pfvilte4

LE GRAND TESTAMENT - LXV-LXXXIX	THE TESTAMENT - LXV-LXXXIX
François Villon	tr. Peter Dean
LXV Se celle que jadiz servoye De si bon cueur et loyaulment, Dont tant de maulx et griefz j'avoye Et souffroye tant de tourment, Se dit m'eust au commencement, Sa voulenté, mais nennil, las! J'eusse mis paine aucunement De moy retraire de ses las. LXVI Quoy que je lui voulsisse dire, Elle estoit preste d'escouter Sans m'acorder ne contredire. Qui plus, me souffroit acouter Joignant d'elle, près sacouter . .. Et ainsi m'aloit amusant Et me souffroit tout raconter, Mais ce n'estoit qu'en m'abusant. LXVII Abusé m'a et fait entendre Tousjours d'un que ce feust ung aultre: De farine que ce feut cendre, D'un mortier ung chappel de faultre, De viel machefer que feust peaultre, D'ambesars que c'estoïent ternes - Tousjours trompeur autruy engautre Et rent vecyes pour lanternes -, LXVIII Du ciel, une paille d'arrain, Des nues une peau de veau, Du main que c'estoit le serain, D'ung troignon de chou, ung naviau, D'ordre servoyse vin nouveau, D'une truye ung molin a vent Et d'une hart ung escheveau, D'ung graz abé ung poursuivant. LXIX Ainsi m'ont Amours abusé Et pourmené de l'uys au pesle. Je croy qu'omme n'est si rusé, Fust fin com argent de coupelle, Qui n'y laissat linge, drappelle, Mais qu'il fut ainsi manïé Comme moy, qui partout m'appelle L'amant remys et regnÿé. LXX Je regnye Amours et despite Et deffie a feu et a sang. Mort par elles me precepicte, Et ne leur en chault pas d'un blanc. Ma vïelle ay mis soubz le banc, Amans je ne suiveray ja maiz; Se jadiz je fuz de leur renc, Je declaire que n'en suis maiz; LXXI Car j'ay mis le plumail au vent: Or les suive qui a actente! De ce me taiz doresnavent, Car poursuivre je vueil mon entente. Et s'aucun m'interrogue ou tente Comment d'Amours j'ose mesdire, Ceste parolle le contente: "Qui meurt a ses loix de tout dire" . LXXII Je congnois approucher ma seuf, Je crache blanc comme coton Jacoppins groz comme ung esteuf. Qu'esse a dire? que Jehanneton Plus ne me tient pour valleton, Mais pour ung viel usé rocquart: De viel porte voix et le ton, Et ne suis q'un jeune cocquart. LXIII Dieu mercy ... et Tacque Thibault, Qui tant d'eaue froide m'a fait boire, En ung bas, non pas en ung hault, Menger d'angoisse mainte poire, Enferré ... Quant j'en ay memoire, Je prie pour luy, et relicqua, Que Dieu luy doint, et voire voire, Ce qui je pense, et cetera. LXXIV Toutesfoiz, je n'y pense mal Pour lui, et pour son lieutenant, Aussi pour son officïal Qui est paisant et advenant, Que faire n'ay du remenant Mais du petit maistre Robert: Je les ayme tout d'un tenant, Ainsi que fait Dieu le Lombart. LXXV Sy me souvient bien, Dieu mercis, Que je feiz a mon partement Certains laiz, l'an cinquante six, Qu'aucuns, sans mon consentement, Voulurent nommer testament; Leur plaisir fut, non pas le myen. Mais quoy! on dit communement Q'ung chacun n'est maistre du sien. LXXVI Pour les revocquer ne le diz, Et y courrust toute ma terre. De pictié ne suis reffroydiz Envers le bastart de la Barre : Parmy ses troys gluyons de feurre Je lui donne mes vieilles nattes; Bonnes seront pour tenir serre Et soy soustenir sur les pates. LXXVII S'ainsi estoit qu'aucun n'eust pas Receu le laiz que je lui mande, J'ordonne qu'aprés mon trespas A mes hoirs en face demande. Mais qui sont ilz? Si le demande Morreau, Prouvins, Robin Turgis: De moy, dictes que je leur mande, Ont eu jusqu'au lit ou je gis. LXVIII Somme, plus ne diray qu'un mot, Car commencer vueil a tester. Devant mon clerc Fremin qui m'ot, S'il ne dort, je vueil protester Que n'entens homme detester En ceste presente ordonnance, Et ne la vueil manifester ... Synon ou royaume de France. LXXIX Je sens mon cueur qui s'affoiblist Et plus je ne puis papïer. Fremin, siez toy pres de mon lit, Que l'en m'y viengne espïer. Pren ancre tost, plume et pappier, Ce que nomme escriptz vistement, Puis fay le partout coppïer. Et vecy le commencement. LXXX Ou nom de Dieu, Pere eternel, Et du Filz que vierge parit, Dieu au Pere coeternel Ensemble et le Saint Esperit, Qui sauva ce qu'Adam perit Et du pery parre les cyeulx ... Qui bien ce croit peu ne merit, Gens mors estre faiz petiz dieux. LXXXI Mors estoïent et corps et ames, En dampnee perdicïon, Corps pourriz et ames en flasmes, De quelconcque condicïon. Toutesffoiz fais excepcïon Des patriarches et prophectes, Car, selon ma concepcïon, Oncques grant chault n'eurent aux fesses. LXXXII Qui me diroit: "Qui vous fait mectre Si tres avant ceste parolle, Qui n'estes en theologie maistre? A vous est presumpcïon