A Parisian Chanson

Summer school. The very words imply drudgery, long hours of being lectured to death, way too much homework, and a quiz every day. I'd say I have it rather easy.

I am a little over the middle hump of my summer course, Renaissance Music History with Dr. McFarland. We took the midterm last week, and I could easily brag about my grade, but I won't on the pretense of humility. Other than that dreaded exam, there is a cumulative final and two moderate essays, one of which is turned in, the other of which is due Tuesday after the long 4th of July weekend. My last essay was on Edinburgh and St. Andrews during the Renaissance. Not too bad for a topic. My upcoming essay is on the Missa Maria zart by Obrecht, a behemoth mass with way too much coolness for five pages. It's going to be a sardine-squish extraordinaire.

All of this to say that today I was sitting in class (again! really!) and trying to focus when a Parisian chanson jolted me awake. Chanson, shmanson, I know. There are about as many Renaissance chanson varieties as there are ways to eat an Oreo, and apart from diligently memorizing composers and song titles for the final, I'm really not a huge fan. Not the Twilight kind, anyway. But this chanson was different--while exemplifying the Parisian brand's lyric characteristics (think post-Josquin, first half of the 16th century, with a humanist-influenced emphasis on clear declamation of the text, simple counterpoint, an almost pervasive homorhythm, and tuneful melodic lines), it also managed to stand out from the roiling, bustling crowd. This was accomplished through an absolutely genius text. Parisian poets at this time were creating highly popular, textually subtle mini-masterpieces. Since anything I might say about this particular text will probably dull the finish, let's leave it untouched and unsmudged. I'll include the text both in the French and in an English translation done by Susan Jackson. Oh, and the composer is Claudin de Sermisy.

Je n'ay point plus d'affection
Je n’ay point plus d’affection,
Que ce qu’il me plaist d’en avoir,
Et si ne porte passion,
S’il ne me plaist la recepvoir.
J’ay gaigné sur moy tel pouvoir,
Tel credit et auctorité,
Que je commande a mon vouloir,
Rien n’y peult la fragilité.

I No Longer Have any Feelings
I no longer have any feelings,
except for those I wish to have;
and thus I have no passion,
if I do not wish to have such.
I have gained such power over myself,
such credit and authority,
that whatever I command to my own power,
fragility cannot overcome.

Ok, I can't help myself. One post scriptum: the idea that passion can be driven out from the self, although rather Vulcan, is fascinating. And the last line, "fragility cannot be overcome", is covered with layers of subtlety and potential. What do you think? Is the poet equating the previously-mentioned "passion" with "fragility"?