DEATH ANNOUNCEMENT
HÉLÈNE MARIE AUBRY
12 October 1941 – 30 September 2020
Sorbonne professor of medieval literature who made Old French sound like yesterday
Hélène Aubry liked to tell her first-year students that her Middle Ages began in July 1944, when her mother pushed her out of a burning Caen in a borrowed pram, with a single book under the blanket: a battered Chanson de Roland. She was two. Whether the story was true, she said, was beside the point; it explained everything.
She grew up in Bayeux, won a place at the Lycée Fénelon in Paris, and went on to the École normale supérieure at Sèvres. She passed the agrégation in classical literature in 1964 and taught at a lycée in Évreux before the Sorbonne claimed her in 1970. For thirty-five years she taught Old French and medieval literature there, supervised thirty-seven doctoral theses, and made the lais of Marie de France and the romances of Chrétien de Troyes sound as though they had been written the previous Tuesday.
She lived for most of her adult life in a small apartment on the rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève, above a bookshop, with Marguerite Lefèvre, her partner of forty years and a restorer of illuminated manuscripts. They shared the Sunday market on the rue Mouffetard, a corner table on the Place de la Contrescarpe and a quarrel about whether Lancelot was a hero or a menace that ran at a gentle boil from 1978 to the end. Hélène swam every morning at the Piscine Pontoise, regardless of strikes or snow, and always arrived at her lectures with wet hair and perfect composure.
She was a demanding teacher, famous for her red pen and for the phrase 'Try again, but this time with feeling.' Students who once feared her kept her letters for decades. In retirement she translated the lais into a clear modern French and gave free evening lectures at a public library in the 13th arrondissement for anyone who cared to come, which meant retirees, students and, memorably, one plumber who stayed for three years.
Hélène died on 30 September 2020 at home in Paris, with Marguerite beside her and the window open to the street. She leaves Marguerite, her nephew Antoine, her niece Camille, and several generations of former students who still hear her voice when they pick up a pen.
“Try again, but this time with feeling.”