History recalls a few working-poets such as Burns, a peasant; Hans Sacks, a shoemaker; or Master Adam, the carpenter from Nevers. They were the first working-artists in a time when birth was of the utmost importance. To come from the rabble made a vulgar man out of you; not even good verses could save you from such damnation.
Master Adam,
Craftsman-Poet:
If I had a hammer...
If I had a hammer, or rather a brace, I would write
verses to add my humble kingpin to the magnificent work of poetry—just like
Master Adam Billaut did. In the 17th
century, this carpenter-poet from Nevers, France, though deprived of all
literary education, as Voltaire put it, turned poet in his workshop.
But he was born a commoner in 1602, and was then reduced to create verses in
the middle of his tools and bottles, to quote Chaudon’s Dictionary
(Lyon, 1804). This situation lasted until he was 32; then he met the Abbot of
Marolles who read his verses to the Duchess of Nevers, and then decided to
promote them. “I was more than willing to expose his poems to the public who
would undoubtedly like them as much as I did. The following year he came to
Paris where he became acquainted with many people of quality,” wrote the
Abbot. Mr. Adam’s life changed for the better—but during the Grand Siècle, a
leopard couldn’t change its spots, or a commoner turn a respectable poet.
Adam Billaut came to Paris where he eventually became a
relative of Saint-Amand who introduced him to several literary salons. The court
soon grew infatuated with this carpenter who prided himself on writing verses.
Adam got some recognition but could never rise above the rank of burlesque
or Bacchic writer. As a matter of fact, noticing he had afterwards sunk
into oblivion, the 1731 edition of Moreri’s Dictionary underlined: “It
was quite inevitable for an author of his rank.” Adam used his social
position as a selling point, entitling his first collection of poems-The
Kingpins—and got trapped. But he was probably ready to endure a certain
amount of mockery, or humiliation, to finally get the recognition he wished
for.
In The Kingpins, he sought the Approbation of
the Parnassus and published a hundred pages of dedicatory epistles from
various poets. “He loved praises, and begged for dedicatory verses,”
read Moreri’s Dictionary. “Everyone complied, and those who couldn’t
write them had them written by friends.” Most of them were just basic plays
on words about his ambivalent condition. Saint-Amand, his mentor, wrote he
could build verses as well as furniture; Scarron said he was writing
verses with a plane-pushing hand. Corneille, Benserade or Quinet were
among the numerous writers who said a silly word about this silly
work—Mr. Scudery even wondered whether he was a genius or a monster. The
then famous painter Mr. Chauveau drew the portrait of the author that was added
as a frontispiece to the first edition of The Kingpins (in-4°, chez
Quinet—1644). A few months later, every one in Paris was singing along his song
As soon as the light comes back to gild our hills—his most popular piece
of work ever. “It is said,” continued Moreri’s Dictionary, “that
he obtained a pension from Monsieur Duke of Orléans, Gaston Jean-Baptiste.”
He became a curiosity at court where he was called the planing Virgil, and
even ventured into politics. Indeed, in 1651, he published a Mazarinade—a
text against Cardinal Mazarin—entitled Le Claquet de la Fronde, as well
as an epigram on the same topic. “These pieces that brought nothing to his
reputation,” underlined C. Moreau in his Bibliographie des Mazarinades
(Paris, 1850), “were first re-published in the 1840 edition of his works.”
Pensions
When I first came across Adam’s works, I thought it was a
joke—or a literary fraud. A craftsman-poet from the 17th
century who entitled his works The Kingpins or The Plane? Come
on... History recalls a few working-poets, though; such as Burns, a peasant;
Hans Sacks, a shoemaker; or a pastry cook from the same period, who even stated
that Adam’s works made more noise, but that his own were more fiery. They were
the first working-artists in a time when education was the privilege of a few,
and when birth was of the utmost importance. To come from a dignified family
would place you above the rest, and insure you respect and privileges. To come
from the rabble, on the contrary, made a vulgar man out of you; not even good
verses could save you from such damnation. No doubt these working-artists were
regularly mocked and made fun at in society. Furthermore, Adam could be trivial
at times. As a matter of fact, Jean Pinet, who published his complete works in
1842, cut off the incriminating passages to print them separately. Adam wrote
about wine and its consequences, about farting too; some asses and whores
would also pop up every now and then. Worse, some of his poems lacked
polishing—or should we say planing? Ferdinand Denis, who wrote the Biographic
and literary notice of the Pinet edition, blamed it on the lack of time.
