LE LAISTHE WILL OF FRANKIE VILLON
François Villontr. Peter Dean
I

L'an quatre cens cinquante six,
Je, Françoy Villon, escollier,
Considerant, de sens rassis,
Le frain aux dens, franc au collier,
Qu'on doit ses euvres conseillier,
Comme Vegece le racompte,
Sage Rommain, grant conseillier,
Ou autrement on se mescompte ...


II

En ce temps que j'ay dit devant,
Sur Noël, morte saison,
Que les loups se vivent du vent
Et qu'on se tient en sa maison,
pour le frimas, pres du tyson,
Me vint ung vouloir de briser
La tres amoureuse prison
Qui faisoit mon cueur debriser.


III

Je le feiz en telle façon,
Voyant celle devant mes yeult
Consentant a ma deffaçon,
Sans ce que ja luy en fust mieulx;
Dont je me dueil et plains aux cieulx,
En requerant d'elle vengance
A tous les dieux venerïeux,
Et du grief d'amours allegence.


IV

Et se j'ay prins en ma faveur
Ces doulx regars et beaux semblans
De tres decevante saveur
Me tresparsans jusques aux flans,
Bien ils ont vers moy les piés blancs
Et me faillent au grant besoing:
Planter me fault aultres complans
Et frapper en ung aultre coing.


V

Le regard de celle m'apris
qui m'a esté fellone et dur;
Sans ce qu'en riens j'aye mesprins,
Veult et ordonne que j'endure
La mort, et que plus je ne dure.
Si n'y vois secours que fouïr;
Rompre veult la vive soudure
Sans mes pitieux regrets ouïr.


VI

Pour obvier a ses dangiers,
Mon mieulx est, ce croy, de partir.
A Dieu! Je m'en vois a Angers,
Puis qu'el ne me veult impartir
Sa grace ne me departir.
Par elle meurs, les membres sains;
Au fort, je suys amant martir,
Du nombre des amoureux sains.


VII

Combien que le depart me soit
Dur, si fault il que je l'eslngne;
Comme mon povre sens consoit,
Aultre que moy est en quelongne,
Dont oncques soret de Boulongne
Ne fut plus alteré d'humeur.
C'est pour moy piteuse besongne:
Dieu en vueille ouÿr ma clameur!


VIII

Et puys que departir me fault
Et du retour ne suis certain
(Je ne suis homme sans deffault,
Ne qu'aultre d'assier ne d'estain;
Vivre aux humains est incertain
Et aprés mort n'y a relaiz)
- Je m'en vois en pays lointain -,
Si establit ce present laiz.


IX

Premierement, ou nom du Pere,
Du Filz et Saint Esperit,
Et de sa glorïeuse Mere
Par qui grace riens ne perit,
Je laisse, de par Dieu, mon bruyt
A maistre Guillaume Villon,
Qui en l'onneur de son nom bruyt,
Mes tentes et mon pavillon.


X

Item, a celle que j'ay dit
Qui si durement m'a chassé
Que je suis de joye interdit
Et de tout plaisir dechassé,
Je laisse mon cueur enchassé,
Palle, pitieux, mort et transy.
Elle m'a ce mal pourchassé,
Mais Dieu luy en face mercy!


XI

Item, a maistre Ythier Merchant,
Auquel je me sens tres tenu,
Laisse mon branc d'acier tranchant,
Et a maistre Jehan le Cornu,
Qui est en gaige detenu
Pour ung escot sept solz montant;
Je veul, selon le contenu,
Qu'on leur livre... en le rachetant!


XII

Item, je laisse a Sainct Amant
Le Cheval blanc avec la Mule,
Et a Blaru mon dÿamant
Et l'Asne royé qui reculle.
Et le decret qui articulle
Omnis utriusque sexus
Contre la Carmeliste bulle
Laisse aux curés, pour mettre sus.


XIII

Et a maistre Robert Valee,
Povre clergot en Parlement,
Qui n'entend ne mont ne valee,
J'ordonne principalement
Qu'on luy baille legierement
Mes brayes, estans aux Trumillieres,
Pour coyffer plus honnestement
S'amye Jehanne de Milliers.


