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Abstract

In their translations of the François Villon poem Debate with His Heart, David Georgi and Tom Yuill both stray wildly from the literal semantics of the text in order to better convey the meaning, emotion, and artistry of Villon’s poetry. Some of the techniques these translators employed are here described and compared, and the effectiveness of each translator’s decisions briefly discussed. Generally speaking, Georgi’s translation has higher fidelity to the semantics of the original (not to say artlessly literal, as is displayed by my own translations) while Yuill takes greater liberties in order to convey the emotional qualities of the original as well as to conserve the reception it would have had among Villon’s contemporaries. An new translation is given in conclusion.

Introduction & Background

François Villon was one of the most original and influential voices of the Middle Ages. A rare poet of his time who lived on the margins of society, his urban, gritty realism may strike the modern reader as acutely anachronistic. Around 1461, Villon wrote a poem entitled  — at least, as far as can be told from the earlist surviving manuscript — “La complainte Villon a son cuer” (“Villon’s complaint to his heart”). A version put to print in 1489 gave the title ”Le debat du cueur et du corps dudit Villon” (“The debate between the heart and body of this same Villon“). Many editors, however, give the title as “Le débat du cœur et du corps de Villon” (“Debate of Villon’s heart and body“), seemingly as this better characterizes the content of the poem.

Whatever you call it, the poem is an unresolved argument between a belief in a sort of nihilistic predestination and a belief in a more optimistic possibility for self-determination. It is framed as a debate, almost more akin to an intervention, between Villon and his own heart (“cœur”), wherein Villon casts himself as downtrodden and outwardly apathetic while his heart attempts to convince him to put some effort into life. As this poem takes the shape of a more-or-less natural dialogue, full of interjections and incomplete thoughts spoken in the pedestrian vernacular of the time, it makes for a notoriously difficult subject of translation.

The poets whose translations are discussed here are David Georgi and Thomas Yuill.

David Georgi Translation

While Georgi’s translation certainly takes liberties, it manages to stay remarkably faithful to the original text in terms of word choice. Below are a few examples of the original text, my own artlessly direct translation, and finally the translation that Georgi rendered on the right:

Qu'est ce que j'oi ? - Ce suis-je ! - Qui ? - Ton coeur

lit. What is that which I hear? That’s me! Who? Your heart

Georgi. What’s that I hear? It’s me. Who? Your heart

Que penses-tu ? - Etre homme de valeur.

lit. What do you think? To be a man of value.

Georgi. What’s you’re plan? To be a good and worthy man.

– Dont vient ce mal ? - Il vient de mon malheur. 

lit. From where comes this evil? It comes from my misfortune.

Georgi. What’s the source of this mess? Just my bad luck.

Already by this third example, however, some of the ways in which Georgi adjusted the language in order to better convey the tone are becoming evident. French, let alone late-1400s Parisian Middle French, is a very different language from Modern English. Idiomatic turns of phrase in context simply cannot be rendered directly for their textbook meanings while keeping the intent behind the words intact (let alone the meter, tempo, sound-symbolism, and so on). In that third example, for instance, an air of casual flippancy is preserved in Villon’s attitude in his response to his heart that otherwise would easily be lost. What is lost instead here, aside from the one-for-one semantics, is the pace of the line. “Dont vient ce mal?” is a rapid 4-syllable question which is quite difficult to render with the same sense of speed (and thus urgency). Georgi seemingly tries to make up for this loss of tempo by shortening Villon’s response.

While most of Georgi’s translation is as faithful as seen above, there are a few segments which stick out as having been more liberally altered.

– N'attends pas tant que tourne à déplaisance.

lit. Don’t wait too long as it turns complacently.

Georgi. Not too long; it’s not a thing to do at whim.

– Tu es perdu ! - J'y mettrai résistance.

lit. You are lost! I will put up a resistance.

Georgi. You’re doomed! I’ll put up a pretty good fight.

Even where Georgi does stray semantically, however, there is an effort to preserve connotations and imagery present in the original text. This is, perhaps, the motivation behind changing “lost” to “doomed” in the previous example, but more clearly:

– Se fusse un pauvre idiot et folet,
Encore eusses de t'excuser couleur :

lit. If you were a poor idiot and foil,
Then I would excuse you color:

Georgi. If you were some poor idiot, a dolt,
you would have a shade of an excuse,

Here, some clever linguistic gymnastics are performed in order to retain the idiomatic usage and accompanying imagery of “color” (“couleur”). In summary, while Georgi’s translation does make use of artistic license, he is remarkably true to the original text. This translation uses uncomplicated language, fitting the original, but it may be observed that this high degree of fidelity to the original has its drawbacks. While the language used is simple, Georgi’s translation lacks the pedestrian vulgarity that the original likely had in the minds of Villon’s contemporaries, and in places might sound somewhat antiquated to the modern reader. There is an argument to be made that this is appropriate, as the text itself is in fact rather antiquated. This contrasts sharply, however, with the school of thought through which Yuill translated the same work.

