Pauvre Rutebeuf (1956), by Léo Ferré
Little is known about Rutebeuf except that he was a 13th century person of the male persuasion, born in 1230 and presumably died about 1285, nearly one thousand years ago. Extrapolating from his name, which is probably a nickname, he may have been a hearty soul (“rude boeuf”). He hailed from the Champagne region but spent most of his time in Paris. Much of what we do know about him appears in his own writings. For example, he claims that in 1261 he married an ugly old woman with neither charm nor dowry, and a series of misfortunes eventually brought him poverty and misery. It is thought that he had some formal education and worked as a juggler (jongleur) and troubadour (trouvère). As with Shakespeare, it is not really known whether Rutebeuf was a single individual. What IS known is that 56 related poems have been attributed to him--a large and diverse oeuvre.
Among his works were: Le Mariage Rutebeuf (“The Rutebeuf Marriage”), La Complainte Rutebeuf (“The Rutebeuf Complaint”), Le Dit de l’herberie (“The Tale of the Herb Market”), and a miracle play, Le Miracle de Théophile (“The Miracle of Theophilus”). He composed several elegies of prominent princes, stories (fabliaux) that satirized the friars of the day, and adventure stories (contes).
Notre Dame de Paris, North Transept Portal Tympanum, c 1250
The “miracle play” presents a theatrical representation about a cleric (Theophilus) who sells his soul to the devil but the virgin intervenes to reclaim the contract from the devil. This story (which pre-dated Rutebeuf) was sufficiently popular to inspire sculptures on the tympanum of the north transept portal at Notre Dame de Paris, carved around 1250 during Rutebeuf’s youth (left).
Rutebeuf broke with poetic conventions of the time and this rupture carried his name through history as the most important poet of his century. Unlike the conventional courtly poets, who glamorized the lives of the rich and famous, Rutebeuf expressed personal feelings and detailed the miseries and difficulties of his own life, making him something of a precursor of François Villon two centuries later.
When Léo Ferré composed his 1955 song “Pauvre Rutebeuf,” he selected verses from two of Rutebeuf’s poems: La Complainte Rutebeuf (“The Rutebeuf Complaint”) and De La Griesche d’Yver (“Winter Gambling”). La Griesche has a double meaning in old French: it was a popular medieval dice game and, by extension, also means risk. Ferré’s release of his song in 1956 encouraged covers by many other artists, including one by Joan Baez in 1965 that brought poor Rutebeuf much-needed international attention. So, the lyrics to Ferré’s song are effectively Rutebeuf’s, filtered through translations of his old French dialect and Ferré’s adaptation. Ferré composed the music and the performances belong to the artists.
Spoiler: One salty line in this poem/song is sometimes censored by various performers (e.g. Nana Mouskouri). It is the fourth line in the fourth stanza: “Et droit au cul quand bise vente” (“And right up my ass when north wind blows”). It remains intact in the version below.
Rutebeuf’s poems assure his place in history. More recently in 1968, the town of Clichy west of Paris named a theater after him and in 2003 astronomers at the French Saint-Sulpice Observatory discovered and named an asteroid after him.
The performances by Léo Ferré and Joan Baez are different but appealing, so both are included below. Léo’s comes first since he assembled the lyrics from the poems and wrote the music, and you can follow the lyrics and translation just below his video. Baez’s version follows and includes its own French and English subtitles. Both are fine interpretations, but different. Ferré composed a great melody. The story laments lost friends, a failed life, the winds of time, the demise of love, but ends with a thin thread of hope.
The performances by Léo Ferré and Joan Baez are different but appealing, so both are included below. Léo’s comes first since he assembled the lyrics from the poems and wrote the music, and you can follow the lyrics and translation just below his video. Baez’s version follows and includes its own French and English subtitles. Both are fine interpretations, but different. Ferré composed a great melody. The story laments lost friends, a failed life, the winds of time, the demise of love, but ends with a thin thread of hope.
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Que sont mes amis devenus Que j'avais de si près tenus Et tant aimés Ils ont été trop clairsemés Je crois le vent les a ôtés L'amour est morte Ce sont amis que vent emporte Et il ventait devant ma porte Les emporta Avec le temps qu'arbre défeuille Quand il ne reste en branche feuille Qui n'aille à terre Avec pauvreté qui m'atterre Qui de partout me fait la guerre Au temps d'hiver Ne convient pas que vous raconte Comment je me suis mis à honte En quelle manière Que sont mes amis devenus Que j'avais de si près tenus Et tant aimés Ils ont été trop clairsemés Je crois le vent les a ôtés L'amour est morte Le mal ne sait pas seul venir Tout ce qui m'était à venir M'est avenu Pauvre sens et pauvre mémoire M'a Dieu donné le roi de gloire Et pauvres rentes Et droit au cul quand bise vente Le vent me vient, le vent m'évente L'amour est morte Ce sont amis que vent emporte Et il ventait devant ma porte Les emporta L'espérance de lendemain Ce sont mes fêtes |
What has become of my friends Whom I had held so close And loved so much They became too scattered, I think the wind removed them. Love is dead These are friends that the wind takes And wind blew at my door Took them away. With weather that strips the trees When there remain no leaves on branches That fall to earth. With poverty that flattens me That from everywhere embattles me In winter time It is not right to tell you How I disgraced myself, In what way. What has become of my friends Who I had held so close And loved so much They became too scattered, I think the wind removed them. Love is dead. Misfortune never comes alone. All I was fated to endure Has befallen me. Little sense and bad memory God gave me, the king of glory And little income And right up my ass when north wind blows The wind comes to me and fans me, Love is dead. They are friends that wind takes And wind blew at my door Took them away. The hope of tomorrow Those are my feasts |