XIV

Pour ce qu'il est de lieu honneste
Fault qu'il soit mieulx recompensé,
Car le Saint Esperit l'adomoneste,
Obstant ce qu'il est insensé.
Pour ce, je me suis pourpensé,
Puis qu'il n'a sens ne qu'une aulmoire,
A recouvrer sur Mau pensé,
Qu'on lui baille, l'Art de memoire.


XV

Item, pour assigner la vie
Du dessus dit maitre Robert,
Pour Dieu, n'y aiés point d'envye,
Mes parents, vendés mon haubert,
Et que l'argent, ou la plus part,
Soit emploié, dedans ces Pasques
A acheter a ce poupart
Une fenestre emprés Saint Jacques.


XVI

Item, laisse et donne en pur don
Mes gans et ma houcque de soye
A mon amy Jacques Cardon,
Le glan aussi d'une saulsoye,
Et tous les jours une grasse oye
Et ung chappon de haule gresse,
Dix muys de vin blanc comme croye,
Et deux procés, que trop n'engresse.


XVII

Item, je lessë a noble homme
Regnier de Montigny, trois chiens;
Aussi a Jehan Raguier la somme
De cent frans prins sur tous mes bens;
Mais quoy? Je n'y comprens en riens
Ce que je pourray acquerir:
L'en ne doit trop prendre des siens,
Ne ses amys trop surquerir.


XVIII

Item, au seigneur de Grigny
Laisse la garde de Nygon
Et six chiens plus qu'a Montigny,
Vicestre, chastel et donjon;
Et a ce malostre changon,
Moutonnier, qui le tient en procés,
Laisse troys coups d'ung escourgon
Et coucher paix et aise es ceps.


XIX

Item, au Chevalier du guet,
Le Hëaulme luy establis,
Et aux pietons qui vont d'aguet
Tastonnant par ces establis,
Je leur laissë ung beau riblis,
La Lanterne a la Pierre au Let,
Voire, mes j'aray les Troys Lis,
S'ilz me mainent en Chastellet.


XX

Et a maistre Jaques Raguier
Laisse l'Abeuvroir Popin,
Paiches, poires - sucré, figuier -,
Tous jours le choiz d'ung bon loppin,
Le trou de la Pomme de Pin,
Cloz et couvert, au feu la plante,
Emmailloté en jacopin,
Et qui vouldra planter si plante!


XXI

Item, a maistre Jehan Mautaint
Et maistre Pierre Basannier,
Le gré du seigneur qui attainct
Troubles, forfaiz, sans espargnier;
Et a mon procureur Fournier,
Bonnetz cours, chausses semelees,
Taillees sur mon cordouennier,
Pour porter durant ces gelees.


XXII

Item, a Jehan Trouvé, boucher,
Laisse le Mouton franc et tendre,
Et ung tacon pour esmouchier
Le Beuf Couronné qu'on veult vendre,
Et la Vache, qui pourra prendre
Le vilain qui la trousse au col:
S'il ne la rend, qu'on le puist pendre
Et estrangler d'un bon licol!


XXIII

Item, a Perrenet Merchant,
Qu'on dit le Bastard de la Barre,
Pour ce qu'il est ung bon merchant,
Luy laisse trois gluyons de feurre
Pour estendre dessus la terre
A faire l'amoureux mestier,
Ou il luy fauldra sa vie querre,
Car il ne scet autre mestier.


XXIV

Item, au Loup et a Cholet
Je laisse a la fois ung canart
Prins sur les murs comme on souloit,
Envers les fossés, sur le tart,
Et a chascun ung grant tabart
De cordelier jusques aux piez,
Busche, charbon et poys au lart,
Et mes houseaulx sans avantpiez.