Tom Yuill Translation

If the thesis of Georgi’s translation is semantic or lexical fidelity, then the thesis of Yuill’s translation is to recreate the contemporary feeling of the text at any cost.

– Tu as trente ans - C'est l'âge d'un mulet
– Est-ce enfance ? - Nenni. - C'est donc foleur
Qui te saisit ? - Par où ? Par le collet ?

lit. “You’re thirty years old.” That’s the age of a mule.
“It’s a childhood?” No. “So it’s madness
who grabs you?” By where? By the collar?

Yuill. “You’re over thirty now.” The mule’s pissed away
His salad days? “You’re either childish or depressed.”
Indentured, not indented, since you ask. Oh, and I’m stressed.

Taken out of context like this, Yuill’s rendition hardly seems to be a “translation” per se at all. Yuill more or less abandons tidy line-by-line fidelity and re-arranges elements across lines and chooses entirely distinct idiomatic phrasings. In this example, “Indentured, not indented, since you ask” seems to speak to the same snide attitude as “By where? By the collar?” (“Par où ? Par le collet ?”), which is rendered by Georgi as “Yes, by the neck, or something.” Notably, neither translator opted to retain this ostensibly sarcastic jab in the form of a question, as in the original.

– Je n'en crois rien : tel qu'ils m'ont fait serai.

lit. I don’t believe that: as they made me, so I’ll be.

Yuill. I think not: my hand’s dealt, I play.

In this example, the idiomatic nature of Yuill’s translation is more plainly apparent, especially when contrasted with Georgi’s translation, which is very nearly a simple direct translation of the line: “Not so. As they have made me, so I’ll be.”

The Refrain

Each stanza of the poem ends with the same line:

Villon. Plus ne t'en dis - Et je m'en passerai.
lit. I tell you no more. – And I’ll do without it.

Both translators handle this differently, and naturally there is more to say about Yuill’s rendering here. Georgi opts to translate it fairly straightforward:

I’ve nothing more to say. That suits me fine.

Yuill, meanwhile, slightly varies the refrain at the end of some of the staves. The line is thus rendered three different ways:

“I’ve tried to warn you.” Thanks, I’ve tried to listen.
“I’m trying to warn you.” Thanks. I’m trying to listen.
“I’m trying to help you.” Thanks, I’m trying to listen.

The first of these appears at the end of the 1st, 2nd, and 5th staves; the second of these appears at the end of the 3rd, and the third appears at the end of the 4th. I would hazard a guess that this is meant to highlight how Villon (or his self-characterization) seems to begin to come round to his heart’s ideas, but ultimately the argument goes nowhere, leaving the conclusion open-ended.

The Acrostic Signature

Villon stamps the poem quite literally by including his name as an acrostic in the final stanza (excluding the refrain).

– Veux-tu vivre ? - Dieu m'en doint la puissance !
– Il le faut . . . - Quoi ? - Remords de conscïence,
Lire sans fin. - En quoi ? - Lire en scïence,
Laisser les fous ! - Bien j'y aviserai.
– Or le retiens ! - J'en ai bien souvenance.
– N'attends pas tant que tourne à déplaisance.

Both translators preserve this signature in their translations by different means, but although each translator uses a different word at the start of each line in order to fulfull the acrostic, the resulting translations are remarkably similar.

Georgi.

Value your life, man? I’ll live if God lets me.
It would take . . . Take what? The sting of remorse and
Long years of study. What? Read philosophy,
Leave fools behind. Well, I’ll keep that in mind.
Oh will you now? Sure, I’ll think it over.
Not too long; it’s not a thing to do at whim.

Yuill.

“Vow to live like this, huh?” God grant me the strength.
“If you do, you’ll need—“ What?” –a twinge of conscience,
Lots of books—“ Which books? “—some literature, and think:
Less time spent with fools might help, too.” I’ll think about it.
“Oh, no you won’t.” I will. Now will I change? I doubt it—
“Nothing good will come of living just on whims.

While the two translations differ in many ways, they also converge on a few decisions in this final stanza. For example, both idiomatically translate “N'attends pas tant que tourne à déplaisance” (lit. “Don’t wait too long as it turns complacently”) using an expression involving “whim.” Both translations render “scïence” (lit. “science,” which would have contemporarily had a broader scope of meaning) using words which indicate the liberal arts which we today may think of as antithetical to science (as “philosophy” and “literature” respectively).

A New Translation

In conclusion, I offer a new, original translation. It aims to strike a middle ground between the work of Georgi and Yuill, though whether or not this is achieved I leave to the reader.

