Le Curé et le Mort

 

Un mort s'en allait tristement
S'emparer de son dernier gîte ;
Un Curé s'en allait gaiement
Enterrer ce mort au plus vite.
Notre défunt était en carrosse porté,
Bien et dûment empaqueté,
Et vêtu d'une robe, hélas ! qu'on nomme bière,
Robe d'hiver, robe d'été,
Que les morts ne dépouillent guère.
Le Pasteur était à côté,
Et récitait à l'ordinaire
Maintes dévotes oraisons,
Et des psaumes et des leçons,
Et des versets et des répons :
Monsieur le Mort, laissez-nous faire,
On vous en donnera de toutes les façons ;
Il ne s'agit que du salaire.
Messire Jean Chouart couvait des yeux son mort,
Comme si l'on eût dû lui ravir ce trésor,
Et des regards semblait lui dire :
Monsieur le Mort, j'aurai de vous
Tant en argent, et tant en cire,
Et tant en autres menus coûts.
Il fondait là-dessus l'achat d'une feuillette
Du meilleur vin des environs ;
Certaine nièce assez propette
Et sa chambrière Pâquette
Devaient voir des cotillons.
Sur cette agréable pensée
Un heurt survient, adieu le char.
Voilà Messire Jean Chouart
Qui du choc de son mort a la tête cassée :
Le Paroissien en plomb entraîne son Pasteur ;
Notre Curé suit son Seigneur ;
Tous deux s'en vont de compagnie.
Proprement toute notre vie ;
Est le curé Chouart, qui sur son mort comptait,
Et la fable du Pot au lait.

 

The Curate and the Corpse. (15)

 

A dead man going slowly, sadly,
To occupy his last abode,
A curate by him, rather gladly,
Did holy service on the road.
Within a coach the dead was borne,
A robe around him duly worn,
Of which I wot he was not proud--
That ghostly garment call'd a shroud.
In summer's blaze and winter's blast,
That robe is changeless--'tis the last.
The curate, with his priestly dress on,
Recited all the church's prayers,
The psalm, the verse, response, and lesson,
In fullest style of such affairs.
Sir Corpse, we beg you, do not fear
A lack of such things on your bier;
They'll give abundance every way,
Provided only that you pay.
The Reverend John Cabbagepate
Watch'd o'er the corpse as if it were
A treasure needing guardian care;
And all the while, his looks elate,
This language seem'd to hold:
'The dead will pay so much in gold,
So much in lights of molten wax,
So much in other sorts of tax:'
With all he hoped to buy a cask of wine,
The best which thereabouts produced the vine.
A pretty niece, on whom he doted,
And eke his chambermaid, should be promoted,
By being newly petticoated.
The coach upset, and dash'd to pieces,
Cut short these thoughts of wine and nieces!
There lay poor John with broken head,
Beneath the coffin of the dead!
His rich, parishioner in lead
Drew on the priest the doom
Of riding with him to the tomb!

The Pot of Milk,[16] and fate
Of Curate Cabbagepate,
As emblems, do but give
The history of most that live.

[15] This fable is founded upon a fact, which is related by Madame de in her _Letters_ under date Feb. 26, 1672, as follows:--"M. Boufflers has killed a man since his death: the circumstance was this: they were carrying him about a league from Boufflers to inter him; the corpse was on a bier in a coach; his own curate attended it; the coach overset, and the bier falling upon the curate's neck choaked him." M. de Boufflers had fallen down dead a few days before. He was the eldest brother of the Duke de Boufflers.
In another _Letter_, March 3, 1672, Madame de says:--"Here is Fontaine's fable too, on the adventure of M. de Boufflers' curate, who was killed in the coach by his dead patron.
There was something very extraordinary in the affair itself: the fable is pretty; but not to be compared to the one that follows it: I do not understand the Milk-pot."
[16] This allusion to the preceding fable must be the "milk-pot" which Madame de did "not understand" (_vide_ last note); Madame can hardly have meant the "milk-pot" fable, which is easily understood. She often saw La Fontaine's work before it was published, and the date of her letter quoted at p. 161 shows that she must so have seen the "Curate and the Corpse," and that, perhaps, without so seeing the "Dairywoman and the Pot of Milk."

Il Curato e il Morto.

 

Un morto lemme lemme al camposanto
andava in una comoda carrozza,
vestito d'una rozza
camicia, che in antico dialetto
si chiama cataletto,
veste d'estate e veste anche d'inverno,
che i morti non si tolgono in eterno.

Al carro andava accanto
il prete a seppellir quel cristïano
col breviario in mano,
e recitava come d'ordinario,
o un pezzo di rosario
o versetti di salmi in proporzione,
s'intende, del salario.

Don Abbondio seguia, quasi il covasse,
coll'occhio il suo bel morto
perché non gli scappasse,
e rifaceva intanto
i suoi conti, dicendo: - In soldi tanto
e tanto in cera e in piccoli proventi:
c'è da comprare un mezzo bariletto
di quel di malvasia,
ma vo' che sia
buono e il miglior che dànno queste vigne.

C'è da fare un grembiale anche a Perpetua,
e a quelle nipotine
pettegoline, ed anche... -.
Ma un sasso in questo mentre al cataletto
fe' traballar le panche,
si piegò il catafalco e cadde sotto
con tanta violenza,
che n'ha Sua Riverenza il capo rotto.
Il morto tirò seco il poveretto,
e per la lunga via
fece al curato buona compagnia.

Se lo guardi in ogni lato,
questo nostro viver corto
è la storia del curato,
che fa i conti sopra il morto.