(no subject)

My friendly virus is being slow to leave, so I have pruned my next few weeks down to manageable size. There are some things I am going to hate skipping, but I am not going to risk missing another night's teaching. I now have to wait till next Tuesday to introduce an enthusiastic horde to the joys of Richard I's poetry. It will be a long, long wait.

Actually, Richard was a fine poet and the music to his most famous poem is delightful. It is the sentiments he expresses in the poem that are not quite so delightful. I originally translated his rotrouenge for Susan (hi, Susan, if you're out there) and am pasting it here for your delectation. It is a rough and ready translation (and please don't use it without giving your source, asks Gillian, in semi-scholarly mode and in return I can footnote it if anyone asks questions that inspire footnoterly comments), because translation is not my strength, but it gives you a sense of Richard the person and maybe a feel for why I will never, ever be a fan of his no matter what fascinating shenagigans he got up to with sugar cane outside Messina. How can someone so tall and muscular and glorious be such an utter self-centred twerp? (For the record, capnoblivious that was a rhetorical question.)

Richard wrote this while he was in prison, on his return from Crusade and, to state the obvious, ransom was slow coming. The original is in Old French. I wish I could communicate nuances better.

Never has someone taken given his raison
clearly unless he has spoken with sadness;
But for comfort he can make a song.
I have many friends, but their gifts are poor;
Shamed they are, if through lack of ransom
I am two winters imprisoned.

They know well, my men and my barons,
English, Norman, Poitevin and Gascon,
that I have never had such a poor companion
Who I would ever leave in prison due to lack of money.
I do not say this with any reproach;
But I am yet imprisoned.

Now I know well and with certainty
That the dead and the prisoner have neither friend nor family,
This gives me sorrow for myself, but even more for my people,
Who after my death will have so much reproach,
If I am imprisoned long.

It is no wonder that I have a sad heart,
When my lord makes my land suffer.
If he would remember our oath
That we made together,
I know well in truth that for such a long time
I would not be imprisoned.

They know well, the Angevins and the Touraines,
Those knights who are rich and healthy
That I am burdened far from them in the hands of another.
They loved me greatly, but now, not at all.
They do not see grand feats of arms on the land
While I am imprisoned.

My companions who I have loved and who I love,
Of Caheu, and of Percherain,
Tell me, song, why they are not true:
Never has my heart been false or fitful towards them.
If they go to war against me, they will be truly lowly/villainous
While I am imprisoned.

Countess sister, your great renown
Be defended and protected by those to whom I complain
And for whom I am imprisoned.
I do not speak of that one from Chartrain,
The mother of Louis.