folle", C'est de Jhesus la parabolle Touchant du riche ensevely En feu, non pas en couche molle, Et du ladre de dessus ly. LXXXIII Se du ladre eust veu le doyt ardre; Ja n'en eust requis reffrigere N'au bout d'icelluy doiz aerdre Pour raffreschir sa machoüoire. Pÿons y feront macte chierre, Qui boyvent pourpoint et chemise! Puis que boiture y est si chiere. Dieux nous garde de la main mise! LXXXIV Ou nom de Dieu, comme j'ay dit, Et de sa glorïeuse Mere, Sans pechié soit parfait ce dit Par moy, plus maigre que chimere; Se je n'ay eu fievre enfumere, Ce m'a fait divine clemence; Mais d'autre dueil et perte amere Je me tais, et ainsi commence. LXXXV Premier doue de ma povre ame La glorïeuse Trinité, Et la commande a Nostre Dame, Chambre de la divinité, Priant toute la charité Des dignes neuf ordres des cieulx Que par eulx soit ce dont porté Devant le trosne precïeulx. LXXXVI Item, mon corps j'ordonne et laisse A nostre grant mere la terre; Les vers n'y trouveront grant gresse, Trop lui a fait fain dure guerre. Or luy soit delivré grant erre, De terre vint, en terre tourne! Toute chose, se par trop n'erre, Voulentiers en son lieu retourne. LXXXVII Item, et a mon plus que pere, Maistre Guillaume de Villon, Qui esté m'a plus doulx que mere, Enffant eslevé de maillon - Degecté m'a de maint boullon Et de cestuy pas ne s'esjoye; Sy lui requier a genoullon Qu'il m'en laisse toute la joye -, LXXXVIII Je luy donne ma librairye Et le roumant du Pet au Deable, Lequel maistre Guy Tabarye Grossa, qui est homs veritable. Par cayeulx est soubz une table; Combien qu'il soit rudement fait, La matiere est si tres notable Qu'elle admende tout le meffait. LXXXIX Item, donne a ma povre mere, Pour saluer nostre Maistresse, Qui pour moy ot douleur amere, Dieu le scet, et mainte tristesse - Autre chastel n'ay ne forteresse Ou me retraye corps ne ame Quant sur moy court malle destresse, Ne ma mere, la povre femme -.	LXV Had she whom once I used to serve so freely and so loyally - she who smashed both my heart and nerve, inflicting untold torments on me - if only she’d said at the start just what she wanted (not a hope!), I’d never have felt the painful part of cutting the knot, untying the rope. LXVI When I’d got anything to say she’d always lend a willing ear; she’d neither agree nor give me nay. Further, she’d let me get so near, I’d press her close, lend her support - and thus she had me quite beguiled, letting me pass on all my thought: but she was treating me like a child. LXVII Diddled I was and led to see that things were not themselves, to suit her; that flour was dust; a mortar had to be a felt hat; and old copper, pewter. She made me think when she rolled dice and they came twos that they were threes; (liars are plausible with their lies and for the moon give you green cheese). LXVIII The sky became a frying pan and floating cloud a tanned calf-skin; and crack of dawn no other than the evening mist. She’d even win a turnip from a cabbage root and saying old hops will make new wine; for battering-ram windmill would moot. Yarn? Rope! A guard? A fat divine! LXIX And thus has love bamboozled me, shown me the door and changed the lock. No man, I think, could ever be nimble-enough witted at taking stock to get off here still wearing a shirt. He’ll be like me, renowned all over, manhandled, just a bit of dirt, and nicknamed "The Redundant Lover". LXX Renouncing here all loves I curse, defy them with oaths of fire and blood. Death hurtles towards me but, far worse, goes nowhere near the sisterhood. My fiddle’s safely in its box; no girls I chase as once I did. Maybe I’ve done it in my day, but not again - I’ve closed the lid. LXXI Now this has been exposed to view any may follow who has read. Henceforth there’s nothing I can do, so I’d like to pick up my thread. Should anyone ask or question why I dare to speak of love so ill, these words I give him in reply: "A dying man should speak his fill." LXXII My great thirst’s coming on I feel, I’m coughing up these gobs of spittle as big as tennis balls for real! What can this mean? That my dear little Jeanne no longer takes me for her groom but for an old and knackered horse? My voice is creaky as an old broom - I’m still a bit of a lad, of course! LXXIII My thanks to God - and Jack Thibault who made me drink cold water neat in bucketfuls brought down below and gave me many a choke-pear to eat. When this comes to my memory I pray for him ... et reliqua that God may grant him - let me see - all I’ve in mind ... etcetera. LXXIV All the same I do not think ill of