In our mixed world, full of green fields and happy lovers, where not
long before Joan of Arc had led one of the highest and noblest lives in
the whole story of mankind, this was all worth chronicling that our poet
could perceive. His eyes were indeed sealed with his own filth. He dwelt
all his life in a pit more noisome than the dungeon at Méun. In the
moral world, also, there are large phenomena not cognisable out of
holes and corners. Loud winds blow, speeding home deep-laden ships and
sweeping rubbish from the earth; the lightning leaps and cleans the face
of heaven; high purposes and brave passions shake and sublimate men's
spirits; and meanwhile, in the narrow dungeon of his soul, Villon is
mumbling crusts and picking vermin. Along with this deadly gloom of outlook, we must take another
characteristic of his work, its unrivalled insincerity. I can give no
better similitude of this quality than I have given already: that he
comes up with a whine and runs away with a whoop and his finger to his
nose. His pathos is that of a professional mendicant who should happen
to be a man of genius; his levity that of a bitter street arab, full of
bread. On a first reading, the pathetic passages preoccupy the reader,
and he is cheated out of an alms in the shape of sympathy. But when the
thing is studied the illusion fades away: in the transitions, above all,
we can detect the evil, ironical temper of the man; and instead of a
flighty work, where many crude but genuine feelings tumble together for
the mastery as in the lists of tournament, we are tempted to think of
the "Large Testament" as of one long-drawn epical grimace, pulled by a
merry-andrew, who has found a certain despicable eminence over human
respect and human affections by perching himself astride upon the
gallows. Between these two views, at best, all temperate judgments will
be found to fall; and rather, as I imagine, towards the last. There were two things on which he felt with perfect and, in one case,
even threatening sincerity. The first of these was an undisguised envy of those richer than himself. He was for ever drawing a parallel, already exemplified from his own
words, between the happy life of the well-to-do and the miseries of the
poor. Burns, too proud and honest not to work, continued through all
reverses to sing of poverty with a light, defiant note. Béranger waited
till he was himself beyond the reach of want before writing the "Old
Vagabond" or "Jacques." Samuel Johnson, although he was very sorry to
be poor, "was a great arguer for the advantages of poverty" in his ill
days. Thus it is that brave men carry their crosses, and smile with the
fox burrowing in their vitals. But Villon, who had not the courage to be
poor with honesty, now whiningly implores our sympathy, now shows his
teeth upon the dung-heap with an ugly snarl. He envies bitterly, envies
passionately. Poverty, he protests, drives men to steal, as hunger makes
the wolf sally from the forest. The poor, he goes on, will always have a
carping word to say, or, if that outlet be denied, nourish rebellious
thoughts. It is a calumny on the noble army of the poor. Thousands in a
small way of life, ay, and even in the smallest, go through life with
tenfold as much honour and dignity and peace of mind as the rich
gluttons whose dainties and state-beds awakened Villon's covetous
temper. And every morning's sun sees thousands who pass whistling to
their toil. But Villon was the "_mauvais pauvre_" defined by Victor
Hugo, and, in its English expression, so admirably stereotyped by
Dickens. He was the first wicked _sans-culotte_. He is the man of genius
with the moleskin cap. He is mighty pathetic and beseeching here in the
street, but I would not go down a dark road with him for a large
consideration. The second of the points on which he was genuine and emphatic was common
to the middle ages; a deep and somewhat snivelling conviction of the
transitory nature of this life and the pity and horror of death. Old age
and the grave, with some dark and yet half-sceptical terror of an
after-world--these were ideas that clung about his bones like a disease. An old ape, as he says, may play all the tricks in its repertory, and
none of them will tickle an audience into good humour. "_Tousjours vieil
synge est desplaisant._" It is not the old jester who receives most
recognition at a tavern party, but the young fellow, fresh and handsome,
who knows the new slang, and carries off his vice with a certain air. Of
this, as a tavern jester himself, he would be pointedly conscious. As
for the women with whom he was best acquainted, his reflections on their
old age, in all their harrowing pathos, shall remain in the original for
me. Horace has disgraced himself to something the same tune; but what
Horace throws out with an ill-favoured laugh, Villon dwells on with an
almost maudlin whimper. It is in death that he finds his truest inspiration; in the swift and
sorrowful change that overtakes beauty; in the strange revolution by
which great fortunes and renowns are diminished to a handful of
churchyard dust; and in the utter passing away of what was once lovable
and mighty. It is in this that the mixed texture of his thought enables
him to reach such poignant and terrible effects, and to enhance pity
with ridicule, like a man cutting capers to a funeral march. It is in
this also that he rises out of himself into the higher spheres of art. So, in the ballade by which he is best known, he rings the changes on
names that once stood for beautiful and queenly women, and are now no
more than letters and a legend. "Where are the snows of yester year?" runs the burden. And so, in another not so famous, he passes in review
the different degrees of bygone men, from the holy Apostles and the
golden Emperor of the East, down to the heralds, pursuivants, and
trumpeters, who also bore their part in the world's pageantries and ate
greedily at great folks' tables: all this to the refrain of "So much
carry the winds away!" Probably, there was some melancholy in his mind
for a yet lower grade, and Montigny and Colin de Cayeux clattering their
bones on Paris gibbet. Alas, and with so pitiful an experience of life,
Villon can offer us nothing but terror and lamentation about death! No
one has ever more skilfully communicated his own disenchantment; no one
ever blown a more ear-piercing note of sadness. This unrepentant thief
can attain neither to Christian confidence nor to the spirit of the
bright Greek saying, that whom the gods love die early. It is a poor
heart, and a poorer age, that cannot accept the conditions of life with
some heroic readiness. *       *       *       *       *

The date of the "Large Testament" is the last date in the poet's
biography. After having achieved that admirable and despicable
performance, he disappears into the night from whence he came. How or
when he died, whether decently in bed or trussed up to a gallows,
remains a riddle for foolhardy commentators.