XXV

Item, je laissë, en pitié
A trois petis enffans tous nudz
Nommés en ce present traictié,
- Povres orphelins impourveuz,
Tous deschaussez, tous despourveuz,
Et desnuez comme le ver
(J'ordonne qu'ilz seront pourveuz,
Au moins pour passer cest yver) - ,


XXVI

Premierement, Colin Laurens,
Girard Gossouïn, Jehan Marceau,
Desprins de biens et de parens,
Qui n'ont vaillant l'anse d'un seau,
Chascun de mes biens ung fesseau
Ou quatre blans, s'ilz l'aiment mieulx;
Ilz mengeront maint bon morceau,
Les enffans, quand je seray vieulx.


XXVII

Item, ma nominacïon,
Que j'ay de l'Université,
Laisse par resignacïon,
Pour seclurre d'aversité
Povres clers de cest cité
Soubz cest intendit contenus;
Charité m'y a incité
Et Nature, les voyans nudz.


XXVIII

C'est maistre Guillaume Cottin
Et maistre Thibault de Vittry,
Deux povres clers parlans latin,
Humbles, biens chantans au lectry,
Paisibles enffans sans estry:
Je leur laisse sans recevoir
Sur la maison Guillot Gueutry,
En attendant de mieulx avoir.


XXIX

Item, et j'adjoinctz a la crosse
Celle de la rue Saint Anthoine,
Ou ung billart de quoy on crosse,
Et tous les jours plain pot de Seine
Aux pigons qui sont en l'essoyne,
Ensserés soubz trappe voliere,
Mon miroüer bel et ydoyne
Et la grace de la geolliere.


XXX

Item, je laisse aux hospitaux
Mes chassis tissus d'arignie,
Et aux gisans soubz les estaulx,
Chascun sur l'eul une grognee,
Trambler a chiere renfrongnee,
Megres, velus et morfondus,
Chausses courts, robe rongnee,
Gelez, murdriz et enfondus.


XXXI

Item, je laisse a mon barbier
Les rongnures de mes cheveux,
Plainement et sans destourbier;
Au savetier mes souliers vieulx,
Et au freppier mes habitz tieulx
Que quant du tout je les delaisse;
Pour mains qu'ilz ne cousterent neufz
Charitablement je leur laisse.


XXXII

Item, je laisse aux Mendïans,
Aux Filles Dieu et aux Beguines,
Savoureux morceaulx et fryans,
Chappons, flaons, grasses gelines,
Et puis prescher les .XV. signes
Et abatre pain a deux mains.
Carmes chevauchent noz voisines,
Mais cela, ce n'est que du mains.


XXXIII

Item, laisse le Mortier d'or
A Jehan, l'espicier, de la Garde,
Une potence de sainct Mor,
Pour faire ung broyer a moustarde.
Et celluy qui fist l'avantgarde
Pour faire sur moy griefz exploiz:
De par moy, saint Anthoine l'arde!
- Je ne luy feray autre laiz.


XXXIV

Item, je lesse a Mirebeuf
Et a Nicolas de Louviers,
A chacun l'escaille d'un oeuf
Plaine de francs et d'escus vieulx.
Quant au concierge de Gouvieulx,
Pierre de Rousseville, ordonne,
Pour le donner entendre mieulx,
Escus telz que le Prince donne.


XXXV

Finablement, en escripvant,
Ce soir, seulet, estant en bonne,
Dictant ces laiz et descripvant,
J'ouys la cloche de Serbonne,
Qui tous jours a neuf heures sonne
Le salut que l'ange predit;
Si suspendis et mis en bonne
Pour prier comme le cueur dit.


XXXVI

Ce faisant, je m'entroubliay,
Non pas par force de vin boire,
Mon esperit comme lÿé.
Lors je sentis dame Memoire
Reprendre et mectre en son aulmoire
Ses especes colaterales,
Oppinative faulse et voire
Et autres intellectualles,


XXXVII

Et meismement l'estimative,
Par quoy prospective nous vient,
Simulative, formative,
Desquelles souvent il advient
Que, par leur trouble, homme devient
Fol et lunatique par moys;
Je l'ay leu, se bien m'en souvient,
En Aristote aucunes fois.


XXXVIII

Dont le sensitif s'esvailla
Et esvertua Fantaisie,
Qui les organes resveilla,
Et tint la souveraine partie
En suspens et comme mortie
Par oppressïon d'oubliance,
Qui en moy s'estoit espartie
Pour monstrer de Sens la lïance.


