Classic and Contemporary Poetry
FRANCOIS VILLON, by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL Poet's Biography First Line: Our good duke charles, you tell me, fain would know Last Line: A sorry vintage. Subject(s): Happiness; Love - Complaints; Sex; Villon, Francois (1431-1463); War; Joy; Delight | ||||||||
THE COUNT DE LILLE, AND THE SEIGNEUR DE LUCE, A FREE-LANCE. TIME, circa 1463 SCENE, The Garden of an Inn. DE LUCE. Our good Duke Charles, you tell me, fain would know Where bides this other rhymer. Be it so. I might have said, I know not: for to lie Is easy, natural, and hath brevity To win its hearing favor, whilst the truth Spins out forever like a woman's youth, And lacks the world for ally. But mere pride Would make me honest. Let the duke decide 'Twixt boor and noble. Ah! 't was gay, I think, When we were lads together. What! not drink? Then, by St. Bacchus, here's to you, my lord! Men say that luck, a liberal jade, has poured Her favors on you: lordships half a score, Castles and lands, that vineyard on the Loire; Something too much for one who lightly leaves Such wine as this. Alas! who has, receives. DE LILLE. Come when you will and share it. I have served God and the King. What fortune I 've deserved The good saints know; through many a year I 've played The games of war and peace. My father's blade Has no stain on it. That, it seemeth me, Were pleasant to the conscience, when, set free From war and council and grown old and gray, Fades in monastic peace one's life away. These war-filled years gone by since last we met Have had their griefs. What of yourself? Forget My fates and me. I think the latter wars Have missed your helping. As for me, my scars Count half these years. DE LUCE. Well, as chance willed, I fought In Spain, or Italy, or France, and brought Some pretty plunder back; have killed my share, Dutch, Don, or Switzer, anyeverywhere That bones were to be broken and the fare And game were good; have taken soldier pay On this side and on that. In wine or play Spent gaily; found life but a merry friend That lent, and then forgot the debt. To end, Came home. And now my tale. On Easter-day It lost its hero. Silence, once 't is broke, Can no man mend. 'T was thus this fellow spoke Of whom I talk. I never owned the thing Folks like to label conscience, which the king Packs wisely on his chancellor. My device, "Suivez le Roi," suits well with life. Not nice Need one to be who Louis, or the rest, Loyally follows,taking what is best Each good day offers; yet, sometimes, De Lille, Woman or wine, or one's too ready steel, Lures one a trifle past the line of sport, And then,you see my point,a friend at court Perchance is needed. Gossip, hereabout, Which spreads like oil on water, leaves no doubt That I should speak. That wastrel had a way, A trick of speech, as when he said, one day, "The pot of Silence cracked, 't were best to break." Strange how his words stay with me! Half awake Last night, I saw him, laughing too, and gay, A grinning ghost, De Lille. What priest could lay A rhyming, jesting fiend? I have killed men, Ay, and some pretty fellows too, but then None troubled sleep. This dead man, like an owl, Roosts, wide-eyed, on my breast,a feeble fowl Mere barnyard fowl at morn,a carrion ghost. The devil has bad locks to keep his host Of poets, thieves, and tipplers. DE LILLE. Think you so? No man can tell, De Luce, when some chance blow Shall give him memories none may care to know. Once, when we charged nigh Burgos, sorely pressed, I drove my rapier through a youngster's breast In wild fierce mellay when none think,and yet I see him,see him reeling; never can forget His large eyes' sudden change, that one long cry! 