sat in the shade of a large elm, playing the flute along with other neighboring shepherds. A hungry wolf came up to the gaps in the enclosure to scout the state of the herd. An adolescent sheep,¹ who had never experienced or learned anything, entered into conversation with him.

"Tender, flowery grass," replied the Wolf. "You know that nothing is sweeter than grazing in a green meadow dotted with flowers to appease your hunger, and going to quench your thirst in a clear stream: I have found both here. What more do I need? I love the philosophy that teaches us to be satisfied with little."

"Is it true then," replied the young Sheep, "that you do not eat the flesh of animals, and that a little grass is enough for you? If so, let us live as brothers and feed together."

Immediately the Sheep left the pen into the open meadow, whereupon the sober philosopher tore it to pieces and swallowed it.

Beware of the fine words of people who boast of being virtuous. Judge by their actions and not by their words.

¹Fr. jeune mouton "young sheep" as distinct from agneau or petit mouton "lamb."

V.

The Dragon and the Foxes.

A Dragon guarded a treasure in a deep cave: he watched day and night to preserve it. Two Foxes, great cheats and thieves by profession, insinuated themselves to him by their flatteries. They became his confidants.

They called him a great personage, admired all his fancies, were always of his opinion, and laughed secretly at their dupe. Finally, he fell asleep one day in the midst of them; they murdered him and seized the treasure. It had to be divided between them: it was a very difficult affair, because two scoundrels agree only to do evil. One of them began to moralize.

"What," he said, "will this money be used for? A little hunting would be better for us; one does not eat metal; these doubloons are bad for the digestion. Men are mad for loving these false riches so much: let's not be as foolish as they are."

The other pretended to be touched by these reflections and assured that he wanted to live as a philosopher, like Bias, carrying all his wealth with him. Both pretended to leave the treasure; but they set up ambushes and tore each other to pieces.

One of them, dying, said to the other, who was as hurt as he was: "What did you want to do with this money?"

"You are no different," said one of the Foxes. "You, no more than we, can feed yourself with money, yet you kill yourself to get it. At least our race so far has been wise enough not to use any money. What you brought into your home for convenience is your unhappiness. You lose real goods to seek imaginary ones."

A young prince, on the return of the zephyrs, when all nature revives, was walking in a delightful garden; he heard a great noise, and saw a hive of bees. He approached this spectacle, which was new to him; he saw with astonishment the order, the care and the work of this little republic.

The cells were beginning to form and take on a regular shape. A part of the Bees filled them with their sweet nectar: the others brought flowers which they had chosen among all the riches of spring. Idleness and laziness were banished from this little state: everything was in motion there, but without confusion and without trouble. The most important among the Bees led the others, who obeyed without murmuring and without jealousy against those who were above them.

While the young prince was admiring this object which he did not yet know, a Bee, which all the others recognized as their queen, approached him and said to him: "The sight of our works and our conduct rejoices you; but even more should it instruct you. We do not tolerate disorder or license at home; one is considerable among us only by his work and by the talents which can be useful to our republic. Merit is the only way that elevates to the first places. We occupy ourselves night and day only with things from which men draw all the utility. May you one day be like us and bring into the human race the order you admire in us! You will thus work for its happiness and yours; you will fulfill the task that fate has imposed on you: for you will be above others only to protect them, only to ward off the evils that threaten them, only to procure for them all the benefits that they have the right to expect from a vigilant and paternal government."

VII.

The Assembly of Animals to Choose a King.

The Lion being dead, all the animals ran to his lair to console the Lioness, his widow, who made the mountains and the forests resound with her cries. After paying their compliments, they began the election of a king: the crown of the deceased was in the middle of the assembly.

The lion cub was too young and too weak to obtain the kingship over so many proud animals. "Let me grow," he would say; "I will know how to reign and make myself feared in my turn. In the meantime, I want to study the history of my father's fine deeds, to equal his glory one day."

"As for me," said the Leopard, "I claim to be crowned; for I look more like the Lion than all the other suitors."

"And I," said the Bear, "I maintain that they did me an injustice when they preferred the Lion to me: I am strong, courageous, carnivorous, just as much as he; and I have a singular advantage, which is to climb trees."

"I leave it to you to judge, gentlemen," said the Elephant, "if anyone can dispute with me the glory of being the biggest, the strongest and the bravest of all animals."

"Where will you find," said the Monkey, "a king more agreeable and more ingenious than I? I will entertain my subjects every day. I even resemble man, who is the real king of nature."

The Parrot then harangued thus: "Since you boast of resembling man, I can boast of it too. You only resemble him in your ugly face and a few ridiculous grimaces: as for me, I resemble him in my voice, which is the mark of reason and the most beautiful ornament of man."

"Be silent, cursed talker," replied the Monkey: "you speak, but not like a man; you always say the same thing, without hearing what you say."

The assembly laughed at these two bad copyists of man, and the crown was given to the Elephant, because he had the strength and wisdom, without having either the cruelty of furious beasts, nor the foolish vanity of so many others who always want to appear to be what they are not.

A cunning old Monkey having died, his shadow descended into the dark abode of Pluto, where he asked to return among the living. Pluto wanted to send him back into the body of a heavy and stupid donkey, to take away his suppleness, liveliness and malice; but he did so many pleasant and playful tricks that the inflexible king of the underworld could not help laughing, and left him the choice of a form. He asked to enter the body of a Parrot.

"At least," he said, "I shall thus retain some resemblance to the men I have imitated for so long. Being a Monkey, I gestured like them, and being a Parrot, I will talk with them in the most pleasant conversations."

Hardly had the soul of the Monkey been introduced to this new trade, when an old, talkative woman bought him. He was her delight; she put him in an old cage. He had good food, and talked all day long with the doting old lady, who spoke no more sensibly than he. He added to his new talent to surprise everyone something of his old profession: he shook his head ridiculously; he cracked his beak; he flapped his wings in a hundred ways, and turned his legs several times, still evoking Fagotin's¹ grimaces.

The old woman took her glasses off at all hours to admire him. She was very sorry to be a little deaf, and to sometimes miss words from her Parrot, in whom she found more wit than in anyone else. This spoiled Parrot became talkative, importunate and mad. He tormented himself so much in his cage, and drank so much wine with the old woman, that he died of it.

He wound up back in front of Pluto, who this time wanted to make him pass into the body of a fish, to make him mute; but he still made a farce in front of the King of Shadows, and princes hardly resist the requests of bad jokers who flatter them. Pluto therefore granted that he would go into the body of a man. But, as the god was ashamed to send him into the body of a wise and virtuous man, he destined him to the body of a boring and importunate haranguer, who lied, boasted incessantly, made ridiculous gestures, made fun of everyone, and interrupted the most polite and solid conversations only to say nothing or the grossest nonsense.

Mercury, who recognized him in this new state, said to him laughing: "Ho! ho! I recognize you; you are only a composite of the Monkey and the Parrot that I once saw. Take away your gestures and your words learned by heart and without judgment, and nothing would be left. A fine Monkey and a good Parrot only combine to make a stupid man."

Oh! how many men in the world, with formal gestures, a little cackle and a capable air, have neither sense nor conduct!

A young Owl—who had seen himself in a fountain, and thought himself more beautiful, I will not say than the day, because he found it very disagreeable, but than the night, which had great charms for him—said to himself:

"I sacrificed to the Graces; Venus put her cestus on me when I was born; the tender ambassadors of Cupid,¹ accompanied by Games and Laughs, flutter around to caress me. It's time for fair Hymen to give me graceful children like unto me; they will be the ornament of the groves and the delights of the night. What a pity that the race of the most perfect birds should be lost! Happy is the wife who will spend her life gazing upon me!"

In this vein, he sent the Crow to ask on his behalf for little Eaglet, daughter of the Eagle, queen of the air. The Crow found it difficult to undertake this embassy:

"I would be ill received," she said, "to propose such an ill-suited marriage. What! the Eagle, who dares to stare fixedly at the sun, would marry you, who cannot even open your eyes while it is day! that way the two spouses are never together; one will come out by day, and the other by night."

The Owl, vain and in love with himself, did not listen to anything. The Crow, to satisfy him, finally went to ask for Eaglet. They laughed at his crazy request. The Eagle replied:

"If the Owl wants to be my son-in-law, let him come after sunrise to greet me in the middle of the air."

The Presumptuous Owl was eager to go. His eyes were at first dazzled; he was blinded by the rays of the sun, and fell from the air on a rock. All the birds threw themselves on him, and tore his feathers. He was only too happy to hide in his hole, and to marry another Owl, who was a worthy lady of the place. Their marriage was celebrated at night, and they were both very handsome and very agreeable.

You must not seek anything above yourself, nor flatter yourself on its advantages.

¹Fr. Amours: I am unable to impart in a choice phrase the irony of the term "Cupids." In Adventures of Telemachus, Cupid is depicted as a significant weapon of his mother Venus, appearing as an irresistibly adorable infant, potent over the unwitting, and ultimately of malevolent intent.

X.

The Two Lion Cubs.

Two Lion Cubs had been raised together in the same forest: they were the same age, the same size, the same strength. One was caught in large nets, in a Grand Mogul's hunt; the other dwelt in steep mountains.

The one that had been captured was led to court, where he lived in luxury: they gave him a Gazelle to eat every day; he slept in a lodge where care was taken for him to sleep softly. A white eunuch took care to comb his great golden mane twice a day.

As he was tamed, even the king often stroked him. He was sleek, polite, good-looking, and magnificent, for he wore a gold collar, and they placed in his ears pendants adorned with pearls and diamonds: he despised all the other Lions who were in the neighboring lodges, less beautiful than his, and who were not in such favor as he. This prosperity swelled his vanity; he thought he was a great personage, since he was treated so honorably. The court where he shone gave him a taste for ambition; he imagined he would have been a hero had he lived in the forest.

One day, as they no longer attached him to his chain, he fled from the palace, and returned to the country where he had been raised. At that time the king of all the lion nation had just died, and the States had been assembled to choose a successor for him.

Among many suitors, there was one who eclipsed all the others by his pride and his audacity; it was that other lion cub who had never left the desert, while his companion had made his fortune at court. The solitude had often sharpened his courage by cruel hunger; he was accustomed to nourish himself only through the greatest perils and by carnage; he tore both flocks and shepherds. He was lean, bristling, hideous: fire and blood blazed from his eyes; he was light, wiry, accustomed to climbing and dashing fearlessly against spears and darts.

The two former companions called for a fight to decide who would rule. But an old Lioness, wise and experienced, whose advice the whole republic respected, was of the opinion that he who had studied politics at court should first be put on the throne. Many people murmured, saying that she wanted a vain and voluptuous personage to be preferred to a warrior who had learned, through fatigue and peril, to support great affairs. However, the authority of the old Lioness prevailed: the Court Lion was placed on the throne.

At first, he indulged in pleasures; he loved only ostentation; he used flexibility and cunning to hide his cruelty and his tyranny. Soon he was hated, despised, detested.

Then the old Lioness said: "It's time to dethrone him. I knew well that he was unworthy to be king; but I wanted you to have one spoiled by softness and politics, the better to make you feel afterwards the value of another who has deserved royalty by his patience and his valor. Now is the time to make them fight against each other."

Immediately they were placed in an enclosed field, where the two champions served as a spectacle for the assembly. But the spectacle was not long: the softened Lion trembled and dared not present himself to the other: he fled shamefully and hid himself; the other pursued and insulted him.

"No, no," he replied; "when one has a cowardly enemy, it would be cowardly to fear him. I want him to live; he doesn't deserve to die. I shall know how to reign without bothering to keep him submissive."

Indeed, the vigorous Lion reigned with wisdom and authority; the other was very happy to court him basely, to obtain from him a few morsels of flesh, and to pass his life in shameful idleness.

XI.

The Fox Punished for His Curiosity.

A fox from the mountains of Aragon, having aged in finesse, wanted to give his last days to curiosity. He undertook his plan to go to Castile to see the famous Escorial, which is the palace of the kings of Spain, built by Philip II. When he arrived, he was surprised, for he was little accustomed to magnificence: until then he had only seen his burrow and the chicken coop of a neighboring farmer, where he was usually rather badly received.

There he saw marble columns, golden gates, diamond bas-reliefs. He entered several rooms, the tapestries of which were admirable: there were hunts, combats, fables in which the gods played among men; finally, the story of Don Quixote, where Sancho, mounted on his donkey, was going to govern the island that the Duke had entrusted to him. Then he saw cages in which Lions and Leopards had been kept.

While the Fox was looking at these marvels, two palace dogs murdered him. He fared poorly for his curiosity.

XII.

The Cat and the Rabbits.

A Cat, acting modest, had entered a warren populated by Rabbits. Immediately the whole republic, alarmed, thought only of retreating into its holes. While the newcomer was on the lookout near a burrow, the deputies of the rabbit nation, who had seen his terrible claws, appeared in the narrowest part of the entrance to the burrow, to ask him what he wanted. He protested in a soft voice that he only wished to study the manners of the nation; that as a philosopher, he went to all countries to learn about the customs of each animal species.

The deputies, simple and credulous, returned to tell their brethren that this stranger, so venerable by his modest bearing and by his majestic fur, was a sober, disinterested, pacific philosopher, who only wanted to seek wisdom from country to country; that he came from many other places where he had seen great wonders; that it would be a great pleasure to hear him, and that he was careful not to crunch the Rabbits, since he believed in metempsychosis like a good brahmin, and ate no food that had life.

This fine speech touched the assembly. In vain a crafty old Rabbit, who was the company's doctor, represented how suspicious this grave philosopher was to him: in spite of him, they went to salute the brahmin, who promptly killed seven or eight of these poor people. The others went back to their holes, very frightened and ashamed of their fault.

Then Dom Mitis¹ returned to the entrance of the burrow, protesting, in a tone full of cordiality, that he had only committed this murder in spite of himself, for his pressing need, that henceforth he would live on other animals and would make with them an everlasting covenant. The Rabbits immediately entered into negotiations with him, without however putting themselves within reach of his claws. The hard bargaining amused him.

However, one of the most agile Rabbits came out from behind the burrow, and went to warn a neighboring shepherd, who liked to rescue from snares these Rabbits who fed upon juniper. The shepherd, irritated against this Cat, exterminator of such a useful people, ran to the burrow with a bow and arrows: he saw the Cat who was attentive only to his prey, and pierced him with one of his arrows; and the expiring Cat said these last words:

"When you have deceived once, you can no longer be believed by anyone; we are hated, feared, detested, and we are finally caught by our own subtleties."

¹Dom, from the Latin dominus, is a title of honor attached to the proper name of members of certain religious orders, such as the Benedictines. Mitis is a Latin word which means meek, peaceful, gentle, mild.

XIII.

The Pigeon Punished for His Worry.

Two Pigeons lived together in a loft in profound peace. They cut the air with their wings, which seemed motionless by their speed. They played by flying close to each other, fleeing and chasing each other in turn; then they went to look for grain in the farmer's field or in the neighboring meadows. Immediately they went to quench their thirst in the pure wave of a stream which flowed through these flowery meadows. From there, they returned to see their household in the whitewashed dovecote full of little holes: they spent their time there in pleasant company with their faithful companions. Their hearts were tender, the plumage of their necks was changeable, and painted with more colors than the inconstant Iris. You could hear the sweet murmur of these happy Pigeons, and their life was delightful.

One of them, growing disgusted with the pleasures of a peaceful life, allowed himself to be seduced by a mad ambition, and gave up his mind to the machinations of politics. He abandoned his old friend; he left home, and traveled to the Levant. He passed over the Mediterranean Sea, sailing with his wings in the air, like a ship with its sails in the waves of Tethys. He arrived at Alexandria; from there he continued on his way, crossing the lands to Aleppo.

On arriving there, he greeted the other Pigeons of the region, who served as regular couriers, and he envied their happiness. Immediately a rumor spread among them that a stranger to their nation had come, who had crossed immense distances. He was placed in the rank of couriers: every week he carried the letters of a Pasha, attached to his foot, and he traveled twenty-eight leagues in less than a day. He was proud to carry the secrets of the State, and took pity on his former companion, who lived without glory in the holes of his dovecote.

But one day, as he was carrying the letters of the Pasha, who was suspected of infidelity by the Grand Seignior, he was targeted in order to discover, through the letters of this Pasha, if he had not some secret intelligence with the officers of the King of Persia: an arrow pierced the poor Pigeon, who with a trailing wing still supported himself a little, while his blood flowed. Finally, he fell, the shadows of death already covering his eyes: while the letters were taken from him to read, he expired full of pain, condemning his vain ambition, and regretting the sweet rest of his dovecote, where he could live safely with his friend.

A Mouse, annoyed at living in peril and alarm, because of Mitis and Rodilardus,¹ who were doing great carnage to the Mouse nation, called her neighbor, who was in a hole nearby.

"A good thought came to me," she told her. "I have read, in certain books which I have gnawed these past days, that there is a beautiful country, called the Indies, where our people are better treated and safer than here. In that country, the sages believe that the soul of a Mouse was once the soul of a great captain, or a king, or a marvelous fakir, and that it will be able, after the death of the mouse, to enter the body of some beautiful lady, or of some great holy scholar.² If I remember correctly, it's called metempsychosis. In this belief, they treat all animals with fraternal charity: we see hospitals of mice, which are boarded and fed as people of merit. Come, my sister, let's go to such a beautiful country, where the police are benevolent, and where we do justice to our merits."

The neighbor replied: "But, my sister, don't cats enter these hospitals? If that were so, they would cause many metempsychoses in a short time: a bite or a claw would make a king or a fakir, a marvel which we could very well do without."

"Don't be afraid of that," said the first; "order is perfect in that country: the cats have their homes, as we have ours, and they also have their hospitals for invalids, which are separate."

After this conversation, our two Mice leave together; they embark in a vessel which was about to make a long voyage, slipping along the ropes the evening before departure. The ship leaves; and the Mice are delighted to be at sea, far from the cursed lands where the Cats exercise their tyranny. The voyage was successful; they arrived to Surat, not to amass wealth, like the merchants, but to be treated well by the Hindus.

