pflafsav

LE SAVETIER ET LE FINANCIER - VIII.2	THE COBBLER AND THE BANKER
Jean de la Fontaine	trans. Gordon Pirie
Un savetier chantait du matin jusqu'au soir: C'était merveilles de le voir, Merveilles de l'ouïr; il faisait des passages, Plus content qu'aucun des sept sages. Son voisin au contraire, étant tout cousu d'or, Chantait peu, dormait moins encor. C'était un homme de finance. Si sur le point du jour parfois il sommeillait, Le savetier alors en chantant l'éveillait, Et le financier se plaignait Que les soins de la Providence N’eussent pas au marché fait vendre le dormir Comme le manger et le boire. En son hôtel il fait venir Le chanteur et lui dit: "Or çà, sire Grégoire, Que gagnez-vous par an?" - "Par an? Ma foi, Monsieur," Dit avec un ton de rieur Le gaillard savetier, "ce n'est point ma manière De compter de la sorte, et je n'entasse guère Un jour sur l'autre: il suffit qu'à la fin J’attrape le bout de l'année. Chaque jour amène son pain." - "Eh bien ! que gagnez-vous," dites-moi, "par journée?" "Tantôt plus, tantôt moins: le mal est que toujours (Et sans cela nos gains seraient assez honnêtes), Le mal est que dans l'an s'entremêlent des jours Qu’il faut chômer: on nous ruine en fêtes. L’une fait tort à l'autre, et monsieur le curé De quelque nouveau saint charge toujours son prône." Le financier, riant de sa naïveté, Lui dit: "Je vous veux mettre aujourd'hui sur le trône. Prenez ces cent écus: gardez-les avec soin, Pour vous en servir au besoin." Le savetier crut voir tout l'argent que la terre Avait depuis plus de cent ans Produit pour l'usage des gens. Il retourne chez lui; dans sa cave il enserre L’argent et sa joie à la fois. Plus de chant; il perdit la voix Du moment qu'il gagna ce qui cause nos peines. Le sommeil quitta son logis, Il eut pour hôtes les soucis, Les soupçons, les alarmes vaines. Tour le jour il avait l'oeil au guet; et la nuit, Si quelque chat faisait du bruit, Le chat prenait l'argent. À la fin le pauvre homme S’en courut chez celui qu'il ne réveillait plus. "Rendez-moi," lui dit-il, "mes chansons et mon somme, Et reprenez vos cent écus."	A cobbler, at his last, sang all day long, And when you heard the notes hatch in his throat, Fly from his tongue like birds, and float Or flutter in the air, "Here was a man," you felt, "untouched by care." His neighbour, on the other hand, was rarely moved to song. He was a banker, with a flair For making money; and financial speculations, Having engrossed him through the day, Would often haunt him as he lay In bed, tossing and turning half the night, A prey to sums and calculations. And if, when it was getting light, Sometimes he fell into a doze, The cobbler’s early song would wake him up again. And then the banker would complain: Why hadn’t Providence disposed For sleep to be on sale at market, bought And sold like meat and drink? He had the cobbler brought Before him. "Now, my man, I’m curious to know How much a year, your cobbling work brings in." The cobbler stared, then gave a grin: "A year? God bless you, sir, I’ve no Idea. You see, it’s not my way To make that sort of reckoning. If I can live from day to day And make ends meet, that’s good enough for me." "Then tell me what you earn a day." "That all depends, sir. Trouble is, you see, There’s all these feast days in the year When we must go to church to hear The parson talk about a saint. They’re always cropping up! That puts a stop To work, and makes me shut up shop." Amused at this naïve complaint, The banker thought he’d make a trial Of the other’s sunny disposition, And said: "Now, my dear fellow, listen Carefully. You see that pile Of fifty crowns upon the table? Well, They’re yours! You take them home and keep Them safe, and use them when you’re short. But I advise you not to tell Your neighbours." When he saw the heap Of shining coins, the cobbler thought That here was gold enough to stock The coffers of a king. He put his treasure under lock And key - and from that day forgot to sing; For there and then his joy was spent. Farewell tranquillity! Farewell content! And sleep, that welcome guest Who every night had blest His pillow, came no more; But cares and vain alarms besieged his door, And put an end to every pleasure. All day he must be on the watch; And if, at night, he heard the scratch Of rat or mouse about the house, Then surely they were at his treasure! In desperation he went back to see The man he woke no longer with his song. "Here are your fifty crowns," said he "I’ve found them very wearisome to keep. Please take them back where they belong; I’d rather have my music and my sleep."