'T was but a moment, and the charge went by. Some unknown woman curses me in sleep, Mother or mistress; why does memory keep These nettles, let the roses fall? Well! well! What more, De Luce? The tale you have to tell Is told a friend! DE LUCE. Three bitter years ago A woman, every year more fair, one Isabeau, A Demoiselle De Meilleraye, began To twist this coil which later cost a man A pleasant reckless life, and you my tale. Maids I have loved a many, widows frail Loved par amour, but this one gaily spun A pretty net about me. It was done Before I fully knew, and once begun, No fly more surely netted. Ever still The web is on me. At her merry will What pranks she played!and I, a fettered slave, Was black or white, was all things, blithe or grave, As met her humor. Many a suitor came Because her lands were broad, and, too, the game Worth any candle. She but laughed. Some flared, Or sputtered, and went out. My lady shared Their woe but little. As for me, I fought A good half dozen lordlings, also caught A hurt or two. But then, ah! that was worse, A fellow came who wooed my dame in verse, And did it neatly,made her triolets Rhyming her great blue eyes to violets; Wrote chansons, villanelles, and rondelettes, Sonnets and other stuff, and chansonnettes, And jesting, rhymed the color of my nose With something,possibly an o'erblown rose. No need to say we fought, but luck went hard: I thrust in tierce; he parried, broke my guard, And then, I slipped,St. Denis; but I lay A good six weeks to ponder on the way The rascal did the thing. And he the while Had to himself my lady's gracious smile; Whereon we played the game again, and time Was that to which my rhymer ceased to rhyme. A pretty trick there is, De Lille, you see I learned in Padua; this way, on one knee To drop a sudden; then a thrust in quarte Settles the business. You shall learn the art. 'T is very simple. Ah! before he died He fumbled at his neck, and vainly tried To snatch at something, till at last I took A locket from him, for his own hand shook, As well might be. He had but only breath To mutter feebly "Isabeau", then death Had him, and I the lockethave it still, And some day she shall have itin my will, For scourge of memory. This same Isabeau Wept as a woman does, whilst to and fro I wandered, waiting till the mood should go, Then came again and found my lady fair Reading my dead man's chansons. Little care Had she for others. I, a love-fool, spent The summer days like any boy, intent To fit my will to hers. I laugh again To think I vexed my battle-wildered brain In search of rhymes.You smile, my lord? 'T is so, To find me gallant rhymes to Isabeau. Pardie, De Lille, she rhymed it thrice toNo! Swore none could love who lacked the joyous art To love in song. Now, really, when the heart Gives out, and knows no more, one asks the head To help that idiot ass. Some one has said, Ah! that man said it,said, "'T is heads that win In love's chuck-penny game." And I had been The heart's fool quite too long. At last, one day, Hunting by St. Rileaux, I lost my way, And wandering, lit upon a man who lay Drowsing, or drunk, or dreaming mid the fern. Quite motionless he stayed, as in I turn, And say, "Get up there, villein! Ho! in there, Get up, and pilot me the way to Claire!" On this rose lazily a lean, long man; Yawned, stretched himself,with eyes as brown as tan, And somewhat insolent, regarded me; a nose Fine as my lady's; red, too, I suppose, With sun, or just so much of sun as glows Shut up in wine: and thus far not a word. Till I, not over gay, or somewhat stirred By this brute's careless fashions, wrathful said, "Art dumb, thou dog?" But the untroubled laid His elbow 'gainst a tree-trunk, set his hand To prop his head, and then, "I understand. You lost the way to Claire, whilst I have lost The gladdest thought that haply ever crossed A poet's brain. Think what it is, fair sir, To feel within your soul a gentle stir, To see a vision forming as from mist, And just then as your lips have almost kissed This thing of heaven, to have a man insist You show the way to Claire. A man may die And still the world go on, but songs that fly From laughing lip to lip, and make folk glad, Have more than mortal life. 'T is passing sad. You 've killed a thing had outlived you and me, Bishops and kings, and danced, a voice of glee, On lovers' tongues." Loudly I laughed and long. "Mad! mad!" I cried; "the whole world's mad in song. Out-memory kings? What noble trade have you That rate a king so lo? Speak out, or rue The hour we met. Your name, your name, man, too, Unless you like sore bones." At this he stayed, No more disturbed than I, and undismayed Said, "François Villon de Montcorbier Men call me; but I really cannot say I have not other names to suit at need, As certain great folks have; and sir, indeed As to my trade, I am a spinner, and I spin, As please my moods, gay songs of love or sin, Sonnets or psalmscould make a verse on you. Hast ever heard my 