Sonnet 41

Quand au matin ma Deesse s’habille,

D’un riche or crespe ombrageant ses talons,

Et les filets de ses beaux cheveux blons

En cent façons en-onde et entortille :

 

Je l’accompare à l’escumiere fille

Qui or’pignant les siens brunement lons,

Or’ les frizant en mille crespillons,

Passoit la mer portée en sa coquille.

 

De femme humaine encore ne sont pas

Son ris, son front, ses gestes, ne ses pas,

Ne de ses yeux l’une et l’autre estincelle.

 

Rocs, eaux, ne bois, ne logent point en eux

Nymphe qui ait si follastres cheveux,

Ny l’oeil si beau, ny la bouche si belle.

 

 

 

                                                                      When my goddess dresses in the morning

                                                                      In the rich curling gold which shades her heels,

                                                                      And when she waves and twists a hundred ways

                                                                      The strands of her beautiful blonde hair;

 

                                                                      Then I compare her to the daughter of the foam

                                                                      Who, now combing her own long brown hair,

                                                                      Now fluffing it into a thousand little curls,

                                                                      Crossed the sea carried in her shell.

 

                                                                      No longer are they those of a human woman,

                                                                      Her smile, her brow, her gestures, her walk,

                                                                      Nor the sparkle in her two eyes.

 

                                                                      Rocks, waters and woods provide a home for no

                                                                      Nymph who has such maddening hair,

                                                                      Nor eye, nor lips so fair.

 

 

The image in the second quatrain will be familiar if you’ve ever seen Botticelli’s Venus in her shell; for this is she.

 

Only minor changes in Blanchemain’s chosen version: “Et que les rets de ses beaux cheveux blons” in line 3 (‘The nets of her beautiful blonde hair‘); in line 8 she “Nageoit à bord dedans une coquille” (‘Floated to land in a shell‘); but most oddly, in line 7, “jaunement lons” – so she too has blonde hair instead of contrasting brown!

 

 

 

Sonnet 42

Avec les lis les oeillets mesliez

N’égalent point le pourpre de sa face :

Ny l’or filé ses cheveux ne surpasse,

Ores tressez  et ores desliez.

 

De ses couraux en voute replies

Naist le doux ris qui mes soucis efface :

Et à l’envy la terre où elle passe,

Un pré de fleurs émaille sous ses piez.

 

D’ambre et de musq sa bouche est toute pleine,

Que diray plus ?  J’ay veu dedans la plaine,

Quand l’air tonnant se crevoit en cent lieux,

 

Son front serein, qui des Dieux s’est fait maistre,

De Jupiter rasserener la destre,

Et tout le ciel obeir à ses yeux.

 

 

 

                                                                      Carnations mixed with lilies

                                                                      In no way equal the pink of her face,

                                                                      Nor does golden thread surpass her hair,

                                                                      When it’s dressed or when it’s loose.

 

                                                                      Arching from her coral lips

                                                                      Is born that sweet smile which wipes away my cares;

                                                                      And with envy, the earth where she passes

                                                                      Bejewels the meadow with flowers beneath her feet.

 

                                                                      Her lips overflow with amber and musk;

                                                                      What more to say?  I’ve seen upon the plain

                                                                      When the thunderous air bursts in a hundred places

 

                                                                      Her calm brow, which has made itself master of the gods,

                                                                      Calming the right hand of Jupiter,

                                                                      And the whole of heaven obeying her eyes.

 

 

In this sonnet, Blanchemain offers a version where the final rhyming lines of each tercet are different, but the rest of the poem is essentially unchanged. (Though line 7 becomes “Et cà et là, partout où elle passe” (‘And here and there, wherever she passes‘.)  Here then is the modified final sestet:

 

 

D’ambre et de musq sa bouche est toute pleine ;

Que diray plus ?  J’ay veu dedans la plaine,

Lorsque plus fort le ciel vouloit tancer,

 

Son front serein, qui des dieux s’est fait maistre,

De Jupiter rasserener la destre,

Ja, ja courbé pour sa foudre élancer.

 

 

 

                                                                     Her lips overflow with amber and musk;

                                                                     What more to say?  I’ve seen upon the plain

                                                                     When heaven prepares to scold more strongly

 

                                                                     Her calm brow, which has made itself master of the gods,

                                                                     Calming the right hand of Jupiter,

                                                                     Already bent to throw his thunderbolt.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 43

Ores la crainte et ores l’esperance

De tous costez se campent en mon coeur:

Ny l’un ny l’autre au combat n’est veinqueur,

Pareils en force et en perseverance.