Hardly had they entered a house intended for Mice, than they claimed the first places there. One claimed to remember having once been a famous brahmin on the Malabar coast; the other insisted that she had been a beautiful, long-eared lady from the same country. They were so insolent that the Indian Mice could not bear them. A civil war ensued. They gave no quarter to these two Franks,³ who wanted to lay down the law to others; instead of being eaten by the Cats, they were killed by their own sisters.

We may go far to avoid danger, if we are not modest and sensible, only to seek our misfortune elsewhere: it would be better to find it at home.

¹Names of cats appearing in La Fontaine's fables. See also Fable 12, Note 1.

²Fr. pandiar "pandit."

³South Indians at that time generally gave Europeans the name Franguis, a derivation of "Franks."

XV.

The Brave Hare.

A Hare, who was ashamed of being a coward, was looking for some opportunity to harden himself. He sometimes went through a hole in a hedge in the cabbages of a peasant's garden, to accustom himself to the noise of the village. Often, he even passed fairly close to a few mastiffs, who contented themselves with barking at him.

On his return from these great expeditions, he thought himself more formidable than Alcides after all his labors. It is even said that he returned to his lodgings only with laurel leaves, and received an ovation. He boasted of his prowess to his friends the neighboring Hares. He represented the dangers he had run, the alarms he had given to the enemies, the ruses of war he had made as an experienced captain, and above all his heroic intrepidity. Every morning he thanked Mars and Bellona for having given him the talents and the courage to tame all the long-eared nations.

John Rabbit,¹ conversing with him one day, said to him in a mocking tone: "My friend, I would like to see you with this beautiful pride in the middle of a pack of hounds. Hercules would flee very quickly, and put on an ugly countenance."

"Me," replied our valiant knight, "I wouldn't back down if all the bitches around came to attack me."

Scarcely had he spoken than he heard a little turnspit dog from a neighboring farmer yelping in the bushes some distance from him. Immediately he trembled, shivered, had a fever, and his eyes were troubled, like those of Paris when he saw Menelaus rushing furiously at him. He sprang from a steep rock into a deep valley, where he nearly drowned in a stream.

John Rabbit, seeing him make the leap, exclaimed from his burrow: "There he is, this thunderbolt of war! There he is, this Hercules who must purge the earth of all the monsters it is full of!"

XVI.

Story of an Old Queen and a Young Peasant.

Once upon a time there was a Queen so old, so old, that she had neither teeth nor hair; her head was shaking like leaves stirred by the wind; she couldn't see even with her glasses on; the tip of her nose touched her chin; she was reduced by half, and all in a ball, with her back so bent, that one would have thought she had always been misshapen.

A Fairy, who had been present at her birth, approached her and said: "Would you like to return to your youth?"

"Willingly," answered the Queen: "I would give all my jewels to be only twenty years old."

"You must therefore," continued the Fairy, "give your old age to some other whose youth and health you will take. To whom shall we give your hundred years?"

The Queen sent everywhere for someone who wanted to be old to make her younger. There came many beggars who wanted to grow old to be rich; but once they had seen the Queen coughing, spitting, rattling, living on mush, being dirty, hideous, stinking, suffering, and rambling a little, they no longer wanted to burden themselves with her years: they preferred to beg and wear rags.

The ambitious also came, to whom she promised great ranks and honors. "But what to do with these ranks?" they would say after seeing her, "we wouldn't dare show ourselves to be so disgusting and horrible."

But at last, a young village girl presented herself, beautiful as the day, who asked for the crown as the price of her youth; her name was Péronnelle.¹ The Queen was angry at first; but what to do? what's the point of getting angry? she wanted to look younger.

"Let us share," she said to Péronnelle, "my kingdom; you will have half and I the other: that is quite enough for you who are a little peasant girl."

"No," answered the girl, "it's not enough for me: I want everything. Leave me my poor bonnet² and my rosy complexion; I will leave you your hundred years with your wrinkles and the death that haunts you."

While speaking thus, she began to laugh, to dance and to sing. The Queen, who was far from doing the same, said to her: "What would you do in my place? You are not accustomed to old age."

While they were haggling, the Fairy came and said to the Peasant: "Do you want to do your apprenticeship as an old Queen, to find out if this trade will suit you?"

Instantly wrinkles covered her forehead; her hair turned white; she became grumbling and reluctant; her head was shaking and all her teeth too; she was already a hundred years old. The fairy opened a little box, and drew out a crowd of richly dressed officers and courtiers, who grew as they come out, and paid a thousand respects to the new Queen. They served her a great feast: but she was disgusted and unable to chew; she was ashamed and astonished; she didn't know what to say or what to do; she would cough till she burst; she would drool on her chin; she had sticky snot in her nose which she wiped with her sleeve; she looked at herself in the mirror, and found herself uglier than a monkey.

However, the real Queen was in a corner, laughing and beginning to look pretty; her hair was coming back, and her teeth too; she regained a good, fresh, ruddy complexion; she straightened up in a thousand little ways: but she was filthy, short-dressed, and made like a little rag that had been dragged through the ashes. She was not accustomed to this equipage, and the guards, taking her for some kitchen servant, wanted to drive her out of the palace.

So Péronnelle said to her: "You are very embarrassed at no longer being Queen, and I even more at being so: here, here is your crown, give me back my gray tunic."

The exchange was immediately made; the Queen to grow old again, and the Peasant Woman to grow younger. Hardly had the change been made than both of them repented of it; but it was too late. The Fairy condemned them to remain each in her condition.

The Queen cried every day. As soon as her fingertip hurt, she would say: "Alas! if I were Péronnelle at this moment, I would be lodged in a cottage, and I would live on chestnuts; I would dance under the elm with the shepherds to the sound of the flute. What use is it to me to have a beautiful bed, where I only suffer, and so many people who cannot relieve me?"

This grief increased her ills; the doctors, who were constantly around her by the dozen, also increased them. Finally, she died after two months.

Péronnelle was doing a round dance along a clear stream with her companions when she heard of the death of the Queen: then she recognized that she had been more fortunate than wise to have lost the kingship. The Fairy came back to see her, and gave her three husbands to choose from: one old, chagrined, disagreeable, jealous and cruel, but rich, powerful, and a very great lord, who could neither day nor night do without having her with him; the other well built, gentle, easy-going, amiable and of high birth, but poor and unhappy in everything; the latter, a peasant like her, who would be neither beautiful nor ugly, who would love her neither too much nor too little, who would be neither rich nor poor. She didn't know which one to take; for naturally she was very fond of fine clothes, carriages, and high honors.

But the Fairy said to her: "Come on, you're a fool. Do you see this peasant? this is the husband you need. You would love the second too much; you would be too much loved by the first; both would make you unhappy: it is quite enough that the third does not beat you. It is better to dance on the grass or on the fern than in a palace, and to be a Péronnelle in the village than an unhappy lady in the high society. Provided you have no regrets about greatness, you will be happy with your plowman all your life."

¹Fr. young woman, silly and talkative girl.

²Fr. bavolet, a peasant-style cap covering the sides and back of the head.

XVII.

Story of Queen Gisele and the Fairy Corysante.

Once upon a time there was a queen named Gisele, who had a great wit and a great kingdom. Her palace was all marble; the roof was silver; all the furniture, which is elsewhere of iron or copper, was covered with diamonds. This Queen was a Fairy; she had only to make wishes, and immediately everything she wanted was bound to happen. There was only one point over which she had no control; she was a hundred years old, and she couldn't get any younger.

She had once been more beautiful than day, and had now become so ugly and so horrible that the very people who came to pay court to her, while speaking to her, sought pretexts to turn their heads, for fear of looking at her. She was all bent over, shaking, lame, wrinkled, filthy, flushed, coughing and spitting filth all day which made the heart skip a beat. She was one-eyed and almost blind; her crooked eyes had a scarlet border: finally, she had a gray beard on her chin. In this state, she could not look at herself, and had broken all the mirrors in her palace. She could not tolerate any young person of a reasonable face there. She was only served by one-eyed, hunchbacked, lame, and crippled people.

One day a young girl of fifteen, of marvelous beauty, named Corysante, was presented to the Queen. At first, she exclaimed: "Remove this object from my sight!"

But the mother of this young girl said to her: "Madam, my daughter is a fairy, and she has the power to give forth all her youth and all her beauty at this moment."

The Queen averting her gaze replied, "Well! what should I give her as a reward?"

This offer having been rejected, the Queen fell ill with a disease which made her so stinking and so foul that her women did not dare approach her to serve her, and her doctors judged that she would die in a few days. In this extremity, she sent for the young girl, and begged her to take her crown and all her treasures, to give her her youth with her beauty.

The girl said to her: "If I take your crown and your treasures, giving you my beauty and my age, I will suddenly become old and deformed like you. You didn't want to make this deal at first, and I too am hesitating whether I should do it."

The Queen pressed her very much; and as the inexperienced young girl was very ambitious, she allowed herself to be touched by the pleasure of being queen. The deal was made.

In a moment Gisele sat up, and her figure became majestic; her complexion took on the most beautiful colors; his eyes looked lively; the flower of youth spread over her face; she charmed the whole assembly. But she had to retire to a village, and live in a hut, dressed in rags.

Corysante, on the contrary, lost all her charms, and became hideous. She remained in this superb palace, and ruled as a queen. As soon as she saw herself in a mirror, she sighed, and said that nobody was ever presented before her. She sought to console herself with her treasures; but her gold and gems did not prevent her from suffering all the ills of old age. She wanted to dance, as she was accustomed to doing with her companions, in the flowery meadows, in the shade of the groves; but she could only support herself with a stick. She wanted to feast; but she was so languid and disgusted that the most delicious dishes made her heart ache. She didn't even have any teeth, and could only eat a little porridge. She wanted to hear music concerts; but she was deaf.

Then she regretted her youth and her beauty, which she had foolishly left for a crown and for treasures which she could not use. Moreover, she who had been a shepherdess and who was accustomed to passing the days singing while leading her sheep, was constantly annoyed with difficult matters that she could not settle.

On the other hand, Gisele, accustomed to reigning, to possessing all the greatest possessions, had already forgotten the inconveniences of old age; she was inconsolable to see herself so poor. "What!" she said, "will I always be covered in rags? What use is all my beauty to me under this filthy and torn habit? What use is it to me to be beautiful, to be seen only in a village by such rude people? I am despised; I am reduced to serving and driving animals. Alas! I was queen; I am very unhappy to have left my crown and so many treasures! Oh! if only I could have them back! It is true that I would soon die; well! don't the other queens die? Shouldn't we have the courage to suffer and die, rather than do something base to become young?"

Corysante knew that Gisele regretted her first state, and told her that as a fairy she could make a second exchange. Each resumed her first state. Gisele became queen again, but old and horrible; Corysante resumed her charms and her poverty as a shepherdess.

Soon Gisele, overwhelmed with ills, repented of it, and deplored her blindness; but Corysante, whom she pressed to change again, answered her: "I have now experienced the two conditions: I would rather be young and eat black bread, and sing every day while tending my sheep, than to be a queen like you in sorrow and in pain."

XVIII.

Story of Florise.

A peasant woman knew a fairy in her neighborhood. She begged her to come to her childbed, where she had a daughter. The fairy first took the child in her arms, and said to the mother: "Choose; she will be, if you like, beautiful as the day, with a spirit even more charming than her beauty, and queen of a great kingdom, but unhappy; or else she will be ugly and a peasant like you, but content in her condition."

The peasant woman chose for this child beauty and wit with a crown, above all, at the chance of some misfortune. Presently the little girl's beauty was already beginning to erase all that was ever seen. Her mind was gentle, polite, ingratiating; she learned everything anyone wanted to teach her, and soon knew it better than those who had taught her. She danced on the grass, on holidays, with more grace than all her companions. Her voice was more touching than any musical instrument, and she herself made the songs she sang.

At first, she did not know that she was beautiful, but, while playing with her companions on the edge of a clear fountain, she saw herself; she noticed how different she was from the others; she admired herself. The whole country, which flocked to see her, made her charms still more known to her. Her mother, who relied on the predictions of the fairy, looked upon her as a queen, and spoiled her with her kindnesses. The young girl wanted neither to spin, nor to sew, nor to keep the sheep; she amused herself picking flowers, adorning her head with them, singing and dancing in the shade of the woods.

The king of that country was very powerful, and he had only one son, named Rosimond, whom he wanted to get married. He could never bring himself to hear of any princess from the neighboring states, because a fairy had assured him that he would find a peasant girl more beautiful and more perfect than all the princesses in the world. He resolved to assemble all the young village girls of his kingdom under eighteen years, to choose that which would be most worthy to be chosen.

They first excluded an innumerable number of girls who had only mediocre beauty, and separated thirty who infinitely surpassed all the others. Florise (that is the name of the young daughter) had no difficulty in being included in this number. These thirty girls were ranged in the middle of a large hall, in a kind of amphitheater, where the king and his son could watch them all at once. Florise appeared, in the midst of all the others, what a beautiful anemone would appear among marigolds, or what a flowering orange tree would appear among wild bushes. The king exclaimed that she deserved the crown. Rosimond thought he was happy to possess Florise.

They took off her village clothes; they gave her some which were all embroidered with gold. In an instant, she saw herself covered in pearls and diamonds. A large number of ladies were busy serving her. They thought only of guessing what might please her, to give it to her before she had the trouble to ask. She was lodged in a magnificent apartment in the palace, which had, instead of tapestries, only large mirrors the full height of the rooms and closets, so that she might have the pleasure of seeing her beauty multiplied by all sides, and that the prince might admire it wherever he looked. Rosimond had given up hunting, gambling, all bodily exercises to be constantly near her: and as the king her father had died soon after the marriage, it was the wise Florise, who had become queen, whose advice decided of all affairs of state.

The queen, mother of the new king, named Gronipote, was jealous of her daughter-in-law. She was artful, malignant, cruel. Old age had added a hideous deformity to her natural ugliness, and she looked like a fury. Florise's beauty made her look even more hideous, and irritated her at all times: she could not allow such a beautiful person to disfigure her. She also feared her spirit, and abandoned herself to all the furies of envy.

"You have no heart," she often said to her son, "to have wanted to marry this little peasant girl, and you have the baseness to make her your idol: she is proud as if she had been born in the place where she is. When the king your father wanted to marry, he preferred me to any other, because I was the daughter of a king equal to him. This is how you should do it. Send this little shepherdess back to her village, and think of some young princess whose birth suits you."

Rosimond resisted his mother; but Gronipote one day took away a note which Florise was writing to the king, and gave it to a young man of the court, whom she obliged to take this note to the king, as if Florise had shown him all the affection she was to have only for the king alone. Rosimond, blinded by his jealousy and by the malicious advice given to him by his mother, had Florise locked up for life in a high tower, built on the point of a rock which rose in the sea.

There she wept night and day, not knowing by what injustice the king, who had loved her so much, treated her so unworthily. She was only allowed to see an old woman to whom Gronipote had entrusted her, and who insulted her at all times in that prison. Then Florise remembered her village, her cabin and all her rural pleasures.

One day, while she was overwhelmed with grief and lamenting the blindness of her mother, who had preferred her to be beautiful and an unhappy queen, than an ugly shepherdess and happy in her condition, the old woman who treated so badly came to tell her that the king was sending an executioner to cut off her head, and that she had only to resolve to die. Florise answered that she was ready to receive the blow.

Indeed, the executioner, sent by the orders of the king, on the advice of Gronipote, was holding a large cutlass to execute her, when there appeared a woman who said that she came on behalf of the old queen, to say two words in secret to Florise before her death. The old woman let her speak to her, because this person seemed to her to be one of the ladies of the palace; but it was the fairy who had predicted the misfortunes of Florise at her birth, and who had taken the form of this lady of the queen mother. She spoke to Florise in particular, making everyone withdraw.

"Do you want," she said to her, "to renounce the beauty which has been so fatal to you? Do you want to leave the title of queen, resume your old clothes, and return to your village?"

Florise was delighted to accept this offer. The fairy applied an enchanted mask to her face: immediately her features became coarse, and lost all their proportions; she became as ugly as she had been beautiful and pleasant. In this state, she was no longer recognizable, and she easily passed through all those who had come there to witness her ordeal. She followed the fairy, and went back with her to her country.

No matter how hard they looked for Florise, they couldn't find her anywhere in the tower. The news was brought to the king and to Gronipote, who searched for her in vain throughout the kingdom. The fairy had given her back to her mother, who would not have known her in such a great change, if she had not been informed of it.

Florise was happy to live ugly, poor and unknown in her village, where she kept sheep. Every day she heard others recount her adventures and deplore her misfortunes. They had made songs that made everyone cry; she took pleasure in singing them often with her companions, and she wept over them like the others: but she thought herself happy watching over her flock, and never wanted to tell anyone who she was.

XIX.

Story of a Young Princess.

Once upon a time there was a king and a queen who had no children. They were so angry, so angry, that no one has ever been angrier. Finally, the queen became pregnant and gave birth to a daughter, the most beautiful that had ever been seen. The fairies came when she was born, but they all told the queen that her daughter's husband would have eleven mouths, or that if she did not marry before the age of twenty-two, she would become a toad.

This prediction troubled the queen. The girl was barely fifteen years old when a man presented himself who had eleven mouths and was eighteen feet in height; but the princess found him so hideous that she never wanted him. However, the fatal age was approaching, and the king, who would rather see his daughter married to a monster than become a toad, resolved to give her to the man with eleven mouths. The queen found the alternative unfortunate. As everyone was getting ready for the wedding, the queen remembered a certain fairy who had once been one of her friends: she summoned her, and asked her if she could not prevent them.

"I can only do so, madam," replied she, "by changing your daughter into a linnet¹. You will have her in your room; she will talk every night and always sing."