'Ballade des Pendus'? I gave the verse a certain swing, you see, That humors well the subject; you'll agree, To read it really shakes one; many a thief That verse has set a-praying. To be brief Ah, you'll not hear it?then, sir, by my sword, But that's in pawn,or better, by word, I can't pawn that,ye saints! if I but could! Now just to pay your patience,leave the wood At yonder turning; then the road to Claire Lies to the left; but you must be aware The day is somewhat warm, and pray you try To think how very, how unnatural dry I am inside of me; for outwardly, Thanks to the dews, I'm damp; but could I put My outside inside,Ah! your little 'but' Is really quite a philosophic thing For lords who lose their way, and men who sing. The simple fact is, I am deadly dry And that mere text once out, the sole reply, The sermon, lies within your purse." I said, "Had you not put a notion in my head, I long ago had broken yours. Instead, Sell me its use awhile." "If talk be dull," Cried he, "'twixt one who fasts and one who's full, St. George! 't is duller than the dullest worst When one of them is just corpse-dry with thirst. Once, by great Noah! a certain bishop-beast Kept me for three long summer months at least On bread and water,water! Were wine rain, I never, never could catch up again." Well, to be brief, De Lille, just there and then We drove an honest bargain. He, his pen Sold for so long as need was,I, to get Three times a week some joyful rondelette, Sirventes satiric, competent to fit The case of any wooing, versing wit, Dizains, rondeaux, and haply pastourelles, With any other rhyming devil-spells A well-soaked brain might hatch, whilst I agreed To house, clothe, wine the man, and feed. That day we settled it at Claire. A tun Of Burgundy it took before 't was done. And then, to ease him at his task, you know, Smiling he queried of this Isabeau: Her eyes, her lips, her hair; because, forsooth, "The trap of lies were baited best with truth." Quoth I, half vexed, "Brown-red, her hair." "I know," My poet says; "golddarkened, like the glow The sunset casts, to crown a brow of snow." Then I, a love-sick fool!"She has a way Of""Yes, I understand; as lilies sway When south winds flatter, and the month is May, And love words has the maiden rose to say." Here pausing, suddenly he let his head Rest on his hands, and, half in whisper, said, "Alack! Full many a year the daisies grow Where rests at peace another Isabeau." "The devil take thy memories! Guard thy tongue!" Said I. What chanced was droll, for quick tears, wrung From some low love-past, tumbled in his wine: Cried he, "The saints weep through us. Can these tears be mine? The dead are kings and rule us"drank the liquor up, Laughed outright like a girl, and turned the cup, With "Never yet before, since life was young, Did I put water in my wine," then flung The glass behind him, shouted, "Quick, a bottle! Another; grief is but a thief to throttle. Ho! let the ancient hangman Time appear And tuck it a neat tie beneath the ear. Many a trade has master Time. He sits in corners, and spinneth rhyme. He is a partner of master Death, Puffs man's candle out with a breath, Leaves the wick to sputter and tell In a sort of odorous epitaph How foul the thought of a man may smell For the world that lives, and has its laugh. Ha! but Time has many trades! Something in me now persuades Master Time, grown debonair, Hath turned for me potter rare, And made him a vase beyond compare: Here below, a rounded waist, Fit with roses to be laced; Rising, ripely curved above Into flowing lines of love. Thinking, too, how sweet 't would grow, Time called the proud vase Isabeau." "By every saint of rhyme," laughed I, "good fellow, If this a man can do when rather mellow" "What shall he do ripe-drunk?" he cried; "erelong The vine shall live again a flower of song." How much he drank that six months who may know? He kept his word. There came a noble flow, Rondels and sonnets, songs, gay fabliaux, Tencils, and virelais, and chants royaux, That turned at last the head of Isabeau. For, by and by, he spun a languid lay Set her a weeping for an April day. And then a reverdie, I scarcely knew Just what it meant; by times the damsel grew Pensive and tender, till at last she said, You see the bait was very nicely spread, "How chances it, fair sir, this gift of