Several persons of quality including Richelieu and the Prince of Condé
generously promised Adam a pension—but talk is cheap, and most of these
pensions were never honoured. Therefore, Adam was reduced to earning a living
as a carpenter.
Some of his poems also happened to be boring—mostly those
never-ending flattering epistles from his second collection, The Brace.
“Among a lot of dull verses, we find a few happy lines,” stated Chaudon.
Moreri’s Dictionary added: “His works did good to him, but can’t make
him a good poet.” In 1842, mentalities had evolved regarding
working-artists, and Ferdinand Denis justified the author: “The centuries
have been misled; Voltaire himself saw in Master Adam nothing but a cabaret
poet (...). But we must speak up now! To say that Adam Billaut was a
disheartened poet with elevated thoughts (...) who was forced to sing
Bacchic songs, and to liven up some noisy orgies where, a miserable host, he
excited both mockery and admiration.” But Master Adam genuinely enjoyed the
cabaret, as confessed to a Lord who complained of his not attending his
dinners: “In this place (...) everything pleases my belly, / Here I
despise war heartily, / And the bottom of a whore / Ain’t worth a glass of
liquor.” There was something melancholic about him too—probably since the
death of his beloved mother. “Ever since the sad and fateful hour, / When
the messenger of despair came to tell me: (...) Your mother has died
from the plague, / I haven’t stopped sighing, I haven’t stopped crying.”
Death is omnipresent in his poems, and he had morbid images reminiscent of the
poetry of the middle age. He was far from the fashionable love epigrams of the
time—he knew it, and didn’t care. Ronsard was his model, but he saw a
rose withering with tenderness, if not with pleasure: “Even though you are
but a withered flower, / How happy I am, proud Rose / To see these changes
chasing my rivals away forever.”
Adam’s
favour only lasted for a time. He was in an uncomfortable position, so he
walked away and came back to Nevers. As Chaudon put it: “He stuck to
mediocrity to preserve his happiness.” In his dictionary, Pierre Bayle
wrote he was then living in poverty, which sounds quite exaggerated as his
protector, Marie de Gonzague, appointed him bailiff of the court of accounts of
the Nivernais before she left for Poland. The Duke of Nevers, from his part,
graciously sheltered him until his death in 1662—Mr. Adam’s house still stands
today.
Epitaph
Master Adam left two pieces of work, The Kingpins
(1644) and The Brace (1663). A third one, entitled The Plane, was
allegedly included in The Brace. Ferdinand Denis rated his first work
over the second one, which, he said, resented the old age and the misery of its
author—as a matter of fact it came out as a posthumous work. In the forewords,
Father Pothier even wrote: “I was finishing this preface when I heard about
Adam’s death.” Did anyone at Court weep over the carpenter of Nevers?
Chaudon wrote that he was quite appreciated, and the friend of all poets.
He sank into oblivion after a while
but was rehabilitated in the early 19th
century, mainly thanks to Jean Pinet who put out the definitive edition of his
complete works. Nowadays, the carpenter-poet is totally unknown—but a handful
of 350 year-old books still circulate among book lovers, and—who knows?-one
might eventually fall into the hands of a modern Abbot of Marolles, or another
Jean Pinet.
© Thibault Ehrengardt
Les Chevilles (The Kingpins-1644): gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k5569303x
Le Vilebrequin (The Brace-1664):
Poésies de Maître Adam Billaut
(Nevers, 1842):
Adam
Billaut’s house in Nevers: upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a7/Nevers_maison_adam_billaut_01.JPG
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