The queen consented. Immediately the princess was covered with fine feathers and flew to the king; from there she returned to the queen, who gave her a thousand caresses. However, the king sent for the princess; she was not found. The whole court was in mourning. The queen pretended to be distressed like the others; but she still had her linnet; she conversed with her every night. One day the king asked her how she got such a witty linnet; she replied that it was a fairy friend of hers who had given it to her.

Two months passed sadly. Finally, the monster, tired of waiting, told the king that he would eat him with his whole court, if, in a week, he did not give him the princess; because he was an ogre. This worried the queen, who revealed everything to the king. They sent for the fairy, who restored the princess to her first form.

However, there came a prince who, besides his natural mouth, had one at the end of each of his fingers. The king would have liked to give him his daughter; but he feared the monster. The prince, who had fallen in love with the princess, resolved to fight against the ogre. The king consented to this only with great difficulty.

The day was chosen; when it arrived, the champions advanced into the place of combat. Everyone made wishes for the prince; but, seeing the giant so terrible, people trembled with fear for the prince. The monster carried an oak club, with which he discharged a blow at Aglaor, for that was the prince's name; but Aglaor, having avoided the blow, cut his hamstring with his sword, and, having knocked him down, took his life. Everybody cried victory, and Prince Aglaor married the princess with all the more contentment, as he had delivered her from a rival as terrible as he was inconvenient.

XX.

Journey to the Island of Pleasures.

After sailing for a long time on the Pacific Ocean, we saw in the distance a sugar island with mountains of compote, rocks of candy sugar and caramel, and rivers of syrup flowing in the countryside. The inhabitants, who were very fond of life there, licked their way along all the paths and sucked their fingers after dipping them in the rivers. There were also forests of licorice and tall trees from which waffles fell, which the wind carried into the travelers' mouths, however slightly they were opened.

As so many sweets seemed insipid to us, we wanted to go to some other country where we could find dishes of a higher taste. We were assured that there was another island ten leagues away where there were mines of hams, sausages and peppery stews. We dug them as we dig gold mines in Peru. There were also streams of onion sauces. The walls of the houses are made of pastry crusts. It rains furry black wine¹ there when the weather is heavy, and on the finest days the morning dew is always white wine similar to Greek wine or that of Saint-Laurent.²

To pass to this island, we put on the port of the one from which we wanted to leave, twelve men of prodigious size and who had been put to sleep: they were blowing so hard and snoring that they filled our sails with a favorable wind. No sooner had we arrived on the other island than we found merchants on the shore selling appetite, for there was often a lack of it among so many stews. There were also other people who sold sleep. The price was set so much per hour; but there were sleeps more expensive than others, in proportion to the dreams one wanted to have. The most beautiful dreams were very expensive.

I asked for more agreeable ones for my money, and, as I was tired, I first went to bed. But scarcely was I in my bed when I heard a great noise; I was afraid and called for help. I was told that it was the earth opening up. I thought I was lost; but I was reassured that it opened like this every night, at a certain hour, to vomit forth prodigious streams of chocolate mousse and iced liqueurs of all types. I got up hastily to get some, and they were delicious.

Then I went back to bed, and in my sleep, I thought I saw that everyone was crystal, that men fed on perfumes when they pleased, that they could not walk without dancing, nor speak without singing, that they had wings to cleave the air and fins to cross the seas. But these men were like flints: you couldn't touch them without their giving off sparks. They ignited like a fuse, and I couldn't help laughing, seeing how easily they were agitated. I wanted to ask one of them why he seemed so animated. He replied, showing me his fist, that he never got angry.

Hardly had I woken up when an appetite merchant came, asking me what I wanted to be hungry for and if I wanted him to sell me stomach relays to eat all day. I accepted the condition. For my money, he gave me twelve small sachets of taffeta which I put on myself and which were to serve me as twelve stomachs, to digest easily twelve large meals in one day.

No sooner had I taken the twelve sachets than I began to starve. I spent my day having twelve delicious feasts. As soon as a meal was over, hunger took hold of me again, and I didn't give it time to press me. But, as I was greedily hungry, it was remarked that I did not eat properly: the people of the country are exquisitely delicate and clean. In the evening, I was tired of having spent the whole day at the table like a horse at its hay rack. I made the resolution to do the exact opposite the next day, and to feed myself only on good smells.

They gave me orange blossom for breakfast. At dinner, it was stronger food: I was served tuberoses and then Spanish leather. For a snack I only had daffodils. In the evening, they gave me large baskets full of fragrant flowers for supper, and to them were added casseroles of all sorts of perfumes. At night, I had indigestion from smelling too many nourishing odors. The next day I fasted to relieve myself from the fatigue of the pleasures of the table.

I was told that there was a very singular town in that country, and they promised to take me there in a vehicle that was new to me. They put me in a small chair of very light wood and all furnished with large feathers, and they attached to this chair, with silk cords, four large birds, as big as ostriches, which had wings proportionate to their bodies. These birds first took flight. I led the reins on the side of the East, which had been marked for me. I could see the highest mountains at my feet, and we flew so fast that I almost lost my breath as I cut through the wave of air.

In an hour we arrived at this famous city. It was all marble, and three times the size of Paris. The whole town was just one house. There were twenty-four great courtyards, each of which was as large as the largest palace in the world, and in the middle of these twenty-four great courtyards was a twenty-fifth which was six times larger than each of the others. All the dwellings in this house were equal, for there was no inequality of condition among the inhabitants of this town. There were neither servants nor lower class there; everyone served themselves, no one was served: there were only wishes, which were little flighty, fluttering spirits that gave everyone whatever they desired at the very moment.

On arriving, I received one of these spirits, which attached itself to me and which left me wanting for nothing; he barely gave me time to desire. I even began to be tired of the new desires that this freedom to content myself constantly aroused in me, and I understood, by experience, that it was better to do without superfluous things than to be constantly in new desires, without never to be able to stop at the quiet enjoyment of any pleasure.

The people of this town were polite, gentle and obliging. They received me as if I had been one of them. As soon as I wanted to talk, they guessed what I wanted, and did it without waiting for me to explain myself. This surprised me, and I saw that they never spoke to each other; they read everything they thought in each other's eyes, as one would read in a book; when they wanted to hide their thoughts, they merely had to close their eyes.

They led me into a room where there was music for the nose. They assembled perfumes as we would assemble sounds. A certain assemblage of perfumes, some stronger, others softer, created a harmony that tickled the sense of smell, just as our concerts would flatter the ear with sounds that are sometimes low-pitched and sometimes high-pitched.

In that country, the women governed the men; they judged the lawsuits, they taught the sciences and went to war. Men made up for it, adjusted themselves to it from morning till night; they spun, they sewed, they worked at embroidery, and they feared being beaten by their wives when they have not obeyed them.

It was said that things were different a number of years ago; but the men, served by wishes, became so cowardly, so lazy, and so ignorant, that the women were ashamed to allow themselves to be ruled by them. They came together to repair the evils of the republic. They built public schools where people of their sex who had spirit began to study. They disarmed their husbands, who asked nothing better than never to go to blows. They relieved them of all trials to be judged, watched over public order, established laws, had them observed, and saved the public spirit, whose non-application—the levity and softness of men—would surely have caused total ruin.

Touched by this spectacle, and tired of so many feasts and amusements, I concluded that the pleasures of the senses, however varied, however easy they may be, debase and do not make one happy. I therefore left these countries, apparently so delicious, and, on my return home, I found in a sober life, in moderate work, in pure morals, in the practice of virtue, happiness and health which the continuity of good cheer and the variety of pleasures had not been able to procure for me.

¹Fr. vin couvert "covered wine:" strong wine of a dark red color. I couldn't resist lifting a phrase from The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle.

²Saint-Laurent is a town located in the department of Hérault, celebrated for its muscat wines.

XXI.

Supposed Voyage, in 1690.

A few years ago, we made a fine trip, of which you will be very glad to hear the details. We left Marseilles for Sicily, and we resolved to go and visit Egypt. We arrived at Damietta; we passed through Grand Cairo.

After having visited the banks of the Nile, going up towards the south, we insensibly undertook to go and see the Red Sea. We found on this coast a vessel which was going to certain islands which were assured to be even more delightful than the Fortunate Islands. Curiosity to see these marvels made us embark, and we sailed for thirty days: finally, we saw the land from afar. As we approached, we smelled the perfumes that these islands spread throughout the sea.

When we landed, we recognized that all the trees of these islands were of an odoriferous wood like the cedar. They were laden at the same time with delicious fruits and exquisitely scented flowers. The earth itself, which was black, tasted like chocolate, and we made pastilles out of it. All the fountains were of iced liquors; there, gooseberry water; here, orange blossom water; elsewhere, wines of all kinds. There were no houses on all those islands, because the air there was never cold or hot. There were everywhere under the trees beds of flowers where one lay softly to sleep; during sleep one always dreamed of new pleasures; soft vapors issued from the earth, which represented to the imagination objects even more enchanted than those which one saw while awake: thus, one slept less for need than for pleasure. All the country birds knew music, and gave concerts among themselves.

The zephyrs only waved the leaves of the trees in order to create a gentle harmony. Throughout the country there were many natural waterfalls: all these waters, falling on hollow rocks, made a sound of a melody similar to that of the best musical instruments. There was no painter in the whole country; but when one wanted to have the portrait of a friend, a beautiful landscape, or a painting which represented some other object, one put water in large basins of gold or silver: then one placed this water opposite to the object we wanted to paint. Soon the water, congealing, became like mirror glass. Although there was no need for buildings, they could still be made, but without difficulty. There were mountains whose surface was covered with ever-flowering lawns. The underside was of a more solid marble than ours, but so soft and light, that it could be cut like butter, and transported a hundred times more easily than cork: thus, we only had to carve with a chisel, in the mountains, palaces or temples of the most magnificent architecture; then two children easily carried the palace to the place where they wanted to put it.

Men who were a little sober fed only on exquisite odors. Those who wanted stronger food ate of this earth put in chocolate pastilles, and drank of these frozen liquors which flowed from the fountains. Those who were beginning to grow old would shut themselves up for eight days in a deep cave, where they slept all the while with pleasant dreams: they were not allowed to bring any light into this dark place. At the end of eight days, they awoke with new vigor; their hair was turning blond again; their wrinkles were erased; they no longer had beards; all the graces of the most tender youth returned to them. In this country, all men had wit; but they didn't make good use of it. They brought in slaves from foreign countries, for the purpose of thinking; for they did not think it worthy of them ever to take the trouble to think for themselves. Everyone wanted to have hired thinkers, just as we have chair carriers here to save themselves the trouble of walking.

These men, who lived with so much delight and magnificence, were very dirty: there was nothing stinky or filthy in all the country except the filth of their noses, and they had no horror of eating it. There was neither politeness nor civility among them. They liked to be alone; they looked wild and fierce; they were singing barbaric songs that made no sense. If they opened their mouths, it was to say no to everything they were offered. Instead of writing as we do, making lines straight, they made theirs in a semicircle. But what surprised me more was that they were dancing with their feet inside; they stuck out their tongues, they made grimaces that you never see in Europe, or in Asia, or even in Africa, where there are so many monsters. They were cold, timid and ashamed before strangers, bold and hot-tempered against those who were in their familiarity.

Although the climate is very mild and the sky very constant in this country, the mood of the men there is inconstant and harsh. Here is a remedy used to soften them. There are certain trees in these islands which bear a large fruit of a long shape, which hangs from the top of the branches. When this fruit is picked, we take away everything that is good to eat, and that is delicious; there remains a hard bark, which forms a large hollow, roughly the shape of a lute. This bark has long, hard, firm filaments like ropes, which run from one end to the other. These kinds of strings, as soon as you touch them a little, give back all the sounds you want. One has only to pronounce the name of the air one is asking for, this name, blown on the strings, imprints this air on them immediately. By this harmony, one softens a little the fierce and violent spirits. But, despite the charms of the music, they always fall back into their dark and incompatible mood.

We asked carefully if there were not lions, bears, tigers, panthers in the country; and I understood that there was in these charming islands nothing more ferocious than men. We would gladly have passed our lives in such a happy land; but the unbearable mood of its inhabitants made us give up so many delights. To be rid of them, we had to re-embark and return by the Red Sea to Egypt, whence we returned to Sicily in a very few days; then we came from Palermo to Marseilles with a very favorable wind.

I will not tell you here many other marvelous circumstances of the nature of this country, and the customs of its inhabitants. If you are curious about it, it will be easy for me to satisfy your curiosity.

But what will you conclude? that it is not a beautiful sky, a fertile and smiling earth, which amuses, which flatters the senses, which makes us good and happy. Isn't that, on the contrary, what softens us, what degrades us, what makes us forget that we have a reasonable soul, and neglect the care and the necessity of overcoming our perverse inclinations, and by working become virtuous?

XXII.

Story of King Alfaroute and Clariphile.

There was a king named Alfaroute, who was feared by all his neighbors and loved by all his subjects. He was wise, good, just, valiant, skillful: he lacked nothing. A fairy came to him and told him that great misfortunes would soon befall him if he did not use the ring she put on his finger. When he turned the diamond of the ring inside his hand, he became invisible; and as soon as he turned it outside, he was visible as before.

This ring was very convenient, and gave him great pleasure. When he mistrusted one of his subjects, he would go into that man's closet, with his diamond turned inside; he heard and he saw all the domestic secrets, without being seen. If he feared the designs of some neighboring king of his kingdom, he went to his most secret councils, where he learned everything without ever being discovered. Thus, he easily prevented all that could be done against him: he averted several conspiracies formed against his person, and disconcerted his enemies who wanted to overwhelm him. He was however not satisfied with his ring, and he asked the fairy for a means of transporting himself in a moment from one country to another, in order to be able to make quicker and more convenient use of the ring which made him invisible.

The fairy replied with a sigh: "You are asking too much! I fear that this last gift will be harmful to you." He didn't listen to anything, and always pressed her to grant it to him. "Well!" she said to him, "you must therefore, in spite of me, receive what you will regret having had!"

Then she rubbed his shoulders with an odoriferous liquor. Immediately he felt small wings growing on his back. These little wings did not appear under his clothes; but whenever he resolved to fly, he had only to touch them with his hand, and immediately they became so long that he was in a position to infinitely surpass the rapid flight of an eagle. As soon as he no longer wanted to fly, he had only to touch his wings: then they grew smaller again, so that they could not be seen under his clothes.

By this means, the king went everywhere in a few moments: he knew everything, and one could not conceive how he guessed so many things; for he shut himself up and seemed to remain almost the whole day in his study, without anyone daring to enter it. As soon as he was there, he made himself invisible by his ring, spread his wings by touching them, and traveled through immense countries. Thereby, he engaged in great wars, where he won all the victories he wanted; but, as he constantly saw the secrets of men, he knew them to be so wicked and so secretive that he no longer dared to trust anyone.

The more powerful and formidable he became, the less he was loved; and he saw that he was loved by none even to whom he had done the greatest good. To console himself, he resolved to go to all the countries of the world to seek a perfect woman whom he could marry, by whom he could be loved, and by whom he could make himself happy. He looked for her for a long time; and, as he saw everything without being seen, he knew the most impenetrable secrets. He went to all the courtyards: concealed, he found everywhere women who wanted to be loved, and who loved themselves too much to love a husband in good faith.

He passed through all the private houses: one had a light and inconstant spirit; the other was artful, the other haughty, the other bizarre; almost all false, vain and idolatrous of their person. He descended to the lowest conditions, and he finally found the daughter of a poor plowman, beautiful as the day, but simple and ingenuous in her beauty, which she counted for nothing, and which was indeed her least quality; for she had a spirit and a virtue which surpassed all the graces of her person. All the young people in her neighborhood rushed to see her; and each young man would have thought to secure the happiness of his life by marrying her.

King Alfaroute could not see her without being passionate about her. He asked her father, who was overjoyed to see that his daughter would be a great queen. Clariphile (that was her name) passed from her father's cabin to a rich palace, where a large court received her. She was not dazzled by it; she preserved her simplicity, her modesty, her virtue, and she never forgot whence she had come, when she was at the height of honors. The king redoubled his tenderness for her, and finally believed that he would manage to be happy; he was nearly so already, so much did he begin to trust in the good heart of the queen. He made himself invisible at all times, to observe her and to surprise her; but he discovered nothing in her that he did not find worthy of admiration. Yet there was a remnant of jealousy and mistrust which still troubled him a little in his affection.

The fairy who had predicted the disastrous consequences of his last gift, often warned him of it, and he was annoyed. He gave orders that she should not be allowed to enter the palace any longer, and told the queen that he forbade her to receive her. The queen promised, with great difficulty, to obey, because she was very fond of this good fairy.

One day the fairy, wishing to instruct the queen on the future, entered her house in the guise of an officer, and declared to the queen who she was. Immediately the queen kissed him tenderly. The king, who was then invisible, saw him, and was transported from jealousy to fury. He drew his sword and pierced the queen with it, who fell dying in his arms. At this moment the fairy resumed her true form. The king recognized her, and understood the queen's innocence. So, he wanted to kill himself. The fairy stopped the blow, and tried to console him.

The queen, expiring, said to him: "Although I die by your hand, I die entirely for you."

Alfaroute lamented his misfortune in having wanted, in spite of the fairy, a gift which was so disastrous. He returned the ring to her and begged her to take off his wings. The rest of his days were spent in bitterness and pain. He had no other consolation than to go and weep at Clariphile's tomb.

XXIII.

Story of Rosimond and Braminte.

Once upon a time there was a young man more handsome than day, named Rosimond, who had as much wit and virtue as his elder brother Braminte, who was badly made, disagreeable, brutal and wicked. Their mother, who had a horror of her eldest son, only had eyes for the youngest. The eldest, jealous, invented a horrible calumny to lose his brother: he told his father that Rosimond often went to a neighbor, who was his enemy, to report to him everything that happened at home, and to give him the means to imprison his father. The father, very angry, beat his son cruelly until he was bleeding, then kept him imprisoned for three days, without food, and finally chased him from his house, threatening to kill him if he ever returned.