him, nor of his lieutenant, I’ve nothing against this official, nil, who gave me good warning and was pleasant: and, sole among the others, may I point to little Master Bob; I love them all, as tenant say, as God was by the Lombard mob. LXXV If I remember well (and God I praise), I made in 56, around the time I went away for many days, a number of bequests and I’m surprised to find, unknown to me, some have called them the Testament. Their treat, not mine! From this we see power of his own to none is sent. LXXVI I don’t ask to revoke all these, even if my lands are at stake. I have been softened to release the Bastard of the Bar. I make him a present of my old mats to mingle with his three straw bales. He’ll find them good for stiffness, that’s if always standing upright fails. LXXVII For anyone who’s not had yet the legacy made in my bequest, he should apply to names there set - after my death, I do request. But who are they? Now let me see - Moreau, Provins, Rob Turgis - why! Tell them they get the lot from me, even the bed on which I lie! LXXVIII But one word more in sum I’ll say because I want to start my will: my clerk, Fremin, who hears OK if not asleep, is witness. He’ll bear out that I no harm would chance in this bequest to anyone, nor wish, unless it were throughout France, such wishes to be widely known. LXXIX My heart’s atremble - I’m so weak another word I cannot write: Fremin, sit by my bed, I’ll speak so’s you can hear what I indite. Bring ink enough, paper and pen and scribble down what I dictate fast as you can; and copies then send out. The start I now relate. LXXX In God the Eternal Father’s name and his Son whom the Virgin bore, all everlasting and the same, and Holy Ghost whom we adore, from Adam’s sin redeeming us, sparing the damned from Heaven’s wrath ... Believe all that? You can’t be serious! Dead folk turned little Gods? What froth! LXXXI Dead are they, both in body and soul, in everlasting damned perdition; bodies disintegrated, souls like coal aflame, whatever their condition. A few for whom I’ll make exception are prophets and patriarchs of yore, for, as it goes in my conception, the hot arse never burning bore. LXXXII There’s some who’ll say: "And by what right do you advance such an assumption? You, who can never throw the light of Theology’s learning? Mad presumption!" May I remind them of Christ’s tale - the rich man caught in flames of Hell, not in his soft bed, safe and hale; the lowly leper raised up to be well. LXXXIII The former, if he should have viewed the leper’s burning finger, would a cooling touch from it have rued and no drop from its tip found good to slake his throat. Boozers, I fear, won’t relish it - shirts go on drink. Since bottles down there are so dear - God love us! - make us otherwise think! LXXXIV In God’s name, as I’ve said above, His glorious Mother’s, too, my prayer is to be kept from sin by love celestial - I’m not fanciful, though spare. My bout of cholera was mild and that was given me by God’s grace; but bitter losses, taunts that riles, I’ll not speak of. And here’s my case. LXXXV First off, I’m giving my poor soul to the most sacred Trinity, that to Our Lady it go, the whole, whose womb brought forth divinity, asking for intercession from the Nine Orders of Angels there above, so that this gift be brought in line before the Throne of Heaven’s love. LXXXVI Item; my body must be given back to our one great mother, earth: not much fat there for worms, it’s been riven by hunger much in times of dearth. Saved will it be from felony - ashes to ashes, dust to dust - all things that would from error flee find that going back home is just. LXXXVII Item; to William Villon who was more to me than any dad, who was more gentle with me, knew more than a mother and who had such forebearance with all my scrapes (though little joy he’s had of these) I bend my knee to beg this latest jape’s one that be left just me to tease. LXXXVIII I leave to him my library and the Romance of the Devil’s Fart - that’s the one master Guy Tabary copies, no man of truer heart. It’s all in notebooks hidden under the table: though it’s roughly done it blows errors clear asunder, on such distinctive matter does it run. LXXXIX Item; I leave to my poor mum, to invoke Our Lady’s name, this verse. For me she’s often been struck dumb or hurt by sharp slights, God knows, or worse. Of other goods and chattels, none wherewith to keep a body whole; when evil times drop like a stone on me - same for my mum, poor soul!

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