When I first opened a copy of Maynard’s poems (Paris, 1648), the vignette of the publisher Augustin “curvata resurgo” Courbé stole the show, and I got interested (www.rarebookhub.com/articles/4083). Back to poetry now, as man shall not live by bread alone, but by a few epigrams as well—especially when they’re as spicy as Maynard’s.
No Wit Outside Paris
Although most poetry collections from the 17th and 18th centuries feature some poems by François Maynard (1582-1646), he’s never been considered as a major writer. He courted the princes of the world at Court, but failed to catch the attention. This was partly due to the fact that he was a “provincial”, or a countryman—meaning he wasn’t from Paris or Versailles, where the Court was. As Pierre-Jacques Brillon, La Bruyère’s so-called successor, wrote: “We may talk about the province/countryside, but there’s not much to say; the climates remote from the Court, or Paris, will never produce any wit or polite manners.”
The Smell of Muddy Spirits
The son of a former councillor at the Parliament of Toulouse, Maynard received a fine education. As a young man, he accompanied the Duke of Noailles to Rome, and the Pope enjoyed his company. Back to Versailles, Maynard tried to seduce Cardinal Richelieu with his pen, and bitterly resented the politician’s indifference: “If (the King François 1er) asks me about the good you did to me in the world / what do you want me to answer?” Richelieu heard about those verses and answered: “Nothing.”
After decades of inefficient courtship, Maynard retired near Toulouse, haunted with regrets: “My mind is cured; the madness is gone / I shall not disguise my thoughts anymore / Or dispense my incense, bending my knee / While cowardly court those spirits of mud that fortune elevates to the highest level whenever she feels like mocking us.” His poems enjoyed some success, nevertheless—but some people recognized themselves in his satirical verses, and dragged his name in the mud. Notwithstanding, Maynard’s style is very elegant, although the authoritative François de Malherbe (1955-1628) thought it lacked strength.
Jolly Satirical Fellow
Maynard’s Works remains a valuable book, especially his epigrams. Most of them are spicy: “Paul, your youth and health can challenge the cemetery / Tell me, ain’t you ashamed of going only on a litter? (...) / Veymard says you’re no good, that your courage is sick inside a healthy body.”
Or: “Colin is a capricious man, whose brain is troubled with love / This lunatic wants to gouge out all eyes that contemplate those of Isabelle / He locked her up while in her greenest season, and she’s slowly getting dry and pale / I suggest this idiot to love no one but himself, if he intends to love without rivals.”
Maynard was also famous for his lewd poems that apparently never made it to the press. But there’s also tenderness in his poetry. “You’ve met my great-grandparents / Your breath has lost its smell of amber / And the darkness covering your eyes forces you to stay inside / But Lyse, your old age doesn’t repel me yet / And my heart loves your sunset as much as it loved your sunrise / The snow that paints your hair shall not cool down my ardour / The thinness of your arm stings me / Your wrinkles are beauties to me / And the cold that you caught makes the music that rocks my spirit.”
We’re not surprised to read in Chaudon’s dictionary (Lyon, 1804) that Maynard “was a man of honour, and a good friend. He was (...) cheerful. As he loved feasting and drinking, he was particularly brilliant while holding a glass in his hand.” He was also one of the first supporters of the young La Fontaine.
For Sale
Les Oeuvres de Maynard (Paris, 1646), is a beautifully printed in-4° book featuring a portrait of the author engraved by P. Daret. According to the Ader auction house that offered a copy for sale in 2015, “this edition that Maynard supervised contains 268 poems, 173 of which were previously unpublished. 150 works that were featured in previous compilations were left aside.” This precise copy didn’t meet the reserve price of €400/500. Pierre Bergé and Associés sold a copy for €875, in 2013. Two copies are currently for sale on eBay.fr: a nice one for €1,200, and a not so nice for €780 (or best offer). Booksellers on Abebooks tend to ask around €1,500 for a nice copy.
Maynard was never fully recognized, yet his works were published by one of the best publishers of his time (Augustin Courbé), and he became one of the first members of the prestigious Académie Française. But, he never really reached the heights he expected, and the verses he wrote at the door of his cabinet at the end of his life sound like the epitaph of a living man: “Tired of complaining, tired of waiting upon the Muses and the princes of this world / Here I wait upon death without haste or fear.”
Thibault Ehrengardt