The terrified mother dared not say anything; she only moaned. The child went away crying; and, not knowing where to go, crossed a large wood in the evening: the night overtook him at the foot of a rock; he sat down at the entrance of a cave, on a carpet of moss where a clear stream flowed, and there he fell asleep from weariness. At daybreak, on waking, he saw a beautiful woman, mounted on a gray horse, with a covering of gold embroidery, and who seemed to be going hunting.

Then she added: "It seems to me that you are distressed, are you not?" she told him. "Here is a ring that will make you the happiest and most powerful of men, provided you never abuse it. When you turn the diamond inside, you will become invisible; as soon as you turn it out, you will reappear. When you put the ring on your little finger, you will appear to be the king's son, followed by a whole magnificent court; when you put it on the fourth finger, you will appear naturally."

Immediately the young man understood that it was a fairy who was talking to him. After these words she plunged into the wood. As for him, he impatiently went back to his father to try on his ring. He saw and heard all he wanted without being discovered. It was up to him to take revenge on his brother, without exposing himself to any danger. He only showed himself to his mother, kissed her, and told her all about his marvelous adventure.

Then, putting the enchanted ring on his little finger, he suddenly appeared like the prince, son of the king, with a hundred fine horses, and a great number of richly dressed officers. His father was much surprised to see the king's son in his little house; he was embarrassed, not knowing what respect he should pay to him. Then Rosimond asked him how many sons he had.

"I want to see them, have them come presently," Rosimond told him. "I want to take them both to court to make their fortune."

"He's not here," said the father. "I had chastised him for a fault, and he left me."

Then Rosimond said to him: "It was necessary to instruct him, but not to drive him away. Anyway, give me the eldest; let him follow me. And as for you," he said speaking to the father, "follow two guards who will lead you to the place that I will indicate for them."

Immediately two guards led the father away; and the fairy of whom we have spoken encountering him in the forest, struck him with a golden wand, and led him into a dark and deep cave, where he remained enchanted. "Stay there," she said, "until your son comes to rescue you."

However, the son went to the court of the king, at a time when the young prince had embarked to go to war on a distant island. He had been carried by the winds to unknown shores, where, after a shipwreck, he was captive among a savage people. Rosimond appeared at court as if he had been the prince who was believed to be lost, and everyone was weeping. He says he had returned with the help of some merchants, without whom he would have perished. He made the public happy. The king seemed so transported that he could not speak; and he never tired of embracing this son whom he had believed to be dead. The queen was even more touched. There were great rejoicings throughout the kingdom.

One day, the man who passed for the prince said to his real brother: "Braminte, you see that I took you out of your village to make your fortune; but I know that you are a liar, and that you have, by your impostures, caused the misfortune of your brother Rosimond: he is hidden here. I want you to speak to him, that he may reproach you for what you have done."

Braminte, trembling, threw himself at his feet, and confessed his fault. "Never mind," said Rosimond, "I want you to speak to your brother and ask his forgiveness. He will be very generous if he forgives you. He is in my study, where I will show him to you presently. However, I am going to an adjoining room, to leave you free with him."

Braminte, out of obedience, entered the study. Rosimond immediately changed his ring, passed by this room, and then he entered, by another back door, with his natural face, into the study, where Braminte was very ashamed to see him. He begged his forgiveness, and promised to repair all his faults.

Rosimond embraced him in tears, forgave him, and said to him: "I am in full favor with the prince; it is up to me to put you to death, or to keep you all your life in a prison; but I want to be as good to you as you were mean to me."

Braminte, ashamed and confused, answered him submissively, not daring to raise his eyes or call him his brother. Then Rosimond pretended to make a secret trip, to go and marry a princess from a neighboring kingdom; but under this pretext he went to see his mother, to whom he related all that he had done at court, and gave her, in need, some little help of money; for the king let him take whatever he wanted; but he never took much.

However, there arose a furious war between the king and another neighboring king, who was unjust and in bad faith. Rosimond went to the court of the enemy king, entered, by means of his ring, into all the secret councils of this prince, remaining always invisible. He took advantage of all that he learned of the measures of the enemies: he forestalled them and disconcerted them in everything: he commanded the army against them; he defeated them entirely in a great battle, and soon concluded a glorious peace with them, on equitable terms. The king thought only of marrying him to a princess heiress of a neighboring kingdom, and more beautiful than the Graces.

But one day, while Rosimond was hunting in the same forest where he had once found the fairy, she came to him: "Take care," she told him in a severe voice, "not to marry as if you were the prince; you must not deceive anyone: it is only fair that the prince you are taken for returns to succeed his father. Go and find him on an island where the winds that I will send to swell the sails of your vessel will carry you without difficulty. Hasten to render this service to your master, against what might flatter your ambition, and think of returning as a good man in your natural condition. If you don't, you will be unjust and unhappy, and I will abandon you to your old misfortunes."

Rosimond readily profited from such sage advice. Under the pretext of a secret negotiation in a neighboring state, he embarked on a ship, and the winds carried him first to the island where the fairy had told him that the king's real son was. This prince was a captive among a savage people, where he was made to keep herds. Rosimond, invisible, took him away from the pastures where he was leading his herd; and, covering him with his own cloak, which was invisible like him, he delivered him from the hands of those cruel people. They embarked. Other winds, obeying the fairy, brought them back; they arrived together in the king's chamber.

Rosimond presented himself to him, and said to him: "You believed me to be your son, I am not: but I return him to you; look, there he is himself."

The king, greatly astonished, addressed himself to his son, and said to him: "Is it not you, my son, who have conquered my enemies, and who have gloriously made peace? or is it true that you were shipwrecked, that you were captive, and that Rosimond delivered you?"

"Yes, father," he replied. "It was he who came to the country where I was captive. He took me away; I owe him the freedom and the pleasure of seeing you again. It is he, and not me, to whom you owe the victory."

The king could not believe what he was being told: but Rosimond, changing his ring, showed himself to the king in the figure of the prince; and the terrified king saw, at the same time, two men who both seemed to him together his same son. Then he offered, for so many services, immense sums to Rosimond, who refused them; he only asked the king for the grace to retain for his brother Braminte an office which he had at court. As for himself, he feared the inconstancy of fortune, the envy of men, and his own fragility: he wanted to retire to his village with his mother, where he began to cultivate the land.

The fairy, whom he saw again in the woods, showed him the cave where his father was, and told him the words he had to utter to deliver him; he pronounced these words with great joy; he delivered his father, whom he had long been impatient to deliver, and gave him the means to pass his old age gently. Rosimond was thus the benefactor of all his family, and he had the pleasure of doing good to all those who had wished to do him harm. After doing the greatest things for the court, he only wanted from it the freedom to live far from its corruption.

To crown his wisdom, he feared that his ring would tempt him out of his solitude, and would reengage him in great affairs: he returned to the woods where the fairy had appeared to him so favorably. He went every day near the cave where he had had the good fortune to see her formerly, and it was in the hope of seeing her there again. Finally, she presented herself to him there again, and he returned the enchanted ring to her.

"I return to you," he said to her, "a gift of such great value, but so dangerous, and of which it is so easy to abuse. I will only believe myself safe when I no longer have enough to get out of my solitude with so many means of satisfying all my passions."

While Rosimond was returning this ring, Braminte, whose wicked nature was not corrected, abandoned himself to all his passions, and wished to induce the young prince, who had become king, to treat Rosimond unworthily.

The fairy said to Rosimond: "Your brother, always an impostor, wants to make you suspect to the new king and to ruin you: he deserves to be punished, and he must perish. I'm going to give him this ring that you're giving me back."

Rosimond wept over his brother's misfortune; then he said to the fairy: "How do you intend to punish him with such a marvelous present? He will abuse it to persecute all good people, and to have unlimited power."

"The same things," replied the fairy, "are a salutary remedy to some, and a mortal poison to others; Prosperity is the source of all evil for the wicked. When you want to punish a villain, you only have to make him very powerful, to put him to death soon."

She then went to the palace; she appeared at Braminte in the guise of an old woman covered in rags; she said to him: "I took from the hands of your brother the ring which I had lent him, and with which he acquired so much glory: receive it from me, and think well of the use you will make of it."

Braminte answered with a laugh: "I will not do as my brother did, who was foolish enough to seek out the prince, instead of reigning in his place."

Braminte, with this ring, thought only of discovering the secret of all families, of committing treasons, murders and infamies, of listening in on the king's counsels, of stealing the wealth of individuals. His invisible crimes astonished everyone. The king, seeing so many secrets discovered, did not know what to attribute this inconvenience to; but Braminte's boundless prosperity and insolence made him suspect that he had his brother's enchanted ring. To find out, he made use of a foreigner from an enemy nation, to whom a large sum was given. This man came at night to offer Braminte, on behalf of the enemy king, immense goods and honors, if he would let him know through spies all he could learn of his king's secrets.

Braminte promised everything, even went to a place where he was given a very large sum to begin his reward. He boasted of having a ring that made him invisible. The next day the king sent for him, and immediately seized him. The ring was taken from him, and several papers were found on him which proved his crimes. Rosimond returned to court to ask for his brother's pardon, which was refused. Braminte was put to death; and the ring was more fatal to him than it had been useful to his brother.

The king, to console Rosimond for Braminte's punishment, returned the ring to him, like a treasure of infinite value. A grieved Rosimond did not judge the same: he went back to look for the fairy in the woods.

"Hold," he said to her, "your ring. My brother's experience made me understand what I didn't quite understand at first, when you told me. Keep this fatal instrument of my brother's loss. Alas! he would still be alive; he would not have overwhelmed the old age of my father and my mother with grief and shame; he would perhaps be wise and happy if he had never had enough to satisfy his desires. Oh! how dangerous it is to be able to do more than other men! Take back your ring: woe to those to whom you give it! The only grace I ask of you is never to give it to any of my friends."

XXIV.

The Ring of Gyges.

During the reign of the famous Croesus, there was in Lydia a well-made, witty, very virtuous young man, named Callimachus, of the race of the ancient kings, and become so poor, that he was reduced to becoming a shepherd. Walking one day on remote mountains, where he dreamed of his misfortunes while leading his herd, he sat down at the foot of a tree to relax. He saw near him a narrow opening in a rock. Curiosity urged him to enter. He found a wide and deep cave. At first, he saw nothing; at last, his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. He saw in the dark the gleam of a golden urn, on which were engraved these words: Here you will find the ring of Gyges. O mortal, whoever you are, to whom the gods intend such great good, show them that you are not ungrateful, and never envy the happiness of any other man!

Callimachus opened the urn, found the ring, took it, and, in the transport of his joy, left the urn, although he was very poor, and it was of great price. He came out of the cave, and hastened to experience the enchanted ring, of which he had heard so often since his childhood. He saw King Croesus from afar, who was passing on his way from Sardis to a delightful house on the banks of the Pactolus. First, he approached some slaves who were walking in front and who were carrying perfumes to spread on the roads where the king was to pass. He mingled among them after having turned his ring inside, and no one saw him. He made noise on purpose while walking; he even said a few words. All listened; all were surprised to hear a voice and see no one. They said to each other: "Is this a dream or a truth? Didn't you think you heard someone speak?"

Callimachus, delighted to have had this experience, left the slaves and approached the king. He was already close to him without being discovered; he rode with him in his chariot, which was all silver, adorned with a marvelous sculpture. The queen was with him, and they talked together about the greatest secrets of the State, which Croesus confided only to the queen alone. Callimachus heard them all the way.

They arrived at the house, all the walls of which were of jasper; the roof was of fine copper, shining like gold; the beds were of silver, and all the rest of the furniture the same: everything was adorned with diamonds and precious stones. The whole palace was constantly filled with the sweetest perfumes; and, to make them more agreeable, new ones were spread every hour of the day. Everything that served the person of the king was gold.

When he walked in his gardens, the gardeners had the art of growing the most beautiful flowers under his feet. Often, they changed, to give him a pleasant surprise, the decoration of the gardens, as we would change the decoration of a stage. Trees with their roots were quickly transported by large machines, and others were brought in whole; so that each morning the king, on rising, perceived his gardens entirely renewed.

One day it was pomegranate trees, olive trees, myrtles, orange trees and a forest of lemon trees. Another day suddenly appeared a sandy desert with wild pines, tall oaks, old firs that seemed as old as the earth. Another day, one saw lawns in bloom, meadows of fine, budding grass, all enameled with violets, through which little streams flowed impetuously. On their banks were plants of young willows of tender verdure, tall poplars which rose to the clouds; bushy elms and fragrant limes, planted without order, made a pleasing irregularity. Then suddenly, the next day, all these little channels disappeared; all that was visible was a river channel, with pure, transparent water.

This river was the Pactolus, whose waters flowed over golden sand. One saw on this river vessels with rowers dressed in the richest stuffs covered with gold embroidery. The rowers' benches were of ivory; the oars, of ebony; the beak of the prows, of silver; all the ropes, of silk; the veils, of purple; and the body of the vessels, of fragrant woods like cedar. All the ropes were adorned with festoons; all the sailors were crowned with flowers. There sometimes flowed, in the place of the gardens which were under the windows of Croesus, a stream of essences whose exquisite odor was exhaled in all the palace.

Croesus had lions, tigers, and leopards, with their teeth and claws filed down, which were harnessed to little tortoiseshell chariots trimmed with silver. These ferocious beasts were guided by bits of gold and reins of silk. They were used by the king and the whole court to promenade in the vast roads of a forest, which preserved under its impenetrable branches an eternal night. Often, they also raced with these chariots along the river, in a plain meadow like a green carpet. These proud animals ran so lightly and with such rapidity that they did not even leave on the soft grass the slightest trace of their steps, nor of the wheels they dragged after them. Every day new species of races were invented to exercise the vigor and skill of young people. Croesus, at each new game, awarded some great prize to the winner. So, the days flowed by in delights and among the most agreeable spectacles.

Callimachus resolved to surprise all the Lydians by means of his ring. Several young men of the highest birth had run before the king, who had alighted from his chariot in the meadow to watch them run. When the suitors had finished their race, and Croesus was considering who the prize should belong to, Callimachus got into the king's chariot. He remained invisible; he pushed the lions, the chariot flew. One would have thought it was that of Achilles dragged by immortal steeds, or that of Phoebus himself, when, after having traversed the immense vault of the heavens, he hurls his fiery horses into the bosom of the waves. At first it was thought that the lions, having escaped, fled at random; but soon it was recognized that they were guided with great art, and that this race would surpass all the others. However, the chariot appeared empty, and everyone stood motionless with astonishment.

Finally, the race was over, and the prize won, without anyone being able to understand by whom. Some believed that it was a divinity who played with men; the others assured that it was a man named Orodes, who came from Persia, who had the art of enchantments, who evoked the shadows of hell, who held in his hands all the power of Hecate, who sent Discord at will, and the Furies in the soul of his foes, which uttered at night, the howls of Cerberus and the deep moans of Erebus; finally who could eclipse the moon and bring it down from heaven to earth.

Croesus believed that Orodes had led the chariot; he sent for him. He was found holding twisted serpents in his bosom, and pronouncing unknown and mysterious words between his teeth, conjuring up the infernal divinities. They tried to convince him that he was the invisible winner of this race. He said no; but the king could not believe it.

Callimachus was an enemy of Orodes, because the latter had predicted to Croesus that this young man would one day cause him great embarrassment and would be the cause of the entire ruin of his kingdom. This prediction had forced Croesus to keep Callimachus away from the world in a desert, and reduce him to great poverty. Callimachus felt the pleasure of revenge, and was glad to see his enemy's embarrassment. Croesus pressed Orodes, and couldn't get him to say he ran for the prize. But as the king threatened to punish him, his friends advised him to confess the matter and to take pride in it.

So, he passed from one extremity to the other; vanity blinded him. He boasted of having made this marvelous blow by virtue of his enchantments. But, at the moment when they were talking to him, they were very surprised to see the same chariot start the same race again. Then the king heard a voice whisper in his ear: "Orodes is laughing at you; he brags about what he hasn't done." The king, irritated against Orodes, immediately had him put in irons and thrown into a deep prison.

Callimachus, having felt the pleasure of satisfying his passions by the aid of his ring, gradually lost the feelings of moderation and virtue which he had had in his solitude and in his misfortunes. He was even tempted to enter the king's chamber and kill him in his bed. But one does not pass all of a sudden to the greatest crimes; he had a horror of so black an action, and could not harden his heart to carry it out. But he set out to go to Persia to find Cyrus: he told him the secrets of Croesus which he had heard and the secret of the Lydians to make a league against the Persians with the Greek colonies of all the coasts of Asia Minor; at the same time, he explained to him the preparations of Croesus and the means of preventing him.

Immediately Cyrus set out from above the banks of the Tigris, where he was encamped with an innumerable army, and came as far as the river Halys, where Croesus presented himself to him with troops more magnificent than courageous. The Lydians lived too sensuously not to fear death. Their clothes were embroidered with gold and similar to those of the vainest women; their arms were all gilded; they were followed by a prodigious number of superb chariots; gold, silver, and precious stones shone everywhere in their tents, in their vases, in their furniture, and even on their slaves.

The ostentation and softness of this army could only lead to imprudence and cowardice, although the Lydians were much more numerous than the Persians. These, on the contrary, showed only poverty and courage; they were scantily clad; they lived on little, fed on roots and vegetables, drank only water, slept on the ground, exposed to the abuses of the air, constantly exercised their bodies to harden them at work; they had no other ornament than iron; their troops were all bristling with pikes, darts, and swords; so, they had only contempt for enemies drowned in delights.

The battle barely deserved the name of a fight. The Lydians could not withstand the first shock: they fell over each other; the Persians only killed; they swam in blood. Croesus fled to Sardis. Cyrus pursued him there without wasting a moment. Here he was besieged in his capital city. He succumbed after a long siege; he was taken; they lead him to execution. In this extremity, he pronounced the name of Solon. Cyrus wanted to know what he was saying. He learned that Croesus deplored his misfortune for not having believed this Greek, who had given him such wise advice. Cyrus, touched by these words, granted life to Croesus.

