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Page 5
IV
THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE
(BOOK I.--No. 11)
Once there was a man who loved himself very much, and who permitted
himself no rivals in that love. He thought his face and figure the
handsomest in all the world. Anything in the shape of a mirror that
could show him his own likeness he took care to avoid; for he did not
want to be reminded that perhaps he was over-rating his beauty. For this
reason he hated looking-glasses and accused them of being false. He made
a very great mistake in this respect; but that he did not mind, being
quite content to live in the happiness the mistake afforded him.
To cure him of so grievous an error, officious Fate managed matters in
such a way that wherever he turned his eyes they would fall on one of
those mute little counsellors that ladies carry and appeal to when they
are anxious about their appearance. He found mirrors in the houses;
mirrors in the shops; mirrors in the pockets of gallants; mirrors even
as ornaments on waist-belts of ladies.
What was he to do--this poor Narcissus? He thought to avoid all such
things by going far away from haunts of mankind, where he should never
have to face a mirror again. But in the woods to which he retreated a
clear rivulet ran. Into this he happened to look and--saw himself again.
Angrily he told himself that his eyes had been deluded by an idle fancy.
Henceforth he would keep away from the water! This he tried his utmost
to do; but who can resist the beauty of a woodland stream? There he was
and remained, always with that which he had determined to shun.
My meaning is easily seen. It applies to everybody; for everybody takes
some joy in harbouring this very error. The man in love with himself
stands for the soul of each one of us. All the mirrors wherein he saw
himself reflected stand for the faults of other people, in which we
really see our own faults though we hate to recognise them as such. As
for the brook, that, as every one knows, stands for the book of maxims
which the Duke de la Rochefoucauld[1] wrote.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: This fable was dedicated to the Duke de la Rochefoucauld.]
V
THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE
(BOOK VII.--No. 1)
One of those dread evils which spread terror far and wide, and which
Heaven, in its anger, ordains for the punishment of wickedness upon
earth--a plague in fact; and so dire a one as to make rich in one day
that grim ferryman who takes a coin from all who cross the river Acheron
to the land of the dead--such a plague was once waging war against the
animals. All were attacked, although all did not die. So hopeless was
the case that not one of them attempted to sustain their sinking lives.
Even the sight of food did not rouse them. Wolves and foxes no longer
turned eager and calculating eyes upon their gentle and guileless prey.
The turtle-doves went no more in cooing pairs, but were content to avoid
each other. Love and the joy that comes of love were both at an end.
At length the lion called a council of all the beasts and addressed them
in these words: "My dear friends, it seems to me that it is for our sins
that Heaven has permitted this misfortune to fall upon us. Would it not
be well if the most blameworthy among us allowed himself to be offered
as a sacrifice to appease the celestial wrath? By so doing he might
secure our recovery. History tells us that this course is usually
pursued in such cases as ours. Let us look into our consciences without
self-deception or condoning. For my own part, I freely admit that in
order to satisfy my gluttony I have devoured an appalling number of
sheep; and yet what had they done to me to deserve such a fate? Nothing
that could be called an offence. Sometimes, indeed, I have gone so far
as to eat the shepherd too! On the whole, I think I had better render
myself for this act of sacrifice; that is, if we agree that it is a
thing necessary to the general good. And yet I think it would be only
fair that every one should declare his sins as well as I; for I could
wish that, in justice, it were the most culpable that should perish."
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