What’s that I hear? ”It’s me!” Who? ”Your heart
And I’m holding on by a tiny thread:
I have no more vigor, no more vital liquor,
when I see you withdraw to such isolation,
like some poor dog kicked into a corner.”
Why’s that? ”Because of your destructive pleasures.”
Why bother me? ”Well, I’m the one who suffers.”
Oh, leave me in peace. ”Why?” I’ll think about it.
”When will that be?” When I’m out of my childhood.
”Wow. I have nothing more to say to you.” Fine by me.

”Well, what’s your plan?” To be a man of value.
”You’re already thirty.” Sure, a lifetime, if you’re a mule.
”So it’s all been childhood?” Certainly not. ”Has madness
already grabbed you?” Grabbed me? Where, by the collar?
”How ignorant.” If you say. ”Are you not?” Two flies in milk:
one white, one black – that’s the difference between us.
”…Are you done?” What do you want me to say?
If that’s not enough for you, I can go on.
”You are lost!” Whatever, I’ve put up the good fight.
”Tsk. I have nothing more to say to you” Fine by me.

”I mourn and grieve you; but, the pain is yours.
If only you were some poor, clueless idiot,
then I might owe you some hue of an apology.
But you don’t care, it’s all the same shade of grey to you.
Either your head is harder than a rock,
or rather than flying high, you prefer this drudgery!
What do you have to say about that?”
None of it is my problem once I die.
”God, how comforting! What sage eloquence!
Hah! I have nothing more to say to you.” Fine by me.

”Just where is all this coming from?” Just my lack of luck.
When Saturn packed up my life for me,
he included all this worry and stress. ”Nonsense:
you think it’s divine influence on you, but you are Saturn.
Take a look at what Solomon wrote:
‘Wise men,’ he said, ‘have complete power
over the planets and over their influence.’”
I don’t believe that: as I was made, so I’ll be.
”That’s what you think?” Yes! Honestly, that’s my belief.
”Sigh. I have nothing more to say to you.” Fine by me.

”Vices are all you live for, eh?” As long a life as God gives me.
”In that case…” What? ”You need to feel your guilty conscience.
Learn and read, endlessly.” Read what? ”Read science, or philosophy.
Leave behind the stupidity!” Alright, I’ll think about it.
”Oh, do remember to!” I have a pretty good memory.
”Now don’t take too long just turning over these thoughts idly.
…Well, I have nothing more to say to you.” Fine by me.

Qu'est ce que j'oi ? - Ce suis-je ! - Qui ? - Ton coeur
Qui ne tient mais qu'à un petit filet :
Force n'ai plus, substance ne liqueur,
Quand je te vois retrait ainsi seulet
Com pauvre chien tapi en reculet.
– Pour quoi est-ce ? - Pour ta folle plaisance.
– Que t'en chaut-il ? - J'en ai la déplaisance.
– Laisse-m'en paix. - Pour quoi ? - J'y penserai.
– Quand sera-ce ? - Quand serai hors d'enfance.
– Plus ne t'en dis. - Et je m'en passerai.

– Que penses-tu ? - Etre homme de valeur.
– Tu as trente ans - C'est l'âge d'un mulet
– Est-ce enfance ? - Nenni. - C'est donc foleur
Qui te saisit ? - Par où ? Par le collet ?
– Rien ne connois. - Si fais. - Quoi ? - Mouche en lait ;
L'un est blanc, l'autre est noir, c'est la distance.
– Est-ce donc tout ? - Que veux-tu que je tance ?
Se n'est assez, je recommencerai.
– Tu es perdu ! - J'y mettrai résistance.
– Plus ne t'en dis. - Et je m'en passerai.

– J'en ai le deuil ; toi, le mal et douleur.
Se fusse un pauvre idiot et folet,
Encore eusses de t'excuser couleur :
Si n'as-tu soin, tout t'est un, bel ou laid.
Ou la tête as plus dure qu'un jalet,
Ou mieux te plaît qu'honneur cette méchance !
Que répondras à cette conséquence ?
– J'en serai hors quand je trépasserai.
– Dieu, quel confort ! Quelle sage éloquence !
– Plus ne t'en dis. - Et je m'en passerai.

– Dont vient ce mal ? - Il vient de mon malheur. 
Quand Saturne me fit mon fardelet,
Ces maux y mit, je le croi. - C'est foleur :
Son seigneur es, et te tiens son varlet. 
Vois que Salmon écrit en son rolet ;
" Homme sage, ce dit-il, a puissance
Sur planètes et sur leur influence. "
– Je n'en crois rien : tel qu'ils m'ont fait serai.
– Que dis-tu ? - Da ! certes, c'est ma créance.
– Plus ne t'en dis. - Et je m'en passerai.

– Veux-tu vivre ? - Dieu m'en doint la puissance !
– Il le faut... - Quoi ? - Remords de conscïence,
Lire sans fin. - En quoi ? - Lire en scïence,
Laisser les fous ! - Bien j'y aviserai.
– Or le retiens ! - J'en ai bien souvenance.
– N'attends pas tant que tourne à déplaisance.
Plus ne t'en dis - Et je m'en passerai.