Then Callimachus began to grow disgusted with his fortune. Cyrus had placed him in the rank of his satraps, and had given him great wealth. Another would have been pleased; but the Lydian, with his ring, felt able to climb higher. He could not bear to see himself confined to a condition where he had so many equals and a master. He couldn't bring himself to kill Cyrus, who had done him so much good. He even sometimes regretted having overthrown Croesus from his throne. When he had seen him led to execution, he had been seized with grief. He could no longer remain in a country where he had caused so much evil, and where he could not satiate his ambition.

He left, and sought an unknown country; he crossed immense lands, everywhere experienced the magic and marvelous effect of his ring, raised at will and overthrew kings and kingdoms, amassed great wealth, reached the height of honors, and yet found himself always devoured by desires. His talisman gave him everything except peace and happiness.

Thus, it is that we find them only in ourselves; that they are independent of all those external advantages to which we set so much store, and that when in opulence and grandeur one loses simplicity, innocence and moderation, then the heart and the true seats of happiness fall prey to trouble, anxiety, shame and remorse.

XXV.

Story of Alibeus the Persian.

Shah-Abbas, king of Persia, making a journey, departed from all his court, to pass through the countryside without being known there, and to see the people there in all their natural freedom. He only took with him one of his courtiers.

"I do not know," said the king to him, "the true morals of men; everything that approaches us is disguised; it is art and not simple nature that shows itself to us. I want to study rustic life, and see this kind of men who are so despised, although they are the true support of all human society. I am tired of seeing courtiers watching me to surprise me by flattering me; I have to go and see laborers and shepherds who don't know me."

He passed with his confidant through several villages where dances were taking place, and he was delighted to find tranquil and inexpensive pleasures far from the courts. He had a meal in a cabin; and as he was very hungry, after having walked more than usual, the coarse food he took there seemed to him more agreeable than all the exquisite dishes on his table. As he passed through a meadow strewn with flowers, which bordered a clear stream, he saw a young shepherd playing the flute in the shade of a large elm, near his grazing sheep.

He approached him, examined him, and found in him a pleasant countenance, a simple and ingenuous air, but noble and graceful. The rags with which the shepherd was covered did not diminish the brilliance of his beauty. The king at first thought it was some person of illustrious birth who had disguised himself; but he learned from the shepherd that his father and mother were in a neighboring village, and that his name was Alibeus.

As the king questioned him, he admired in him a firm and reasonable spirit. His eyes were lively and had nothing fiery or fierce about them; his voice was soft, insinuating and touching; there was nothing rude about his face; but he was not a soft, effeminate beauty. The shepherd, about sixteen years old, did not know that he was as he appeared to others; he thought that he thought, spoke, was made like all the other shepherds in his village; but, while uneducated, he had learned all that reason teaches those who listen to it.

The king, having spoken to him familiarly, was charmed by him; he learned from him about the state of the people all that kings never learn from a crowd of flatterers who surround them. From time to time, he laughed at the naivety of this child, who spared nothing in his answers. It was a great novelty for the king to hear people speak so naturally; he made a sign to the courtier who accompanied him not to discover that he was the king; for he feared that Alibeus would lose all his freedom and all his graces in a moment, if he happened to know to whom he was speaking.

"I see," said the prince to the courtier, "that nature is no less beautiful in the lowest conditions than in the highest. Never did a king's child seem better born than this one, who tends the sheep. I would be only too happy to have a son so handsome, so sensible, so lovable. He seems to me suitable for everything, and if care is taken to educate him, he will certainly one day be a great man: I want him to be educated near me."

The king took Alibeus away, who was very surprised to learn whom he had made himself agreeable to. They made him learn to read, write, sing, and then they gave him masters for the arts and for the sciences which adorn the mind. At first, he was a little dazzled by the court; and his great change of fortune changed his heart a little. His age and his favor taken together somewhat altered his wisdom and moderation. Instead of his crook, his flute, and his shepherd's habit, he took a purple robe, embroidered with gold, with a turban covered with jewels. His beauty effaced all that was most agreeable about the court. He made himself capable of the most serious affairs, and deserved the confidence of his master, who, knowing Alibeus's exquisite taste for all the magnificence of a palace, finally gave him a very considerable office in Persia, which is that of keep all the precious stones and furniture that the prince has.

Throughout the life of the great Shah-Abbas, Alibeus's favor only increased. As he advanced into a more mature age, he finally remembered his former condition, and he often regretted it. "O beautiful days," he said to himself, "innocent days, days when I tasted a pure and without danger joy, days since which I have seen none so sweet, will I never see you again? he who deprived me of you, by giving me so much wealth, took everything away from me."

He wanted to go and see his village again; he softened at the sight of all the places where he had formerly danced, sung, played the flute with his companions. He did some good to all his relatives and all his friends; but he wished them for their principal happiness never to quit country life, and never to experience the misfortunes of the court.

He experienced them, these misfortunes. After the death of his good master Shah-Abbas, his son Shah-Sephi succeeded this prince. Envious courtiers full of artifices found a way to warn him against Alibeus. He abused, they said, the confidence of the late king; he amassed immense treasures, and embezzled several things of very great value, of which he was the depositary. Shah-Sephi was altogether young and princely; it didn't take much to be credulous, inattentive, and careless. He had the vanity to want to appear to reform what the king his father had done, and to judge better than he. To have a pretext to dispossess Alibeus of his office, he asked him, according to the advice of these envious courtiers, to bring him a scimitar garnished with diamonds of immense price which the king his grandfather had used to carry in battles.

Shah-Abbas had formerly removed from this scimitar all these beautiful diamonds; and Alibeus proved by good witnesses that the thing had been done by order of the late king, before the office had been given to Alibeus. When Alibeus's enemies saw that they could no longer use this pretext to ruin him, they advised Shah-Sephi to order him to make, within a fortnight, an exact inventory of all the precious furniture with which he was responsible. At the end of fifteen days, he asked to see everything himself.

Alibeus opened all the doors for him, showed him everything he had on guard. Nothing was missing; everything was clean, tidy, and kept with great care. The king, greatly disappointed to find everywhere so much order and punctuality, had almost returned in favor of Alibeus, when he perceived, at the end of a large gallery, full of very sumptuous furniture, an iron door which had three large locks.

"It was there," the jealous courtiers whispered in his ear, "that Alibeus hid all the precious things he stole from you."

Immediately the angry king cried out: "I want to see what is beyond this gate. What did you put there? show it to me."

At these words Alibeus threw herself on his knees, conjuring him in the name of God not to take from him what was most precious on earth. "It is not right," he said, "for me to lose in a moment what remains to me, and which constitutes my resource, after having worked so many years with your father the king. Take away, if you want, all the rest; but leave this to me."

The king had no doubt that it was ill-gotten treasure, which Alibeus had amassed. He took a higher tone, and absolutely wanted the door to be opened. Finally, Alibeus, who had the keys, opened it himself. Nothing was found in this place except the crook, the flute, and the shepherd's habit which Alibeus had formerly worn, and which he often saw again with joy, for fear of forgetting his first condition.

"Here," he said, "O great king, are the precious remnants of my former happiness: neither fortune nor your power have been able to take them away from me. Here is my treasure, which I keep to enrich myself, when you have made me poor. Take over everything else; leave me these dear pledges of my first estate. Here they are, my true goods which I will never miss. Here they are, these simple, innocent goods, always sweet to those who know how to be satisfied with the necessary and do not torment themselves for the superfluous. There they are, those goods of which liberty and security are the fruits. There they are, those possessions that have never given me a moment of embarrassment. O dear instruments of a simple and happy life! I only love you; it is with you that I want to live and die. Why must other deceitful goods have come to deceive me, and disturb the rest of my life? I return them to you, great king, all these riches which come to me from your liberality: I only keep what I had when the king, your father, came, by his graces, to make me unhappy."

The king, hearing these words, understood Alibeus's innocence; and, being indignant at the courtiers who had wanted to destroy him, he drove them from his side. Alibeus became his principal officer, and was charged with the most secret affairs; but he saw his crook, his flute, and his old clothes every day, which he always kept ready in his treasury, to resume them as soon as inconstant fortune disturbed his favor. He died in extreme old age, without ever wanting to have his enemies punished, nor amass any wealth, and leaving his parents only enough to live in the condition of shepherds, which he always believed to be the safest and happiest.

XXVI.

The Bees and the Silkworms.

One day the Bees ascended to Olympus, at the foot of the throne of Jupiter, to beg him to have regard to the care they had taken of his childhood, when they nourished him with their honey on Mount Ida. Jupiter wanted to grant them the first honors among all the little animals; but Minerva, who presides over the arts, represented to him that there was another species which disputed with the bees the glory of useful inventions. Jupiter wanted to know its name. "It's the silkworms," she replied. Immediately the father of the gods ordered Mercury to bring on the wings of the twelve zephyrs deputies of this little people, so that the reasons of the two parties could be heard.

The Bee, ambassador of her nation, represented the sweetness of honey, which is the nectar of men, its usefulness, the artifice with which it is composed; then she extolled the wisdom of the laws which police the flying republic of the Bees. "No other species of animals," said the orator, "has this glory, and it is a reward for having nourished the father of the gods in a cave. Moreover, we share the warrior value, when our king animates our troops in the fights. How dare these Worms, vile and despicable insects, challenge us for the first place? They only know how to crawl, while we take a noble flight, and with our golden wings we ascend to the stars."

The haranguer of the Silkworms answered: "We are but little worms, and we have neither this great courage for war, nor these wise laws; but each of us shows the marvels of nature, and consumes himself in useful work. Without laws, we live in peace, and we never see civil wars among us, while the Bees kill each other with each change of king. We have the virtue of Proteus to change form: sometimes we are little worms composed of eleven little rings, intertwined with the variety of the most vivid colors that one admires in the flowers of a bed. Then we spin with what to dress the most magnificent men even on the throne, and what to adorn the temples of the gods. This adornment, so beautiful and so durable, is well worth honey, which soon spoils. Finally, we are transformed into a bean, but one which smells, moves and always shows life. After these prodigies, we suddenly become butterflies with the brilliance of the richest colors. It is then that we no longer yield to the Bees, and rise with a bold flight to Olympus. Judge now, O father of the gods."

Jupiter, embarrassed for the decision, finally declared that the Bees would hold the first rank, because of the rights they had acquired since ancient times. "By what means," he said, "could I degrade them? I owe them too much; but I do believe that men owe even more to the Silkworms."

XXVII.

The Nile and the Ganges.

One day two rivers, jealous of each other, presented themselves to Neptune, to dispute the first rank. The god was on his golden throne, in the middle of a deep cave. The vault was of pumice stones, mixed with rockwork and sea shells. The immense waters came from all sides, suspended in a vault above the head of the god. There appeared old Nereus, wrinkled and bent like Saturn, the great Ocean, father of so many Nereids; Tethys, full of charms; Amphitrite with the small Palaemon; Ino and Melicertes, and a crowd of young Nereids crowned with flowers. Proteus himself had rushed there with his marine herds, who with their vast open nostrils swallowed the bitter wave to snort it forth like rapid rivers which fall from the steep rocks. All the little transparent fountains, the leaping and foaming streams, the rivers which water the earth, the seas which surround it, came to bring the tribute of their waters into the motionless bosom of the sovereign father of the waves.

The two rivers, one of which was the Nile and the other the Ganges, advanced. The Nile held a palm in his hand, and the Ganges, that Indian reed whose marrow yields a juice so sweet that one calls sugar. They were crowned with rushes. The old age of both was equally majestic and venerable. Their nervous bodies were of a vigor and a nobility above man. Their beards, of a bluish green, floated down to their belts; their eyes were bright and sparkling, despite such a damp stay. Their thick, wet eyebrows fell over their eyelids. They went through the crowd of sea monsters; the herds of playful Tritons sounded their coiled conch trumpets; the dolphins rose above the wave, which they caused to bubble by the movements of their tails, and then plunged into the water with a terrible noise, as if the abysses had opened.

The Nile was the first to speak thus: "O great son of Saturn, who holds the vast empire of the waters, sympathize with my pain; they unjustly deprive me of the glory which I have enjoyed for so many centuries: a new river, which flows only in barbarous countries, dares to dispute with me the first rank. Have you forgotten that the land of Egypt, fertilized by my waters, was the asylum of the gods, when the giants wanted to scale Olympus?

"It is I who give this land its price: it is I who make Egypt so delightful and so powerful. My course is immense: I come from those burning climates which mortals dare not approach; and when Phaethon, on the chariot of the Sun, set the land ablaze, to prevent him from drying up my waters, I hid my superb head so well that no one has yet been able, since that time, to discover where is my source and my origin.

"Instead of the disordered overflows of other rivers ravaging the countryside, mine, always regular, spread abundance in these happy lands of Egypt, which are rather a beautiful garden than a countryside. My docile waters are divided into as many channels as the inhabitants like, to water their lands and to facilitate their commerce. All my shores are full of cities, and there are as many as twenty thousand of them in Egypt alone. You know that my catadupes, or cataracts, make a marvelous fall of all my waters from certain rocks below, above the plains of Egypt. It is even said that the noise of my waters, in this fall, makes all the inhabitants of the country deaf.

"Seven different mouths bring my waters into your empire, and the Delta they form is the abode of the wisest, most learned, best-policed, and oldest people in the universe: it counts many thousands of years in its history and in the tradition of its priests. I have therefore for me the length of my course, the antiquity of my peoples, the marvels of the gods accomplished on my shores, the fertility of the lands by my floods, the singularity of my unknown origin.

"But why tell all my advantages against an opponent who has so few? It issues from the wild and icy lands of the Scythians, throws itself into a sea which has no commerce except with barbarians; these countries are famous only for having been subjugated by Bacchus followed by a troop of drunken and disheveled women, dancing with thyrses in their hands. It has on its shores neither polite and learned peoples, nor magnificent cities, nor monuments of the benevolence of the gods: it is a newcomer who boasts without proof. O mighty god, who commands waves and storms, confuse his temerity!"

"It is yours that must be confounded," replied the Ganges. "You are, it is true, known earlier; but you did not exist before me. Like you, I descend from high mountains, I traverse vast countries, I receive the tribute of many rivers, I go by several mouths into the bosom of the seas, and I fertilize the plains which I flood. If I wanted, following your example, to give into the marvelous, I would say, with the Indians, that I come down from heaven, and that my beneficent waters are no less salutary to the soul than to the body.

"But it is not before the god of the rivers and the seas that one should take advantage of these chimerical pretensions. Created however when the world came out of chaos, several writers made me born in the garden of delights which was the abode of the first man. But what is certain is that I water even more kingdoms than you; it is because I travel through such pleasant and fertile lands; it is that I roll with this gold dust so sought after, and perhaps so fatal to the happiness of men; it is that one finds on my shores pearls, diamonds, and all that is used for the ornament of temples and mortals: it is that one sees on my shores superb buildings, and that one there celebrates long and magnificent feasts.

"The Indians, like the Egyptians, also have their antiquities, their metamorphoses, their fables; but what they have more than they are illustrious gymnosophists, enlightened philosophers. Which of your renowned priests could you compare to the famous Pilpay?¹ He taught princes the principles of morality and the art of ruling with justice and kindness. His ingenious apologues have made his name immortal; we read them, but we hardly profit from them in the States that I enrich; and what makes us all ashamed is that we see on our shores only unhappy princes, because they only love pleasures and an unlimited authority; it is that we see in the most beautiful countries of the world only miserable peoples, because they are almost all slaves, almost all victims of the arbitrary wills and the insatiable greed of the masters who govern them, or rather who crush them.

"Of what use am I to the antiquity of my origin, and the abundance of my waters, and all the spectacle of marvels that I offer to the navigator? I want neither the honors nor the glory of preference, as long as I do not contribute more to the happiness of the multitude, as long as I only serve to maintain the softness or the greed of a few sumptuous and unapplied tyrants. There is nothing great, nothing estimable, except what is useful to the human race."

Neptune and the assembly of the sea gods applauded the speech of the Ganges, and praised his tender compassion for the vexed and suffering humanity. They made him hope that, from another part of the world, there would come to India civilized and human nations, who could enlighten the princes on their true happiness, and make them understand that it consists mainly, as he believed with so much truth, to make happy all who depend on them, and to govern them with wisdom and moderation.

¹"Pilpay," also "Bidpai," was a popular cognomen for the author of fables derived from the Panchatantra, a translation of which is available for free at Project Gutenberg. The Shah-nama, by Ferdowsi, makes a notable reference to this delightful work.

XXVIII.

Young Bacchus and the Faun.

One day the young Bacchus, whom Silenus was instructing, was looking for the Muses in a grove whose silence was disturbed only by the sound of fountains and the song of birds. The sun could not, with its rays, pierce the dark greenery. The child of Semele, to study the language of the gods, sat down in a corner, at the foot of an old oak, from the trunk of which several men of the golden age were born. It had even delivered oracles in the past, and Time had not dared to strike it down with his sharp scythe.

Near this sacred and ancient oak hid a young Faun, who listened to the verses that the child sang, and who pointed out to Silenus, with a mocking laugh, all the faults his disciple made. Immediately the Naiads and the other Wood Nymphs smiled too. This critic was young, graceful and playful; his head was crowned with ivy and vines; his temples were adorned with bunches of grapes; from his left shoulder hung on his right side, like a scarf, a festoon of ivy: and the young Bacchus was pleased to see these leaves consecrated to his divinity. The Faun was enveloped, above the belt, by the frightful and bristling remains of a young lioness which he had killed in the forests. He held in his hand a bent and knotted crook. His tail appeared behind, as if playing on his back.

But, as Bacchus could not tolerate his malicious laugher, always ready to make fun of his expressions, whenever they were not pure and elegant, he said to him in a proud and impatient tone: "How dare you make fun of the son of Jupiter?"