XXXIX

Puis que mon sens fut a repos
Et l'entendement desmellé,
Je cuiday finer mon propos,
Mais mon ancrë trouvay gelé
Et mon cierge trouvay soufflé
De feu je n'eusse peu finer,
Si m'endormis, tout enmouflé,
Et ne peuz autrement finer.


XL

Fait au temps de ladite datte
Par le bien renommé Villon,
Qui ne mengue figue ne datte,
Sec et noir comme escouvillon;
Il n'a tente ne pavillon
Qu'il n'ait lessié a ses amis,
Et n'a mais q'un peu de billon
Qui sera tantost a fin mis.
 I

In fourteen hundred and fifty-six
I, Frankie Villon, sometime scholar,
taking stock and getting a fix
on myself, bit between my teeth, my collar
free, felt, as Vegetius portends -
wise Roman, admirable guide -
I should consider means and ends
or else be taken for a ride ...


II

At the time then that above I’ve stated,
at Christmas, dead time of the year,
when wolves on wind alone are fated
to survive, when people huddle near
their fires, so bleak it is, and stay indoors,
I had a sudden urge to take
myself away from love’s consuming jaws
that crush my heart until it break.


III

Here’s how events began to show:
seeing her there before my eyes
consenting to my overthrow,
her without whom my life I’d prize -
for which I weep and plead with Gods above
to bring their vengeance down on her
who broke their sacred vows of love,
the griefs whereof I here do honour -


IV

And since I’d taken as in my favour
those soft looks, fair appearances,
also a most deceptive savour,
transfixing me, assurances
that she for me was pure as snow,
now, pricking up my great desire,
to till in other acres I must go
and knock about some other shire.


V

The look she took me with has turned
both doubly treacherous and cold.
Myself not having, that I learned,
done anything to her, she sold
me down the river, willed, ordered my death.
All I can do is take to my heels.
To catch her ear I waste my breath:
she’ll cut me down, the way she feels.


VI

My best plan to escape this fate
I think’s to do a quick skedaddle.
Ta-ra! It’s Angers now for me, mate,
beyond her favour’s reach, naught bad’ll
get me there, nor me out of there.
To die by her, though sound of limb,
at least I’d be Love’s martyr where
I’ll count among his Sainthood dim.


VII

However hard, necessity
tells me from here to get the hell.
My poor nose warns there’s more than me
been down her lane, whose tangy smell
a Boulogne kipper doesn’t vie.
My plight’s so bad and pitiful
I pray that God, to whom I cry,
will hear me and be merciful.


VIII

And therefore, since I have to leave
and of return cannot be sure -
(no hero I, I don’t believe
that I could steel or destiny endure -
all human life’s a throw of dice
and after death there’s no relief) -
now foreign parts must me entice.
Thus make I this bequest in brief.


IX

First, in the name of Father, Son
and Holy Ghost and glorious Mother’s grace
without whom no good thing is done,
by whom nothing loses its place,
I leave, God willing, reputation
to Will Villon, who represents
in his own name, honour and station;
to him, too, my pavilion and tents.


X

Item: to her mentioned above
who heartlessly has hounded me,
so that I am denied all love
and from all pleasure grounded be,
I leave my lacerated heart,
wan, piteous, dying, hung by a thread.
She worked ill on me for her part
but I God’s grace call on her head.


XI

Item: to Ythier Marchant who
I owe more than I can express
I leave my sword - or is it due
John le Cornu? The same I stress
is still in pawn for eight months’ debt
and interest. Maybe the two
should poppy it for when they get
the goods they’ll find they’ve paid in lieu.


XII

Item: to St. Amant, he gets
the White Horse and the Female Ass:
Blarru my diamond, no regrets,
also the Kicking Donkey: I let pass
the article that explicates
Omnis utriusque sexus - one
against the Carmelite bull and rates
as gift for priests to ravel undone.


XIII

And as to Robert Valee, he
a poor penpusher in Parliament
not knowing arse from elbow, I decree
he above all should be cheap lent
my huggy jeans, redeemed from pawn
down at the Knocking Shop, to fit
his good friend, Jeanne de Millieres, born
to more appropriate kinds of kit.