song Lay thus unused? You did yourself a wrong: But now I love you,love as one well may A heart that hides its treasures, yet can say At last their sweetness out. This simple lay! How could you know my thoughts?" On this in haste I cast an arm around her little waist, And kissed her lips, and murmured tenderly Some pretty lines my poet made for me And this occasion's chance. So there, the dame Well wooed and married, ends this pleasant game. DE LILLE. I knew your poet once,of knaves the chief, A gallows-mocking brawler, guzzler, thief, This orphan of the devil won with song Our good Duke Charles, who thinks of no man wrong, And least of all a poet. Once or twice Duke Charles has saved his neck. One can't be nice With poet friends, nor leave them in the lurch Because they stab a man, or rob a church. Also, that hog-priest-doctor, Rabelais, you know, Kept him a while, then bade the vagrant go For half a nightingale and half a crow. So there he slips from sight. Then comes a tale That stirs our rhyming Duke. I must not fail To know the sequel. DE LUCE. Months went by. My man I had no need for; soon my dame began To droop and wilt, and, too, I knew not why, To watch me sidewise with attentive eye, Or stay for silent hours cloaked with thought, Laughing or weeping readily at naught. What changes women? A wife is just a wife. The thing tormented me, for now her life Faced from me ever, and, her head bent low, She lived with some worn sonnet or rondeau Had served its purpose. Vexed at last, I took The wretched stuff, the whole of it, and shook The fragments to the winds. Now, by St. George! The thing stuck ever bitter in my gorge, That such a peasant-slave's mere words should be The one strong bond that held this love to me, That was my life, and is. Alas! in vain I played the lover over, till in pain Because she pined, poor fool, I sought again My butt of verse and wine, and gaily said, "Here, fellow, there's for drink! Set me your head To verse me something honest, that shall speak A strong man's love, and to my lady's cheek Fetch back its rose again." But as for him, This hound, he studied me with red eyes, dim And dulled with wine, and lightly laughing cried, "Not I, my lord. Not ever, if I tried The longest day of June. Your falcon caught, Be sure no jesses by another wrought Will hold a captive;" and with rambling talk Put me aside, sang, hummed, took up the chalk The landlord wont to score his drinks withal, A moment paused, and scribbled on the wall, "If God love to a sexton gave, Surely he would dig it a grave; If God fitted an ass with wings, What would he do with the pretty things?" I cursed him for a useless sot, but he, Leering and heedless, scrawled unsteadily Just "Wallow, wallow, wallow; this from me To all wise pigs that on this mad earth be;" Wrote "François Villon" underneath, and there, Smitten with drink, dropped on the nearest chair And slept as sleep the dead. I in despair Went on my way. But she, my gentle dame, Grew slowly feebler, like an oilless flame, Until this cursed thing happened. On a day I chanced upon her singing, joyous, gay; Glad leapt my hopes. I kissed her, saw her start, Grow sudden pale, a quick hand on her heart. 'Fore God, I love her dearly, but I tore A paper from her bosom, yet forbore One darkened moment's time to read it, then Saw the wild love verse, knew what drunken pen Had dared. Fierce-eyed she stayed a little space, Then struck me red with words, as if my face A man had struck, said, "What can be more base Than bribe a peasant soul to win with thought Above your thinking what you vainly sought? I love you? NoI loved the man who knew To tell the gladness of his love through you; A thief, no doubt; and pray what was he who Thus stole my love? You lied! and he, a sot! A sot, you say, could rise above his pot, You, never! Love me! Could one like you know In love's sweet climate truth and honor grow?" But I, seeing my folly clear, said, "Isabeau, What matters it if I but used the flow Of this man's fantasies to word the praise I would have said a hundred eager ways And moved you never? Is it rare one pays A man to sing?" "Henceforth, my lord," said she, "We talk tongues strange to each, but ever he Talked that my heart knows best. Your wife am I, That's past earth's mending; what is left but try To weary on to death? What else?" I