The Faun answered without emotion: "Hey! how dare the son of Jupiter make a mistake?"

XXVIX.

The Infant of the Muses Favored by the Sun.

The Sun, having left the vast circumference of the sky in peace, had finished his course and plunged his fiery horses into the bosom of the waves of the West¹. The edge of the horizon was still red as crimson, and aflame with the fiery rays which he had shed there in his path. The scorching heat wave parched the earth; all the weathered plants languished; the faded flowers bowed their heads, and their diseased stems could no longer support them; even the Zephyrs held back their sweet breaths; the air the animals breathed was like lukewarm water. The night, which spread with its shadows a sweet coolness, could not temper the devouring heat which the day had caused: it could not drench the downcast and failing men, nor the dew which it distills when the Evening Star shines at the tail of the other stars, nor that harvest of poppies which make all weary nature feel the charms of sleep.

The Sun alone, in the bosom of Tethys, enjoyed deep repose; but then, when he was obliged to get back on his chariot harnessed by the Hours and preceded by Dawn, which sows its way with roses, he saw all Olympus covered with clouds; he saw the remnants of a storm that had frightened mortals all night. The clouds were still plagued with the odor of the sulfur vapors which had lit the lightning and rumbled the threatening thunder; the rebellious Winds, having broken their chains and forced their deep dungeons, still roared in the vast plains of the air; torrents fell from the mountains in all the valleys. He whose eye full of rays animates all nature, saw on all sides, on rising, the remnant of a cruel storm.

But what moved him more, he saw a young infant of the Muses, who was very dear to him, and whom the storm had stolen from sleep, when he was already beginning to spread his dark wings over his eyelids. He was on the point of bringing back his horses, and delaying the day, to restore rest to him who had lost it. "I want him," he said, "to sleep: sleep will refresh his blood, soothe his bile, give him the health and strength he will need to imitate the labors of Hercules, inspire in him I know not what tender sweetness that alone could miss him. Provided he sleeps, laughs, softens his temper, enjoys social games, takes pleasure in loving men and making himself loved by them, all the graces of the mind and the body will come in crowds to adorn it."

XXX.

The Nightingale and the Warbler.

On the ever-green banks of the river Alpheus, there is a sacred grove, where three Naiads scatter their clear waters with a loud noise, and water the budding flowers: the Graces often go there to bathe. The trees of this grove are never agitated by the winds which respect them; they are only touched by the breath of the gentle Zephyrs. Nymphs and Fauns perform dances there at night to the sound of the Panpipes. The Sun could not pierce with its rays the thick shadow formed by the intertwined branches of this grove. Silence, darkness and delicious freshness reign there day and night.

Beneath this foliage, one hears Philomela singing in a plaintive and melodious voice her old misfortunes, for which she is not yet consoled. A young Warbler, on the contrary, sings of her pleasures there, and she announces spring to all the shepherds around; even Philomela is jealous of the tender songs of her companion. One day, they saw a young shepherd whom they had never seen before in these woods; he appeared to them gracious, noble, loving the Muses and harmony: they believed that he was Apollo such as he was formerly with King Admetus, or at least some young hero of the blood of this God. The two birds, inspired by the Muses, immediately began to sing thus:

Who is this shepherd or this unknown god who comes to adorn our grove? He is sensitive to our songs; he loves poetry: it will soften his heart and make him as lovable as he is proud.

May this young hero grow in virtue like a flower that spring brings to bloom! how he loves the sweet games of the mind, may the Graces be on his lips! may the wisdom of Minerva reign in her heart!

Let him equal Orpheus in the charms of his voice, and Hercules in his high deeds! May he carry in his heart the audacity of Achilles, without having its ferocity! May he be good, may he be wise, beneficent, tender for men, and loved by them! May the Muses give birth to all the virtues in him!

He loves our sweet songs; they enter his heart, as the dew falls on our lawns burned by the sun. May the gods moderate him and make him always fortunate! let him hold in his hand the cornucopia! may the golden age return through him! may wisdom spread from his heart to all mortals! and that flowers are born under his feet!

As they sang, the Zephyrs held their breath; all the flowers in the grove bloomed; the streams formed by the three fountains suspended their course; the Satyrs and the Fauns, the better to listen, pricked up their acute ears; Echo repeated these beautiful words to all the surrounding rocks; and all the Dryads emerged from the bosom of the green trees, to admire the one that Philomela and her companion had just sung.

XXXI.

The Departure of Lycon.

When Renown, with the sound of its trumpet, had announced to the rustic divinities and to the shepherds of Cynthus the departure of Lycon, all these gloomy woods resounded with bitter complaints. Echo repeated them sadly to all the surrounding valleys. We no longer heard the soft sound of the flute or that of the oboe. Even the shepherds, in their pain, broke their pipes. Everything was languishing: the tender greenery of the trees was beginning to fade; the sky, hitherto so serene, was laden with black storms; the cruel North Winds were already making the groves quiver as in winter.

The divinities, even the most rustic, were not insensitive to this loss; the Dryads came out of the hollow trunks of the old oaks to miss Lycon. There formed an assembly of these sad divinities around a great tree which raised its branches towards the heavens, and which covered with its thick shade the earth, its mother, for several centuries.

Alas! Around this old knotty trunk of prodigious size, the Nymphs of this wood, accustomed to their dances and their playful games, came to tell of their misfortune. "It's done!" they said, "we shall never see Lycon again: he is leaving us; enemy fortune relieves us of it; it is going to be the ornament and the delights of another grove happier than ours. No, it is no longer possible to hope to hear his voice, nor to see him shooting the bow, and piercing the swift birds with his arrows."

Pan himself ran up, having forgotten his flute; the Fauns and the Satyrs suspended their dances. Even the birds were no longer singing: only the dreadful cries of owls and other birds of bad omen could be heard. Philomela and her companions kept a mournful silence.

Then Flora and Pomona suddenly appeared with a laughing air, in the middle of the grove, holding hands: one was crowned with flowers, and made them spring under her footprints on the grass; the other carried in a cornucopia all the fruits that autumn scatters on the earth to pay man for his pains.

"Take comfort," they said to this assembly of dismayed gods: "Lycon is leaving, it is true; but he does not abandon this mountain to Apollo. Soon you will see him again here cultivating our fortunate gardens himself: his hand planted there the green shrubs, the plants which nourish man, and the flowers which delight him. O North Winds, take care never to wither with your pestilent breaths these gardens where Lycon will take innocent pleasures. He will prefer simple nature to pomp and orderly entertainment; he will love these places; he abandons them with regret."

At these words, sadness changes into joy; they sing the praises of Lycon; it is said that he will be a lover of gardens, as Apollo was a shepherd leading the herds of Admetus: a thousand divine songs fill the grove, and the name of Lycon passes from the ancient forest to the most remote countryside. The shepherds repeat it on their blowpipes: the very birds, in their sweet song, make I don't know what sounds resembling the name of Lycon. The earth is adorned with flowers and enriched with fruits. The gardens, which await his return, prepare for him the graces of spring and the magnificent gifts of autumn. Lycon's mere glances, which he still casts from afar on this pleasant mountain, fertilize it. There, after having uprooted the wild and sterile plants, he will pick the olive and the myrtle, while waiting for Mars to make him pick laurels elsewhere.

XXXII.

Diana's Hunt.

There was in the country of the Celts, and quite near the famous sojourn of the Druids, a dark forest whose oaks as old as the earth, had seen the waters of the deluge, and preserved under their thick branches a deep night in the middle of the day. In this remote forest was a beautiful fountain clearer than crystal, which gave its name to the place where it flowed. Diana often went to pierce stags and fallow deer with her arrows in this forest full of steep and wild rocks. After having hunted with ardor, she went to plunge into the pure waters of the fountain, and the Naiad gloried in delighting the goddess and all the Nymphs.

One day, Diana hunted in these places a bigger and more furious boar than that of Calydon. His back was armed with hard bristles, as spiky and as horrible as the pikes of a battalion. His sparkling eyes were full of blood and fire. From a gaping, inflamed mouth it spewed foam mingled with black blood. His monstrous head resembled the curved prow of a ship. He was filthy and covered with the mud in which he had wallowed. The burning breath from his maw stirred the air all around it, and made a terrible noise. He darted swiftly like lightning; he overthrew golden harvests, and ravaged all the neighboring fields; he cut the tall stems of the toughest trees to sharpen his tusks against their trunks. His tusks were keen and sharp like the curved swords of the Persians.

Terrified laborers took refuge in their villages. The shepherds, forgetting their weak herds wandering in the pastures, ran towards their huts. All were appalled; even the hunters, with their darts and spears, dared not enter the forest.

Diana alone, having pity on this country, advanced with her golden quiver and her arrows. A troop of Nymphs followed her, and she surpassed them in height by a full head. She was, in her course, lighter than zephyrs and quicker than lightning. She hit the furious monster, piercing it with one of her arrows below the ear, where the shoulder begins. There he began rolling in the waves of his blood; he uttered cries with which the whole forest resounded, and showed in vain his tusks ready to tear his enemies. The Nymphs quivered. Diana alone advanced, put her foot on his head, and thrust her dart; then, seeing herself reddened with the blood of this boar, which had spurted on her, she bathed in the fountain, and retired charmed at having delivered the countryside from this monster.

XXXIII.

Aristaeus and Virgil.

Virgil, having descended into Hades, entered those fortunate countrysides where heroes and men inspired by the gods pass a blissful life on lawns always studded with flowers and interspersed with a thousand streams. First the shepherd Aristaeus, who was there among the demigods, advanced towards him, having learned his name.

"How happy I am," he said, "to see such a great poet! Your verses flow softer than dew on tender grass; they have a harmony so sweet, that they soften the heart, and draw tears from the eyes: you have done it for me and for my bees, of which even Homer could be jealous. I owe to you, as much as to the Sun, and to Cyrene, the glory which I enjoy. It is not yet long since I recited these verses, so tender and so gracious, to Linus, Hesiod and Homer. After having heard them, they all three went to drink water from the river Lethe, to forget them, so distressed were they to go over in their memory verses so worthy of them, which they had not written. You know that the nation of poets is jealous. Come among them and take your place."

"It will be very bad, this place," replied Virgil, "since they are so jealous. I shall have bad hours to pass in their company; I see that your bees were no easier to irritate than this chorus of poets."

"It is true," resumed Aristaeus; "they buzz like bees; like them, they have a piercing sting, to attack whatever inflames their anger."

"I shall still have," said Virgil, "another great man to avoid here; it is the divine Orpheus. How do you live together?"

"Pretty badly," replied Aristaeus. "He is still jealous of his wife, like the other three of the glory of verse; but as for you, he will receive you well, for you have treated him honorably, and you have spoken much more wisely than Ovid of his quarrel with the women of Thrace, who massacred him. But let's not delay any longer; let us enter this little sacred grove, watered by so many fountains clearer than crystal: you will see that the whole sacred troop will rise to do you honor. Don't you already hear the lyre of Orpheus? Listen to Linus who sings of the fight of the gods against the giants. Homer prepares to sing Achilles, who avenges the death of Patroclus by that of Hector. But Hesiod is the one you have most to fear; for, in the mood he is in, he will be very sorry that you have dared to treat with so much elegance all the rustic things which have been his lot."

Scarcely had Aristaeus finished these words than they arrived in that cool shade where reigns an eternal enthusiasm which possesses these divine men. All got up; Virgil was seated and asked to sing his verses. He sang them at first with modesty, then with transport. The most jealous felt in spite of themselves a sweetness that delighted them. The lyre of Orpheus, which had enchanted the rocks and the woods, fell from his hands, and bitter tears flowed from his eyes. Homer forgot, for a moment, the rapid magnificence of the Iliad and the agreeable variety of the Odyssey. Linus believed that these beautiful verses had been made by his father Apollo; he was motionless, seized, and suspended by such a sweet song. Hesiod, deeply moved, could not resist this charm.

Finally, coming back to himself a little, he pronounced these words full of jealousy and indignation: "O Virgil, you have written verses more durable than brass and bronze. But I predict that one day we will see a child who will translate them into his language, and who will share with you the glory of having sung of the bees."

XXXIV.

Indiscreet Prayer of Neleus, grandson of Nestor.

Of all the mortals who had been loved by the gods, none had been dearer to them than Nestor; they had poured upon him their most precious gifts, wisdom, profound knowledge of men, sweet and insinuating eloquence. All the Greeks listened to him with admiration; and, in extreme old age, he had absolute power over hearts and minds. The gods, before the end of his days, wanted to grant him another favor, which was to see the birth of a son of Peisistratus.

When he came into the world, Nestor took him on his knees, and raising his eyes to heaven: "O Pallas," said he, "you have fulfilled the measure of your good deeds; I have nothing more to wish for on earth, except that you fill with your spirit the child you showed me. You will add, I am sure, mighty goddess, this favor to all those I have received from you. I do not ask to see the time when my wishes will be granted; the earth has carried me too long; cut, daughter of Jupiter, the thread of my days."

Having spoken these words, a sweet sleep fell on his eyes, he was united with those of death; and, without effort, without pain, his soul left his body frozen and almost annihilated by three ages of man he had lived.

This grandson of Nestor was called Neleus. Nestor, to whom the memory of his father had always been dear, wanted him to bear that name. When Neleus was out of infancy, he went to make a sacrifice to Minerva, in a wood near the town of Pylos, which was consecrated to this goddess. After the victims, crowned with flowers, had had their throats slit, while those who had accompanied him were busy with the ceremonies which followed the immolation, while some were chopping wood, while others were drawing fire from the veins of the pebbles, that the victims were flayed, and that they were cut into several pieces, all being far from the altar, Neleus remained near.

Suddenly he heard the earth tremble; from the hollows of the trees issued frightful bellows; the altar seemed on fire, and on top of the flames appeared a woman with an air so majestic and so venerable, that Neleus was dazzled. Her figure was above the human form; her looks were more piercing than lightning; there was nothing soft or effeminate about her beauty: it was full of grace, and showed strength and vigor. Neleus, feeling the impression of the divinity, prostrated himself on the ground: all his limbs were shaken by a violent trembling; his blood froze in his veins; his tongue clung to his palate and could no longer utter a word: he remained bewildered, motionless and almost lifeless. Then Pallas gives him back the strength that had abandoned him.

"Fear nothing," said this goddess to him; "I descended from the top of Olympus to show you the same love that I made your ancestor Nestor feel: I put your happiness in your hands, I will grant all your wishes; but think carefully about what you must ask of me."

Then Neleus, recovering from his astonishment and charmed by the sweetness of the goddess's words, felt within him the same assurance as if he had only been before a mortal person. He was at the entrance of youth, at that age when the pleasures which one begins to feel occupy and carry away the whole soul; he had not yet known bitterness, an inseparable consequence of pleasures; he had not yet been instructed by experience.

"O goddess!" he exclaimed, "if I can always taste the sweetness of voluptuousness, all my wishes will be fulfilled."

The air of the goddess had previously been gay and open: at these words she took on a cold and serious air: "You only count," she told him, "what flatters the senses; well! you will be satiated with the pleasures your heart desires."

The goddess immediately disappeared. Neleus left the altar and went back to Pylos. He saw flowers under his feet springing up and blooming with such a delicious smell that men have never felt such a precious perfume. The country is embellished, and takes a form that charms the eyes of Neleus. The beauty of the Graces, companions of Venus, spread over all the women who appeared before him. Everything he drank became nectar, everything he ate became ambrosia: his soul was drowned in an ocean of pleasure. Voluptuousness seized Neleus's heart, he no longer lived except for her; he was now only occupied with one care, which was that the diversions would always follow one another, and that there would not be a single moment when his senses are not agreeably charmed.

The more pleasures he tasted, the more ardently he desired them. His mind softened and lost all its vigor; business became a horribly heavy weight to him; everything serious gave him mortal grief. He drove away from his sight the wise advisers who had been brought together by Nestor, and who were regarded as the most precious inheritance that this prince had left to his grandson. Reason, useful remonstrances, became the object of his strongest aversion, and he shuddered if anyone opened his mouth before him to give him wise advice.

He had a magnificent palace built, where only gold, silver, and marble gleamed, where everything was lavished to satisfy the eyes and elicit pleasure. The fruit of so much care to satisfy himself was boredom, anxiety. No sooner would he have what he wanted than he became disgusted with it: he had to change his residence often, run constantly from palace to palace, tear down and rebuild. The beautiful, the agreeable no longer touched him; he needed the singular, the bizarre, the extraordinary: everything that was natural and simple seemed to him insipid, and he fell into such numbness that he no longer lived, that he no longer felt except by shocks and jerks.

Pylos, the capital, changed face. They loved work there, they honored the gods; good faith reigned in commerce; everything was in order; and the people themselves found in the useful occupations which succeeded one another without overwhelming them, ease and peace. Unbridled luxury took the place of decency and real wealth: everything was lavished on vain amenities, sought-after conveniences. Houses, gardens, public buildings changed form, everything became singular; the great, the majestic, which were always simple, disappeared.

But what was even more annoying, the inhabitants, following the example of Neleus, only loved, esteemed, sought pleasure: it was pursued at the expense of innocence and virtue; they got agitated, they tormented themselves to seize a vain and fugitive shadow of happiness, and they lost their peace and tranquility; no one was happy, because they wanted to be too happy, because they didn't know how to suffer or expect anything. Agriculture and other useful arts had become almost degrading; it was those that softness had invented who were in honor, who led to wealth, and who were lavished with encouragement.

The treasures that Nestor and Pisistratus had amassed were soon dissipated; State revenues fell prey to thoughtlessness and greed. The people murmured, the great complained; the wise alone kept silence for some time; they finally spoke, and their respectful voice was heard by Neleus.

His eyes opened; his heart softened. He still had recourse to Minerva: he complained to the goddess of her ease in granting rash wishes; he conjured her to withdraw her perfidious gifts: he asked her for wisdom and justice.