XIV

And since he comes of honest stock
he needs must not be so short-changed
or else the Holy Ghost will knock
him till he’s totally deranged.
For which my notion is that he,
having few brains and just one chest,
(redeemable for numbskull’s fee)
should with the Art of Memory be blest.


XV

Item: to set his life on track
of the above-named master Bob
(for God’s sake, do get off his back!)
my parents put my chain-mail on his nob
and get as good a price as may be
with which (or most of it) to buy
a shopfront near St. James’s for the booby
to chance his luck at Easter. Or to try.


XVI

Item: my gloves and silken cloak
I leave to Jim Cardou, my mate,
a straight gift to as straight a bloke;
the gleanings too from a willow estate
and every day a fattened goose
and cockerel that’s well-appointed,
ten barrels of chalk-white wine to booze
and, point two, not to get himself annointed!


XVII

Item: I leave that noble soul,
Regnier de Montigny, three hounds:
to John Raguier, raised on the whole
of my estate, one hundred francs. That sounds
unlikely? I have not a clue
what I might one fine day acquire.
My motto is - kin shouldn’t make up your due,
nor should your friend put out to hire.


XVIII

Item: I leave Nijon’s watch-tower
to noble Grigny - they’re a fit;
and six hounds more than went this hour
to Montigny: and Bicester’s castle and pit.
And to that changeling, devil-accursed
Mouton, keyholder to all locks,
I leave three lashes of the worst
and peaceful sleep, ease in the stocks.


XIX

To Jack Raguier I leave (he digs!
Snug spot!), the Popin Hideaway -
peaches and pears, sugar and figs,
a bunny nice for choice each day:
the Pine Cone’s another likely spot,
close and confined, get yourself set,
muffled like monks there where it’s hot.
You’d sow your seed? Sowing you get!


XX

Item: John Mautaint and his mate,
Pete Basanier, I give, without sparing,
the goodwill of the magistrate
who jumps on crime and acts of daring.
And to Fournier, my advocate,
my riding boots and my fur caps,
tailored for wear in icy times - as late
we’re having - by my cobbler chaps.


XXI

Item: John Trouve, butcher, gets
the Ram; he’s fresh, I know, and raw:
also a flyswatter that lets
him keep them off the Prime Bull, which I saw
is up for hire. Also the Cow,
who’ll catch, with luck, the villain who
has been astride her. If he won’t endow
her, may he hang and strangle too.


XXII

Item: the Captain of the station
retains his knighthood, for it’s his:
as for the creeps whose perambulation
gives them stray snippets of his riches
I leave them a couple of tasty snacks,
the Lantern and the Rock-in-Milk.
But mine’s the very best of shacks -
the Triple Lily - if jailed with others of my ilk.


XXIII

Item: Perrenet Marchant aka
the Bastard of the Bar, I leave -
because he’s such a slimy hacker -
three bales of straw that he can heave
and pull out thus to make a bed
on the damp earth, a bed of passion,
the only sort of life he’s led;
he’ll know none of a different fashion.


XXIV

Item: to Loup and Chalot, friends,
I leave to each a nice fat duck
caught on the wall, just where it blends
in dark recesses, late, with luck:
and to them both a girdle cloak
that’s long enough to reach their feet,
firewood, charcoal and pease-pud-soak.
My toeless sandals, too: they’re neat.


XXV

I leave in pity as relief
to three small kids without a stitch,
whose names are given overleaf,
poor orphans, abandoned in a ditch,
no shoe between them, not a bean,
and naked as the common worm:
at my expense they should be seen
to, at least till this winter’s term.


XXVI

First off, there’s Colin Laurens, then
Girart Gossouyn and John Marceau,
quite destitute of goods, of parents, when
not worth a bucket handle, so
a parcel of my worldly goods
to each, or, if preferred,four quid.
They won’t go short of tasty foods
till I’m an old man, won’t each kid!