turned, Cried, "But I loved you well! This boor has earned A traitor's fate." "And you," she moaned; nor more, Save, "Let all traitors die," and on the floor Fell in a heap. Thenceforward half distraught I sought my poet-thief, but never caught The cunning fiend, till as it chanced one night, My horse fallen lame, I, walking, saw the light Still in her window. There below it stood A man where fell the moonlight all aflood, And suddenly a hand of mastery swept The zittern, anda whining love-song leapt. Ah! but too well knew I the song he sang; I smiled to think it was his last. It rang Mad chimes within my head. "Now then," I cried, "A dog-life for a love-life!" Quick aside My poet cast his zittern, drew his sword, Tried as he stood his footing on the sward, And laughed. He ever laughed, and laughing said, "Before we two cut throats, and one is dead, And talk gets quite one-sided, let me speak, Perchance it may be this rat's final squeak; Even a cat grants that, my lord, you know. Speak certain words I must of this dame Isabeau. And if you will not, this have I to say, These legs of mine have ofttimes won the day, And may again if I have not my way. My thanks. You 're very good, and now,what if Full twenty dozen times a week a whiff Of some sweet rose is given just to smell, The rose unseen,you catch my meaning?Well, One haply gets rose-hungry, and erelong Desires the rose. You think I did you wrong Who bade you see her as one sees in song, Her neck, her face, the sun-gloss of her hair, Eyes such as poets dream, the love-curves fair; These have you seen; but as for me, they were, Unseen of sense, more lovely. Mark, my lord, How sweet to-night the lilies. Pray afford A moment yet to my life out of yours. Believe A thing so strange you may not, nor conceive: This woman, on the beauty of whose face I never looked, nor shall,whose virgin grace I sold to you,is mine while time endures. Yea, for your malady earth has no cures; A brute, a thief am I that caged this love. A sodden poet! Some one from above Looks on us both to-night; you nobly born, I in the sties of life. I do repent In that I wronged this lady innocent. But if you live or I, where'er she bide, One François Villon walketh at her side. Kiss her! Your kiss? It will be I who kiss. Yea, every dream of love your life shall miss I shall be dreaming ever! Well, the cat, Patient or not, has waited. As for that, Be comforted. Hell never lacks reward For them that serve it. Thanks.On guard. On guard." No word said I. Long had I listened, dazed. Now scorn broke out in hatred; crazed, Fiercely I lunged. He, laughing, scarce so rash, Parried and touched my arm. The rapier clash Went wild a minute; then a woman's cry Broke from the hedge behind him, and near by Some moonlit whiteness gleamed. He turned, and I, By heaven! 't was none too soon, I drove my sword Clean through the peasant dog from point to guard, And held her as I watched him. Better men A many have I killed, but this man!Then He staggered, reeling, clutched at empty air And at his breast, and pitching here and there, Fell, shuddered, and was dead. By Mary's grace, The woman kneeling kissed the dead dog's face! Take you the Duke my tale. The woman lives. The man is dead. None knows but she. What gives Such needless haste to go? 'T is not yet late. Think you the story of this peasant's fate Will vex Duke Charles? How looks the thing to you? No comment? None? DE LILLE. None I could well afford To speak. The Duke must judge, not I. DE LUCE. My lord, Your fashions like me not, and plainly, mine Are somewhat franker. DE LILLE. I must ride. The wine? DE LUCE. I pay for that. The man who drinks must pay. "The wine of friendship lasteth but a day," So said that pot-house Solomon. I suppose 'T is easily thinned with time. As this world goes, A sorry vintage. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STUDY OF HAPPINESS by KENNETH KOCH SO MUCH HAPPINESS by NAOMI SHIHAB NYE CROWD CONDITIONS by JOHN ASHBERY I WILL NOT BE CLAIMED by MARVIN BELL THE BOOK OF THE DEAD MAN (#21): 1. ABOUT THE DEAD MAN'S HAPPINESS by MARVIN BELL A DECANTER OF MADEIRA, AGED 86, TO GEORGE BANCROFT, AGED 86 by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN [MARCH 8, 1862] by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL |
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