"How blind I was!" he cried, "but I know my mistake, I detest the fault I have made, I want to repair it, and seek in the application of my duties, in the care of relieving my people, and in the innocence and purity of morals, the rest and happiness that I have vainly sought in the pleasures of the senses."

XXXV.

The Shepherd Cleobulus and the Girl Phidile.

A dreamy shepherd led his flock on the flowery banks of the Achelous River. The Fauns and the Satyrs, hidden in the neighboring groves, danced on the grass to the soft sounds of his flute. The Naiads, hidden in the waves of the river, raised their heads above the reeds to listen to his songs. Achelous himself, leaning on his urn, showed his forehead, where only one horn remained from his fight with the great Hercules, and this melody suspended for a little time the sorrows of this god.

The shepherd was little touched to see these Naiads who admired him: he thought only of the shepherdess Phidile, simple, naive, without any finery, to whom fortune never gave borrowed luster, and whom the Graces alone had adorned and embellished with their own hands. She left her village, thinking only of grazing her sheep. She alone was unaware of her beauty. All the other shepherdesses were jealous.

The shepherd loved her and dared not tell her. What he loved most about her was that simple and severe virtue which kept lovers away, and which constitutes the true charm of beauty. But the ingenious passion found the art of representing what one would not dare to say openly: he thus finished all his most pleasant songs, to start one which could touch the heart of this shepherdess. He knew she loved the virtue of heroes who gained glory in battle: he sang, under an assumed name, of his own adventures; for, at that time, even the heroes were shepherds, and did not despise the staff. So, he sang like this:

"When Polynices went to besiege the city of Thebes to overthrow his brother Eteocles from the throne, all the kings of Greece appeared under arms, and drove their chariots against the besieged. Adrastus, father-in-law of Polynices, slaughtered the troops of soldiers and the captains, like a reaper, with his sharp scythe, cuts the harvest. On the other hand, the divine Amphiaraus, who had foreseen his misfortune, advanced into the fray, and was suddenly engulfed by the earth, which opened its depths to precipitate him into the dark banks of the Styx. As he fell, he lamented his misfortune of having had an unfaithful wife. Quite near there, we saw the two brothers, sons of Oedipus, attacking each other furiously; like a leopard and a tiger tearing each other apart in the rocks of the Caucasus, they both rolled in the sand, each looking thirsty for his brother's blood.

"During this horrible spectacle, Cleobulus, who had followed Polynices, fought against a valiant Theban whom the god Mars rendered almost invincible. The Theban's arrow, led by the god, would have pierced the neck of Cleobulus, who promptly turned away. Immediately Cleobulus plunged his sting to the bottom of the entrails. The Theban's blood streamed, his eyes went out, his good looks and his pride left him: death erased his beautiful features. His young wife, from the top of a tower, saw him dying, and her heart was pierced with inconsolable pain. In his misfortune, I found him happy to have been loved and pitied: I would die like him with pleasure, provided that I could be loved in the same way. What use is the value and the glory of the most famous fights? What use is youth and beauty when you can neither please nor touch what you love?"

The shepherdess, who had listened to such a tender song, understood that this shepherd was Cleobulus, conqueror of the Theban. She became sensible to the glory he had acquired, to the graces that shone in him, and to the evils he suffered for her. She gave him her hand and her faith. A happy marriage joined them: soon their happiness was envied by the surrounding shepherds and rural deities. They equaled by their union, by their innocent life, by their rustic pleasures, even in extreme old age, the sweet destiny of Philemon and Baucis.

XXXVI.

The Adventures of Melesichthon.

Melesichthon, born at Megara, of an illustrious race among the Greeks, thought in his youth only of imitating in war the examples of his ancestors: he signaled his valor and his talents in several expeditions: and as he was inclined towards magnificence, he incurred tremendous expenses, which soon ruined him. He was forced to retire to a country house by the sea, where he lived in profound solitude with his wife Proxinoe. She had spirit, courage and pride. Her beauty and birth had made her sought after by much richer parties than Melesichthon; but she had preferred him to all the others, for his own merit.

These two people, who, by their virtue and their friendship, had made each other mutually happy for several years, then began to make each other mutually unhappy by the compassion they had for each other. Melesichthon would have borne his misfortunes more easily, if he could have suffered them alone, and without a person who was so dear to him. Proxinoe felt she was increasing Melesichthon's pains. They sought consolation with two children who seemed to have been formed by the Graces. The son was named Melibeus, and the daughter Poemenis.

Melibeus, at a tender age, was already beginning to show strength, skill and courage: he overcame the children of his neighborhood in wrestling, running and other exercises. He plunged into the forests, and his arrows struck blows no less sure than those of Apollo; he followed this god even more in the sciences and in the fine arts than in bodily exercises. Melesichthon, in his solitude, taught him everything that can cultivate and adorn the mind, everything that can make virtue love and regulate morals. Melibeus had a simple, gentle and ingenuous air, but noble, firm and bold. Whenever his father looked at him, Melesichthon's eyes would flood with tears.

Poemenis was instructed by her mother in all the fine arts that Minerva gave to humanity: she added to the most exquisite works the charms of a voice which she joined with a lyre more touching than that of Orpheus. To see her, one would have thought it was young Diana, who had come from the floating island where she was born. Her blond hair was tied casually behind her head; a few escapees floated on her neck in the winds. She only had on a light dress, with a belt that raised it up a little to make her more capable of movement. Without adornment, she effaced all that one could see that was most beautiful, and she did not know it: she had never even dreamed of looking at herself on the edge of the fountains; she only saw her family, and thought only of working.

But the father, overwhelmed with boredom, and no longer seeing any recourse in his affairs, sought only solitude. His wife and children only increased his torment. He often went to the shore of the sea, at the foot of a great rock full of savage caves: there he lamented his misfortunes; then he entered a deep valley, which a thick wood concealed from the rays of the sun in the middle of the day. He sat down on the grass which bordered a clear fountain, and all the saddest thoughts returned in droves to his heart. Sweet sleep was far from his eyes, he only spoke moaning; old age came before time to wither and wrinkle his face; he even forgot all the needs of life, and succumbed to his pain.

One day, as he was in this deep valley, he fell asleep from weariness and exhaustion: then he saw in a dream the goddess Ceres, crowned with golden wheatstalks, who presented herself to him with a gentle and majestic face.

"Why," she said to him, calling him by his name, "do you allow yourself to be beaten down by the rigors of fortune?"

"Alas," he replied, "my friends have abandoned me; I have no more property; I only have lawsuits and creditors left; my birth is the height of my misfortune, and I cannot bring myself to work like a slave to earn my living."

Then Ceres answered him: "Does nobility come from possessions? Doesn't it rather come from imitating the virtue of one's ancestors? There are no nobles except those who are just. Live on little: earn this little by your work; do not be a burden to anyone: you will be the noblest of all men. The human race makes itself miserable by its softness and its false glory. If you lack the necessary things, why do you want to owe them to anyone but yourself? Do you lack the courage to give them to yourself by a laborious life?"

After saying this, immediately she presented him with a golden street chariot with a cornucopia. Then Bacchus appeared crowned with ivy, and holding a thyrsus in his hand; he was followed by Pan, who played the flute, and made the Fauns and Satyrs dance. Pomona showed herself laden with fruit, and Flora adorned with the brightest and most fragrant flowers. All the rural deities cast a favorable glance on Melesichthon.

He awoke, understanding the force and the meaning of this divine dream; he felt comforted and full of taste for all the labors of rural life. He spoke of this dream to Proxinoe, who agreed with his feelings. The next day they dismissed their useless servants; one no longer saw among them people whose only employment was the service of their persons. They no longer had either chariot or driver.

Proxinoe with Poemenis spun while leading their sheep to graze; then they wove fabrics and tapestries; then they cut and sewed their own clothes and those of the rest of the family. Instead of the works of silk, gold, and silver which they had accustomed to make with the exquisite art of Minerva, they no longer exercised their fingers except on spindles or other similar works. They prepared with their own hands the vegetables they picked from their garden to feed the whole house. The milk from their herd, which they went to milk, completed the abundance. They didn't buy anything; everything was prepared quickly and effortlessly. Everything was good, simple, natural, seasoned by the inseparable appetite for sobriety and hard work.

In such a rural life, everything was neat and clean. All the tapestries were sold, but the walls of the house were white, and nothing dirty or disturbed could be seen anywhere; the furniture was never covered in dust; the beds were coarse, but clean. The kitchen itself had a cleanliness which is not found in large houses; everything was neat and shiny.

To treat the family on holidays, Proxinoe made excellent cakes. She had bees whose honey was sweeter than that which flowed from the trunks of hollow oaks during the golden age. The cows came of their own accord to offer streams of milk. This industrious woman had in her garden all the plants which can help to nourish man in every season; and she was always the first to have the fruits and vegetables of every season: she even had many flowers, part of which she sold, after having used the other to adorn her house. The daughter assisted her mother, and tasted no other pleasure than that of singing while working, or driving her sheep in the pastures. No other herd equaled hers: contagion and even wolves dared not approach it. As she sang, her tender lambs danced on the grass, and all the surrounding echoes seemed to take pleasure in repeating her songs.

Melesichthon himself plowed his field: he himself drove his plow, sowed and reaped: he found the work of agriculture less hard, more innocent and more useful than that of war. No sooner had he mowed the tender grass of his meadows than he hastened to collect the gifts of Ceres, which paid him a hundredfold for the grain sown. Soon Bacchus was pouring out for him a nectar worthy of the table of the gods. Minerva also gave him the fruit of her olive tree, which is so useful to man. Winter was the season of rest, when all the assembled family enjoyed innocent joy, and thanked the gods for being so disillusioned with false pleasures. They ate meat only in the sacrifices, and their flocks were only intended for the altars.

Melibeus showed almost none of the passions of youth: he drove large herds; he cut down great oaks in the forests; he dug little canals to water the meadows; he was tireless in relieving his father. His pleasures, when work was not in season, were hunting, racing with young people of his own age, and reading, for which his father had given him a taste.

Soon Melesichthon, accustoming himself to such a simple life, saw himself richer than he had been before. He had at home only the necessaries of life; but he had them all in abundance. He had almost no society except in his family. They all loved each other; they made each other mutually happy: they lived far from the palaces of kings, and from the pleasures that one buys so dearly: theirs were sweet, innocent, simple, easy to find, and without any dangerous consequences.

Melibeus and Poemenis were thus brought up with a taste for rural work. They remembered their birth only to have more courage in enduring poverty. The abundance returned to the whole house did not bring back ostentation: the whole family was always simple and industrious.

Everyone said to Melesichthon: "Riches are returning to you, it's time to take back your old brilliance."

Thus, he answered with these words: "To whom do you want me to attach myself, either to the splendor which had ruined me, or to a simple and laborious life which has made me rich and happy?"

Finally, finding himself one day in that dark wood where Ceres had instructed him by such a useful dream, he rested there on the grass with as much joy as there had been bitterness in the past. He fell asleep, and the goddess, appearing to him, as in his first dream, said these words to him: "True nobility consists in receiving nothing from anyone, and in doing good to others. Receive nothing, then, except from the fruitful womb of the earth and from your own work. Be careful never to leave, through softness or false glory, what is the natural and inexhaustible source of all good."

XXXVII.

The Adventures of Aristonous.

Sophronymus, having lost the estate of his ancestors by shipwrecks and other misfortunes, consoled himself with his virtue in the island of Delos. There he sang, on a golden lyre, the marvels of the god who is worshiped there; he cultivated the Muses by whom he was loved; he curiously researched all the secrets of nature, the course of the stars and the heavens, the order of the elements, the structure of the universe, which he measured with his compass, the virtue of plants and the conformation of animals; but above all he studied himself, and applied himself to adorning his soul by virtue. Thus fortune, by wishing to bring him down, had raised him to true glory, which is that of wisdom.

While living happily without possessions in this retreat, he saw one day, on the shore of the sea, a venerable old man who was unknown to him: he was a stranger who had just landed on the island. This old man admired the shores of the sea, in which he knew that this island had formerly been floating; he contemplated this coast, where rose above the sands and the rocks, small hills always covered with a budding and flowering grass; he could not look enough at the pure fountains and the rapid streams which watered this delicious countryside; he advanced towards the sacred groves which surround the temple of the god; he was astonished to see this greenery which the north winds never dare to tarnish, and he was already gazing at the temple, of Parian marble whiter than snow, surrounded by tall columns of jasper.

Sophronymus was no less attentive in considering this old man: his white beard fell over his chest; there was nothing deformed about his wrinkled face: he was still free from the insults of a decrepit old age: his eyes showed a gentle vivacity; his figure was tall and majestic, but a little bent, and an ivory staff supported him.

"O stranger," said Sophronymus to him, "what are you looking for in this island, which seems to be unknown to you? If it is the temple of God, you see it from afar, and I offer to lead you there; for I fear the Gods, and I have learned what Jupiter wants us to do to help strangers."

"I accept," replied the old man, "the offer you make to me with so many marks of kindness; I pray to the gods to reward your love for strangers. Let's go to the temple."

Along the way, he told Sophronymus the subject of his journey: "My name," he said, "is Aristonous, a native of Clazomenae, a city of Ionia, situated on that pleasant coast which juts out into the sea, and seems to join the island of Chios, fortunate homeland of Homer. I was born of poor, though noble, parents. My father, named Polystratus, who was already responsible for a large family, did not want to bring me up; he had me exposed by one of his friends from Teos. An old woman from Eritrea, who had property near the place where I was exposed, fed me goat's milk in her house: but, as she had barely enough to live on, as soon as I was old enough to serve, she sold me to a slave trader who took me to Lycia. He sold me at Patara to a rich and virtuous man named Alcinus; this Alcinus took care of me in my youth.

"I appeared to him to be docile, moderate, sincere, affectionate, and diligent in all honest things about which they wanted to instruct me; he devoted me to the arts that Apollo favors: he made me learn music, body exercises, and above all the art of healing men's wounds. I soon acquired quite a reputation in this art, which is so necessary; and Apollo, who inspired me, revealed marvelous secrets to me.

"Alcinus, who loved me more and more, and who was delighted to see the success of his care for me, freed me, and sent me to Damocles, king of Lycaonia, who, living in delights, loved life and feared losing it. This king, in order to retain me, gave me great wealth. A few months later, Damocles died. His son, irritated against me by flatterers, served to disgust me with all things that have luster.

"At last, I felt a strong desire to see Lycia again, where I had spent my childhood so peacefully. I hoped to find there Alcinus, who had raised me, and who was the first author of all my fortune. On arriving in this country, I learned that Alcinus had died after having lost all his possessions and suffered with great constancy the misfortunes of old age.

"I went to scatter flowers and tears on his ashes; I put an honorable inscription on his tomb, and I asked what had become of his children. I am told that the only one who remained, named Orcilochus, unable to bring himself to appear without property in his homeland, where his father had had so much splendor, had embarked on a foreign vessel, to go and lead an obscure life in some remote island of the sea. I was told that this Orcilochus had been shipwrecked, a short time later, towards the island of Carpathos, and that thus there remained nothing any more of the family of my benefactor Alcinus.

"Immediately I thought of buying the house where he had lived along with the fertile fields he had around. I was very glad to see these places again, which reminded me of the sweet memory of such a pleasant age and such a good master: it seemed to me that I was still in the flower of my first years when I had served Alcinus. No sooner had I bought the property of his estate from his creditors than I was obliged to go to Clazomenae: my father Polystratus and my mother Phidile were dead.

"I had two brothers who lived badly together; as soon as I arrived at Clazomenae, I presented myself to them in a simple dress, like a man deprived of means, showing them the marks, which indicate children who have been exposed. They were astonished to see an increase in the number of the heirs of Polystratus, who were to share his small succession; they even wanted to contest my birth, and they refused to recognize me before the judges. Then, to punish their inhumanity, I declared that I consented to be a stranger to them; and I asked that they also be excluded forever from being my heirs. The judges ordered it, and then I showed the riches which I had brought into my vessel; I discovered to them that I was that Aristonous who had acquired so many treasures from Damocles, king of Lycaonia, and that I had never married.

"My brothers repented of having treated me so unjustly, and in the desire to be able to be my heirs one day, they made the last efforts, but in vain, to insinuate themselves into my friendship. Their division caused our father's goods to be sold: I bought them, and they had the pain of seeing all our father's goods pass into the hands of him to whom they had not wanted to give the least part; so, they all fell into terrible poverty.

"But, after they had felt their fault enough, I wanted to show them my good nature: I forgave them, I received them in my house, I gave them each the means to earn well in the sea trade: I brought all together; they and their children lived together peacefully at my house, I became the common father of all these different families. By their union and their application to work, they soon amassed considerable wealth.

"However old age, as you see, has come knocking at my door: it has whitened my hair and wrinkled my face; it warns me that I shall not long enjoy such perfect prosperity. Before dying, I wanted to see one last time this land which is so dear to me, and which touches me more than my own homeland, this Lycia where I learned to be good and wise under the guidance of the virtuous Alcinus.

"Passing there again by sea, I found a merchant from the Cyclades islands, who assured me that there still remained in Delos a son of Orcilochus, who imitated the wisdom and virtue of his grandfather Alcinus. Immediately I left the road to Lycia, and I hastened to come and seek, under the auspices of Apollo, on his island, this precious remains of a family to whom I owe everything.

"I have little time left to live: the Fate, enemy of this sweet rest which the gods so rarely grant to mortals, will hasten to cut my days; but I shall be glad to die, provided my eyes, before closing to the light, have seen my master's grandson. Speak now, O you who dwell with him in this island: do you know him? can you tell me where I will find him? If you show him to me, may the gods, as a reward, show you, on your knees, the children of your children up to the fifth generation! may the gods preserve all your house in peace and abundance, for the fruit of your virtue!"