XXVII

Item: I leave the nomination
I gained at university
herewith, by resignation,
to shelter from adversity,
poor clerks who labour in this city
whose names are listed down the page:
I’m prompted out of charity
by their bare bones - and hence my rage.


XXVIII

It’s William Cotin I place first,
Thibaud de Victry, he comes next -
poor clerks, in Latin well-rehearsed,
mild lads, not one word out of text,
humble, angelic voices in the choir:
for them, what comes from Guillot Gueldry’s lands
I turn their way and won’t require
or trust that better things fall to their hands.


XXIX

Item: among the croziers I add
that one from Saint Antony’s Street,
or two crossed billiard-cues wouldn’t be bad,
each day a full mug of Seine water, neat:
to jailbirds who, against their will,
become entrapped by flying snares,
my non-distorting glass to look their fill;
and in the jailer’s wife some shares.


XXX

Item: to hospitals I leave
my spider’s-webby window-frames;
to those who shiftlessly in charge achieve
nix, here’s a black eye to their names;
and may they tremble, their flesh creep,
wasting, disheveled, frightened stiff
and down-at-heel, clothes all-a-heap,
frozen, soaked, bruised from many a biff!


XXXI

Item: all that he’s clipped I leave
without ado (I nothing lose)
my barber. Curls? His! I won’t grieve.
Recyclers get my ancient shoes
and all the clothes that I have on,
so that when they are taken off
I’m generously costing less to don
than what they’d cost me new to doff.


XXXII

Item: I leave to begging Friars,
to Beguines and to Daughters of God,
savoury morsels, tastebud fires,
flans, fish, birds sweet as ever trod,
who then must preach the Fifteen Signs
and grub for any bread they can.
The Carmelite Brothers have designs
on us and ours. Don’t worry, man!


XXXIII

Item: the Golden Mortar’s left
to John, the Chandler of the Guard.
I leave him St. Mor’s potent weft
for brewing up something hot and hard:
and he, who first took up the running
in giving me the worst of times,
from me, for him, St. Antony’s gunning!
And he gets no more of my rhymes.


XXXIV

Item: Merbeuf and Nick de Louvieux,
I leave them each an egg-shell crammed
with francs - what could be groovier!
I’ll get an old ecu in, too, or be damned!
As for Gouvieux’ custodian, Pete
De Rousseville, I here endow
for cleaning out his earholes sweet
the ecus his Prince issues now.


XXXV

And finally, while writing this,
alone, this evening, feeling fine,
looking for rhymes - creative bliss!
I heard the Sorbonne clock strike nine
which always at that hour denotes
salvation, as the angel said:
one’s heart sets all aside, devotes
itself to prayer, goes where it’s led.


XXXVI

No sooner done, I felt perplexed -
not on account of any booze!
My very soul was bound - when next
old Mother Memory got loose,
reaching and fumbling in her chest
among her assorted goods, sound views
and others far from of the best -
some deeper stuff; I couldn’t choose -


XXXVII

But mainly to do with guessing how
the immediate prospect leads us on,
and how comparison and stressing now
this or the other feeds upon
a man’s confusion till he’s mad.
Each month you see his slow decline:
I’d read about such matters sad
in Aristotle, I think, he takes that line.


XXXVIII

Then the poor wimp sinks in a trance
and Fantasy takes him in hand,
leading his parts a merry dance -
once they’ve been roused - his scruples banned,
his will suspended, thrust in limbo:
so that, like me, he’s quite bereft
of any sense, thrall to this bimbo,
to show him how - there’s nothing left.


XXXIX

When I’d got over this I tried,
recalling what I was about,
to pick the threads up on this guide
but, damn! my taper had blown out,
my ink, too, I found had congealed,
I couldn’t raise a bit of heat!
And so I got my head down, sealed
myself in wraps, left a soiled sheet.


XL

Done at the time stated above
by me, yours truly, well-renowned
Villon, who fig nor date can love.
He’s on his uppers now, he’s frowned
on, thirsty, black-faced as a sweep.
No tent has he and no pavilion - they’re
bequeathed - likewise of coin no heap,
scarce what will last him. He’s no millionaire!
Trans. Copyright © Peter Dean 2003 







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