 

Ores douteux, ores plein d’asseurance,

Entre l’espoir le soupçon et la peur,

Pour ester en vain de moy-mesme trompeur,

Au coeur captif je promets delivrance.

 

Verray-je point avant mourir le temps,

Que je tondray la fleur de son printemps,

Sous qui ma vie à l’ombrage demeure ?

 

Verray-je point qu’en ses bras enlassé,

Recreu d’amour tout penthois et lassé,

D’un beau trespas entre ses bras je meure ?

 

 

 

 

                                                                      Now fear, and now hope,

                                                                      Plant themselves all around my heart;

                                                                      Not one nor the other is the winner in their battle,

                                                                      Equal in strength and perseverance.

 

                                                                      Now doubtful, now full of certainty,

                                                                      Between hope, suspicion and fear,

                                                                      To be my own deceiver in vain

                                                                      I promise deliverance to my captive heart.

 

                                                                      Shall I never see the time, before I die,

                                                                      When I shall pluck the flower of her springtime,

                                                                      Beneath which my life is lived in shadow?

 

                                                                      Shall I never see the time when, twined in her arms,

                                                                      Worn out with love, all breathless and weary,

                                                                      I die a beautiful death within her arms?

 

 

 

As usual, Ronsard tinkered with this one to try for minor improvements;  Blanchemain’s chosen version has changes in 5 of the lines, though only in lines 7 and 13 does he really modify the meaning. Rather than list them all, here is the complete sonnet in that version:

 

 

Ores la crainte et ores l’esperance,

De çà, de là, se campent en mon coeur,

Et tour à tour l’un et l’autre est veinqueur,

Pareils en force et en perseverance.

 

Ores douteux, ores plein d’asseurance,

Entre l’espoir le soupçon et la peur,

Heureusement de moy-mesme trompeur,

Au coeur captif je promets delivrance.

 

Verray-je point avant mourir le temps,

Que je tondray la fleur de son printemps,

Sous qui ma vie à l’ombrage demeure ?

 

Verray-je point qu’en ses bras enlassé,

Tantost dispost, tantost demy-lassé,

D’un beau souspir entre ses bras je meure ?

 

 

 

                                                                     Now fear, and now hope,

                                                                     Plant themselves now one side, now the other, within my heart,

                                                                     And turn and turn about, one then the other is the winner,

                                                                     Equal in strength and perseverance.

 

                                                                     Now doubtful, now full of certainty,

                                                                     Between hope, suspicion and fear,

                                                                     Happily my own deceiver,

                                                                     I promise deliverance to my captive heart.

 

                                                                     Shall I never see the time, before I die,

                                                                     When I shall pluck the flower of her springtime,

                                                                     Beneath which my life is lived in shadow?

 

                                                                     Shall I never see the time when, twined in her arms,

                                                                     Sometimes fresh, sometimes half-wearied,

                                                                     I die with a happy sigh within her arms?

 

 

 

 

Cassandre 38-50: a note

Over the next few days I will be revising earlier posts of the poems in this section of the book. There are some minor corrections on the texts, but mainly I want to add into the posts more about variant texts. OK, so it’s more for my satisfaction than anything!

New versions now complete for all these sonnets:  38, 39, 40 – – (41-43 added) – –44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, and 50.

 

Sonnet 38 (re-published)

Doux fut le trait qu’Amour hors de sa trousse

Tira sur moi; doux fut l’acroissement

Que je receu dès le commencement,

Pris d’une fiebvre autant aigre que douce.

 

Doux est son ris et sa voix qui me pousse

L’esprit du corps plein de ravissement,

Quand il lui plaist sur son Lut doucement

Chanter mes vers animez de son pouce.

 

Telle douceur sa voix fait distiler,

Qu’on ne sçauroit, qui ne l’entend parler,

Sentir en l’ame une joye nouvelle.

 

Sans l’ouir, dis-je, Amour mesme enchanter,

Doucement rire, et doucement chanter,

Et moy mourir doucement auprès d’elle.

 

 

                                                                       Sweet was the arrow which Love drew from his bag

                                                                       Against me; sweet was the increase

                                                                       I’ve received since love’s beginning

                                                                       Gripped by a fever as bitter as it is sweet.

 

                                                                       Sweet is that smile and that voice which draws

                                                                       My soul from my body, full of delight

                                                                       When, self-accompanied softly on the lute, pleasure  rewards

                                                                       The singing of my verses as the thumb strikes the strings.

 

                                                                       Such sweetness that voice distils

                                                                       That no-one who doesn’t hear its singing would be able

                                                                       To feel that new joy in their soul.

 

                                                                       Without hearing, I say, Love himself enchanting us,

                                                                       Sweetly smiling and sweetly singing,

                                                                       And me sweetly dying beside her.