While Aristonous spoke thus, Sophronymus shed tears mingled with joy and pain. Finally, he threw himself, without being able to speak, on the old man's neck; he kissed him, he hugged him, and he uttered with difficulty these words interspersed with sighs: "I am, O my father, the one you are looking for: you see Sophronymus, grandson of your friend Alcinus: it is I; and I cannot doubt, listening to you, that the gods have sent you here to alleviate my ills. Gratitude, which seemed lost on earth, is found in you alone. I had heard, in my childhood, that a famous and rich man, established in Lycaonia, had been nursed at my grandfather's; but as Orcilochus, my father, who died young, left me in the cradle, I only knew these things vaguely. I did not dare to go to Lycaonia in uncertainty, and I preferred to remain on this island, consoling myself in my misfortunes by contempt for vain riches, and by the sweet employment of cultivating the Muses in the sacred house of Apollo. Wisdom, which accustoms men to do without little and to be quiet, has hitherto taken the place of all other goods."

Finishing these words, Sophronymus, seeing himself arrived at the temple, proposed to Aristonous to make his prayers and his offerings there. They made a sacrifice to the god of two sheep whiter than snow, and of a bull which had a crescent on its forehead between the two horns; then they sang verses in honor of the god who enlightens the universe, who regulates the seasons, who presides over the sciences and who animates the chorus of the nine Muses. Coming out of the temple, Sophronymus and Aristonous spent the rest of the day recounting their adventures. Sophronymus received the old man at his home with the tenderness and respect he would have shown even Alcinus, if he had still been alive.

The next day they set out together, and sailed to Lycia. Aristonous led Sophronymus into a fertile countryside, on the banks of the river Xanthus, in whose waves Apollo, on his return from the hunt, covered with dust, had so many times immersed his body and washed his beautiful fair hair. Along this river they found poplars and willows, whose tender and budding greenery hid the nests of an infinite number of birds which sang night and day. The river, falling from a rock with much noise and foam, broke its waves in a channel full of small pebbles: the whole plain was covered with golden harvests; the hills which rose like an amphitheater were laden with vines and fruit trees. There all nature was smiling and graceful, the sky was soft and serene, and the earth always ready to draw new riches from its bosom to pay the pains of the laborer.

Walking along the river, Sophronymus saw a simple, ordinary house; but of a pleasant architecture, with fair proportions. He found there neither marble, nor gold, nor silver, nor ivory, nor purple furniture: everything was clean and full of charm and convenience, without magnificence. A fountain flowed in the middle of the courtyard, and formed a small channel along a green carpet. The gardens were not vast; there one saw fruit and useful plants to eat: on the two sides of the garden appeared two groves, whose trees were almost as old as the ground their mother, and whose thick branches made an impenetrable shade with the rays of the sun.

They entered a drawing-room, where they made a sweet meal of the dishes that nature furnished in the gardens, and one saw there nothing of what the delicacy of men fetches so far and so dearly in the cities; it was milk as sweet as that which Apollo had the care of milking, while he was a shepherd with King Admetus; it was more exquisite honey than that of the bees of Hybla in Sicily, or of Mount Hymettus in Attica: there were vegetables from the garden, and fruits which had just been picked. A wine more delicious than nectar flowed from great vases into chiseled cups.

During this frugal but sweet and tranquil meal, Aristonous refused to sit down to table. At first, he did what he could, under various pretexts, to hide his modesty: but finally, as Sophronymus wanted to urge him, he declared that he would never bring himself to eat with the grandson of Alcinus, whom he had served so long in the same room.

"That," he said to him, "is where the wise old man used to eat; this is where he conversed with his friends; that's where he played various games; here is where he walked while reading Hesiod or Homer; this is where he rested at night." Recalling these circumstances, his heart softened, and tears flowed from his eyes.

After the meal, he took Sophronymus to see the beautiful meadow where his great bellowing herds roamed, on the edge of the river; then they saw the herds of sheep returning from the rich pastures, the bleating mothers full of milk were followed by their leaping little lambs. Everywhere one saw zealous workmen, who conducted the work for the interest of their gentle and humane master, who made himself loved by them, and softened the pains of slavery for them.

Aristonous, having shown Sophronymus this house, these slaves, these herds, and these lands become so fertile by careful cultivation, said to him these words: "I am delighted to see you in the ancient patrimony of your ancestors: I am happy, since I put you in possession of the place where I served Alcinus for so long. Enjoy in peace what was his; live happily, and prepare yourself without doubt, by your vigilance, for a sweeter end than his."

At the same time, he made him a donation of this property, with all the solemnities prescribed by the laws; and he declared that he would exclude from his succession his natural heirs if ever should they be ungrateful enough to contest the donation he had made to the grandson of Alcinus, his benefactor. But that was not enough to satisfy Aristonous's heart. Before giving away his house, he adorned it entirely with new furniture, simple and modest indeed, but clean and agreeable; he filled the attics with rich presents from Ceres, and the cellars with a wine from Chios, worthy of being served by the hand of Hebe or Ganymede at the table of the great Jupiter; he also put there Pramnian wine with an abundant supply of honey from Hymettus and Hybla, and oil from Attica, almost as sweet as honey itself. Finally, he added innumerable fleeces of fine wool, white as snow, the rich skin of the tender sheep which grazed on the mountains of Arcadia and in the rich pastures of Sicily.

It was in this state that he gave his house to Sophronymus: he gave him another fifty Euboean talents, and reserved for his parents the estates he possessed in the peninsula of Clazomenae, around Smyrna, Lebedus and Colophon, which were very valuable. The donation being made, Aristonous re-embarked in his vessel, to return to Ionia. Sophronymus, astonished and touched by such magnificent benefits, accompanies him to the ship with tears in his eyes, always calling him his father and hugging him. Aristonous arrived home very early by a happy navigation: none of his relatives dared to complain about what he had just given to Sophronymus.

"I left," he said to them, "for my last will and testament, this order, that all my goods will be sold and distributed to the poor of Ionia, if ever any of you oppose the gift I have just made to the grandson of Alcinus."

The wise old man lived in peace, and enjoyed the blessings that the gods had granted to his virtue. Every year, in spite of his old age, he made a journey to Lycia, to see Sophronymus again, and to go and make a sacrifice on the tomb of Alcinus, which he had enriched with the most beautiful ornaments of architecture and sculpture. He had ordered that his own ashes, after his death, should be carried into the same tomb, to rest with those of his dear master.

Every year, in the spring, Sophronymus, impatient to see him again, had his eyes constantly turned towards the shore of the sea, to try to discover the ship of Aristonous, which arrived in that season. Each year, he had the pleasure of seeing coming from afar, through the bitter waves, this ship which was so dear to him; and the arrival of this vessel was infinitely sweeter to him than all the graces of nature reviving in the spring, after the rigors of the dreadful winter.

One year, he did not see coming, like the others, this vessel so much desired; he sighed bitterly; sadness and fear were painted on his face; sweet sleep fled far from his eyes; no exquisite dish seemed sweet to him: he was uneasy, alarmed at the slightest noise; always turned towards the port, he constantly asked if some ship from Ionia had been seen. He saw one; but alas! Aristonous was not there, it only carried his ashes in a silver urn. Amphicles, a former friend of the deceased, and of about the same age, faithful executor of his last wishes, sadly brought this urn. When he approached Sophronymus, they both failed to speak, and they spoke only through their sobs.

Sophronymus, having kissed the urn, and having sprinkled it with his tears, spoke thus: "O old man, you have made my life happy, and you now cause me the cruelest of all pains: I will see you no more, death would be sweet to me to see you, and to follow you into the Elysian Fields, where your shadow enjoys the blessed peace that the just gods reserve for virtue. You have brought justice, piety and gratitude to the earth in our days: you have shown in an age of iron the goodness and innocence of the golden age. The gods, before crowning you in the abode of the just, granted you here below a happy, agreeable and long old age: but, alas! what should last forever is never long enough. I no longer feel any pleasure in enjoying your gifts, since I am reduced to enjoying them without you. O dear shadow! when will I follow you? Precious ashes, if you can still feel something, you will no doubt feel the pleasure of being mingled with Alcinus's. Mine will also join in one day. In the meantime, all my consolation will be to keep these remains of what I loved most. O Aristonous! O Aristonous! no, you will not die, and you will always live in the bottom of my heart. Rather forget myself than ever forget this amiable man, who loved me so much, who loved virtue so much, to whom I owe everything."

After these words, interspersed with deep sighs, Sophronymus placed the urn in the tomb of Alcinus: he immolated several victims, whose blood flooded the turf altars which surrounded the tomb: he poured out abundant libations of wine and milk; he burned perfumes from the depths of the Orient, and there arose an odoriferous cloud in the midst of the air. Sophronymus established forever, for all the years, in the same season, funeral games in honor of Alcinus and Aristonous.

People came there from Caria, a happy and fertile country; of the enchanted banks of the Meander, which is played by so many detours, and which seems to leave with regret the country which it waters; from the evergreen shores of the Cayster, from the edges of the Pactolus, which rolls under its waves a golden sand; of Pamphylia, which Ceres, Pomona and Flora adorn at will; lastly, the vast plains of Cilicia, watered like a garden by the torrents which fall from Mount Taurus, always covered with snow. During this solemn feast, young boys and girls, dressed in trailing linen robes whiter than lilies, sang hymns in praise of Alcinus and Aristonous, for one could not praise one without praising also the other, nor separate two men so closely united, even after their death.

What was most marvelous was that, from the first day, while Sophronymus was making the libations of wine and milk, a myrtle of greenery and an exquisite smell was born in the middle of the tomb, and suddenly raised his bushy head to cover the two urns with his boughs and his shade: everyone exclaimed that Aristonous, as a reward for his virtue, had been changed by the gods into such a beautiful tree. Sophronymus took care to water it himself, and to honor it as a divinity.

This tree, far from aging, renewed itself decade after decade, and the gods wanted to show, by this marvel, that virtue, which throws such a sweet perfume into the memory of men, never dies.

Instead of what is said here of Damocles, we read, in all the editions prior to that of 1718, the following episode, which we thought we should keep. Fénelon deleted it, probably because he found it too long in relation to the plan of the entire piece.

"Alcinus, who loved me more and more, and who was delighted to see the success of his care for me, freed me and sent me to Polycrates, tyrant of Samos, who, in his incredible happiness, always feared that the fortune, after having flattered him for so long, would betray him cruelly. He loved life, which for him was full of delights; he was afraid of losing it, and wanted to prevent the slightest appearance of evil: thus, he was always surrounded by the most famous men in medicine.

"Polycrates was delighted that I wanted to spend my life with him. To attach me to him, he gave me great riches, and loaded me with honors. I lived a long time in Samos, where I could not be sufficiently surprised to see a man whom fortune seemed to take pleasure in serving according to all his wishes. All he had to do was start a war, victory would follow soon after; he had only to want the most difficult things, they were done first as if by themselves. His immense wealth multiplied every day; all his enemies were cast down at his feet; his health, far from diminishing, became stronger and more even. For forty years already this tyrant, tranquil and happy, had held fortune as if in chains, without her ever daring to contradict herself in any way, nor cause him the slightest disappointment in all his designs.

"A prosperity so unheard of among men frightened me for him. I loved him sincerely, and I could not help revealing my fear to him: this made an impression on his heart; for, although he was softened by delights, and proud of his power, he did not fail to have some feelings of humanity, when he was reminded of the gods and the inconstancy of human things. He suffered me to tell him the truth, and he was so touched by my fear for him, that at last he resolved to interrupt the course of his prosperity by a loss which he wished to prepare for himself.

" 'I can well see,' he said to me, 'that there is no man in his life who must not experience some disgrace from fortune: the more one has been spared from it, the more one has to fear some dreadful revolution. I, whom she has showered with blessings for so many years, must expect extreme evils from her, if I do not divert what seems to threaten me. I therefore want to hasten to prevent the betrayals of this flattering fortune.'

"Saying these words, he took from his finger his ring, which was very expensive, and which he loved very much; he threw it, in my presence, from the top of a tower into the sea, and hoped, by this loss, to have satisfied the necessity of undergoing, at least once in his life, the rigors of fortune. But it was a blindness caused by his prosperity. The evils that we choose and cause ourselves are no longer evils; we are only afflicted by the forced and unforeseen pains with which the gods strike us. Polycrates did not know that the real way to prevent fortune was to detach oneself by wisdom and moderation from all the fragile goods that it gives.

"The fortune to which he wanted to sacrifice his ring, did not accept this sacrifice; and Polycrates, in spite of himself, seemed happier than ever. A fish had swallowed the ring; the fish had been caught, brought to Polycrates, prepared to be served at his table, and the ring, found by a cook in the belly of the fish, was returned to the tyrant, who turned pale at the sight of such a stubborn fortune at favor. But the time was approaching when his prosperity was to change suddenly into dreadful adversity. The great king of Persia, Darius, son of Hystaspes, began the war against the Greeks. He soon subjugated all the Greek colonies on the coast of Asia and the neighboring islands, which are in the Aegean Sea. Samos was taken; the tyrant was vanquished, and Orontes, who commanded for the great king, having erected a high cross, had the tyrant attached to it. Thus, this man, who had enjoyed such great prosperity, and who had not even been able to experience the misfortune he had sought, suddenly perished by the most cruel and infamous of all tortures. Thus, nothing threatens men so much with some great misfortune as too much prosperity.

"This fortune, which cruelly plays with the highest men, also raises from the dust those who were the most unfortunate. She had thrown Polycrates off the top of the wheel, and she had brought me out of the most miserable of all conditions, to give me great blessings. The Persians did not take them from me; on the contrary, they made a great deal of my skill in curing men, and the moderation with which I had lived while in favor with the tyrant. Those who had abused his confidence and his authority were punished with various tortures. As I had never harmed anyone, and had on the contrary done all the good that I could have done, I remained the only one whom the victors spared, and whom they treated honorably. Everyone rejoiced, for I was loved, and had enjoyed prosperity without envy, because I had never shown harshness, pride, greed, or injustice. I spent a few more years quite quietly in Samos; but at last, I felt a strong desire to see Lycia again, where I had spent my childhood so peacefully."

XXXVIII.

The Erratic.

What fatal thing has happened to Melanthus? Nothing outside, everything inside. His business is going well: everyone tries to please him. What? it's that his spleen smokes. He went to bed yesterday the delight of the human race: this morning, all are ashamed for him, all must hide him. Getting up, the fold of a slipper displeased him: the whole day will be stormy, and everyone will suffer.

He is frightening, he is pitiful: he cries like a child, he roars like a lion. A malignant and fierce vapor disturbs and blackens his imagination, as the ink from his writing-desk smears his fingers. Don't go and talk to him about the things he loved best just a moment ago: because he loved them, he can no longer bear them. The parties of entertainment which he has so desired become boring to him, they must be interrupted. He seeks to contradict, to complain, to sting others; he is irritated to see that they do not want to be angry.

Often, he carries his blows in the air, like a furious bull, which with its sharp horns goes to fight against the winds. When he lacks a pretext to attack others, he turns against himself: he blames himself, he finds himself good for nothing; he becomes discouraged, he finds it very bad that people want to console him. He wants to be alone, and cannot stand loneliness.

He returns to the company, and sours on it. They are silent: this silence affects the shock. They speak softly: he imagines that it is against him. They talk aloud: he finds that they talk too much, and are too cheerful while he is sad. One is sad: this sadness seems to him a reproach for his faults. They laugh: he suspects that they are making fun of him.

What to do? To be as firm and as patient as he is unbearable, and to wait in peace for him to become again tomorrow as wise as he was yesterday. This strange mood goes as it comes. When he takes it on, it looks like a machine spring that suddenly comes apart; he is as the possessed are portrayed; his reason is as if upside down; it is unreason itself in person. Push him, you will make him say in broad daylight that it is night: for there is no longer day or night for a head dismantled by his whim.

Sometimes he cannot help being astonished by his excesses and his ardor. Despite his grief, he smiles at the extravagant words that escaped him. But what means of foreseeing these storms, and of warding off the tempest? There are none, no good almanacs to predict this bad weather.

Be careful not to say: "Tomorrow we will go and amuse ourselves in such a garden;" the man of today will not be that of tomorrow; he who promises you now will soon disappear: you will no longer know where to take him to remind him of his word; in its place, you will find I know not what, which has neither form nor name, which cannot have one, and which you cannot define two consecutive instants in the same way. Study it well, then say whatever you please: it won't be true the moment after you say it.

This I know not what wants and does not want; he threatens, he trembles; he mixes ridiculous heights with unworthy baseness. He cries, he laughs, he jokes, he is furious. In his most bizarre and insane fury, he is pleasant, eloquent, subtle, full of new tricks, although not even a shadow of reason remains.

Take great care not to say anything to him that is not just, precise and exactly reasonable: he would know how to take advantage of it, and deftly deceive you; he would first pass from his fault to yours, and would become reasonable for the sole pleasure of convincing you that you are not. It is a nothing that made him soar to the skies: but what has become of this nothing? he got lost in the melee; it is no longer a question of it: he no longer knows what made him angry, he only knows that he is angry and that he wants to be angry; even then he does not always know it.

He often imagines that everyone who speaks to him is carried away, and that it is he who moderates himself, like a man who has jaundice thinks that everyone he sees is yellow, although the yellow is only in both his eyes. But perhaps he will spare certain people to whom he owes more than to others, or whom he seems to love more? No, his oddity favors no one: he takes everything he finds without choice; the first comer is good for him to relieve himself: everything is the same to him, provided he gets angry; he would say insults to everyone. He no longer loves people, he is not loved by them; they persecute him, they betray him; he owes nothing to anyone.

But wait a moment, here's another scene. He needs everyone; he loves them, they love him too; he flatters, he insinuates himself, he bewitches all those who could no longer bear it; he admits his wrong, he laughs at his quirks, he counterfeits himself: and you'd think he's himself in his outbursts, he counterfeits himself so well. After this comedy, played at his own expense, you can well believe that at least he won't play the demonic anymore. Alas! you are mistaken: he will do it again this evening, to make fun of it tomorrow, without correcting himself.