Charlotte Brontë's L'Ingratitude

What follows is Charlotte Brontë's French homework for 16 March 1842 as it was given to her teacher, translation below by Sue Lonoff.

Un Rat, las de la vie des villes, et des cours; (car il avait joué son rôle aux palais des rois et aux salons des grand seigneurs) un rat, que l’expérience avait rendu sage, enfin, un rat qui de courtisan était devenu philosophe, s’était retiré à sa maison de campagne (un trou dans le tronc d’un grand ormeau) où il vivait en ermite et dévouait tout son temps et tous ses soins à l’éducation de son fils unique.

Le jeune rat qui n’avait pas encore reçu de ces leçons sévères mais salutaires que donne l’expérience, était un peu étourdi; les sages conseils de son père lui semblaient ennuyeux; l’ombre et la tranquillité des bois, au lieu de calmer son esprit, le fatiguaient. Il s’impatientait de voyager et de voir le monde.

Un beau matin, il se levait de bonne heure, il fit un petit paquet de fromage et de grain, et sans mot dire à personne l’ingrat abandonna son père et le logis paternel et partit pour des pays inconnus.

D’abord tout lui parut charmant; les fleurs étaient d’une fraîcheur, les arbres d’une verdure qu’il n’avait jamais vues chez lui – et puis, il vit tant de merveilles; un animal avec une queue plus grande que son corps (c’était un écureuil) une petite bête qui portait sa maison sur son dos, (c’était un limaçon). Au bout de quelques heures il approcha une ferme, un odeur de cuisine l’attira, il entra dans la basse cour – là il vit une espèce d’oiseau gigantesque qui faisait un horrible bruit en marchant d’un air fier et orgueilleux. Or, cet oiseau était un dindon, mais notre rat le prit pour un monstre, et effrayé de son aspect, il s’enfuyait sur le champ.

Vers le soir il entra dans un bois, lassé et fatigué il s’assit au pied d’un arbre, il ouvrait son petit paquet, mangeait son souper, et se couchait.

S’éveillant avec l’alouette – il sentit ses membres engourdis de froid, son lit dur le faisait mal; alors il se souvenait de son père, l’ingrat rappellait les soins, et la tendresse du bon vieux rat, il formait des vaines résolutions pour l’avenir, mais c’était trop tard, le froid avait gelé son sang. L’Expérience fut pour lui une maîtresse austère, elle ne lui donna qu’une leçon et qu’une punition, c’étaient la mort.

Le lendemain un bucheron trouva le cadavre, il ne le regarda que comme un objet dégoutant et le poussa de son pied en passant, sans penser que là gisait le fils ingrat d’un tendre père.

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A rat, weary of the life of cities, and of courts (for he had played his part in the palaces of kings and in the salons of great lords), a rat whom experience had made wise, in short, a rat who from a courtier had become a philosopher, had withdrawn to his country house (a hole in the trunk of a large young elm), where he lived as a hermit devoting all his time and care to the education of his only son.

The young rat, who had not yet received those severe but salutary lessons that experience gives, was a bit thoughtless; the wise counsels of his father seemed boring to him; the shade and tranquillity of the woods, instead of calming his mind, tired him. He grew impatient to travel and see the world.

One fine morning, he arose early, he made up a little packet of cheese and grains, and without saying a word to anyone, the ingrate abandoned his father and his paternal abode and departed for lands unknown.

At first all seemed charming to him; the flowers were of a freshness, the trees of a greenness that he had never seen at home – and then, he saw so many wonders: an animal with a tail larger than its body (it was a squirrel), a little creature that carried its house on its back (it was a snail). After several hours he approached a farm, the smell of cooking attracted him, he entered the farmyard – there he saw a kind of gigantic bird who was making a horrible noise as he marched with an air fierce and proud. Now, this bird was a turkey, but our rat took him for a monster, and frightened by his aspect, he immediately fled.

Towards evening, he entered a wood, weary and tired he sat down at the foot of a tree, he opened his little packet, ate his supper, and went to bed.

Waking with the lark he felt his limbs numbed by the cold, his hard bed hurt him; then he remembered his father, the ingrate recalled the care and tenderness of the good old rat, he formed vain resolutions for the future, but it was too late, the cold had frozen his blood. Experience was for him an austere mistress, she gave him but one lesson and one punishment; it was death.

The next day a woodcutter found the corpse, he saw it only as something disgusting – and pushed it with his foot in passing, without thinking that there lay the ungrateful son of a tender father.