 

 

 

Ronsard deliberately writes so that it appears to be his lady’s singing that he is talking about in the 2nd & 3rd ‘stanzas’; only in the last ‘stanza’ does he resolve the ambiguity and make it clear that it is Cupid who is singing. Unfortunately his/her distinctions are more obvious in English, so I’ve had to torture the translation a little to keep the ambiguity.

Blanchemain recognises this version in a footnote, but chooses instead the following substantially different one as his preferred text, in which only the final tercet remains unchanged:

 

 

Doux fut le trait qu’Amour hors de sa trousse

Pour me tuer me tira doucement

Quand je fus pris au doux commencement

D’une douceur si doucettement douce.

 

Doux est son ris et sa voix, qui me pousse

L’esprit du corps, pour errer lentement

Devant son chant, accordé gentement

Avec mes vers animés de son pouce.

 

Telle douceur de sa voix coule à bas,

Que sans l’ouïr vraiment on ne sait pas

Comme en ses rets l’amour nous encordelle,

 

Sans l’ouïr, dis-je, Amour mesme enchanter,

Doucement rire, et doucement chanter,

Et moy mourir doucement auprès d’elle.

 

 

 

                                                                      Sweet was the arrow which Love sweetly drew

                                                                      From his quiver to kill me

                                                                      When I was seized at the sweet beginning

                                                                      By a sweetness so very sweetly sweet.

 

                                                                      Sweet is that smile and that voice which draws

                                                                      My soul from my body, to wander lightly

                                                                      Before his song, nobly harmonised

                                                                      With my verses as the thumb strikes the strings.

 

                                                                      Such sweetness flows from his voice down here

                                                                      That without hearing it truly you would not know

                                                                      How love can tie us up in his nets,

 

                                                                      Without hearing, I say, Love himself enchanting us,

                                                                      Sweetly smiling and sweetly singing,

                                                                      And me sweetly dying beside her.

 

 Frankly, 5 variants of ‘doux’ (‘sweet’ or ‘soft’) in two-and-a-half lines is a bit much for me – though as usual there are some elements which seem an improvement.

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 37

Ces petits corps qui tombent de travers

Par leur descente en biais vagabonde,

Heurtez ensemble ont composé le monde

S’entr’acrochans de liens tous divers.

 

L’ennuy, le soing et les pensers couvers

Tombez espais en mon amour profonde,

Ont acroché d’une agrafe feconde

Dedans mon coeur l’amoureux univers.

 

Mais s’il advient que ces tresses orines,

Ces dois rosins et ces mains ivoirines

Rompent ma trame en servant leur beauté,

 

Retourneray-je en eau, ou terre, ou flame ?

Non : mais en voix qui là bas de ma Dame

Accusera l’ingrate cruauté.

 

 

 

                                                                      Those little bodies which fall sideways

                                                                      In their descent by slant-wise wanderings

                                                                      By crashing together have made up the world

                                                                      Grasping one another by all kinds of ties.

 

                                                                      Pain, care and hidden thoughts

                                                                      By falling thickly on my profound love

                                                                      Have grasped with their plentiful hooks

                                                                      The whole universe of love within my heart.

 

                                                                      But if it happens that those golden locks,

                                                                      Those rosy fingers and those ivory hands

                                                                      Should snap my thread as I serve their beauty,

 

                                                                      Shall I return to water, earth or fire?

                                                                      No: rather, to a voice which down below will accuse

                                                                      The ungrateful cruelty of my Lady.

 

 

 

From mythology Ronsard moves to philosophy – beginning with the atomic theories Democritus, Epicurus et al; and ending with (three of) the four elements originally proposed by Empedocles and by Ronsard’s time firmly embedded in philosophy and ‘science’. There’s even a hint of Copernican astronomy with the concept of objects ‘falling sideways’ – the orbit of a planet or an electron is simply the effect of continuously falling towards the centre but travelling sideways (‘slant-wise’?) fast enough to remain at the same distance from the centre.

 

But mythology is not far off: in line 11 there’s a reference to the ‘thread’ of life which the Fates would cut when it was your time to die.

 

Once again Blanchemain has a substantially varied version.  As there are changes in all parts of the poem, here’s his version complete:

 

 

Ces petits corps culbutans de travers,

Par leur descente en biais vagabonde,

Heurtez ensemble ont composé le monde,

S’entr’accrochans d’accrochements divers.

 

L’ennuy, le soing et les pensers couvers,

Tombez espais en mon amour profonde,

Ont façonné d’une attache feconde

Dedans mon coeur l’amoureux univers.

 

Mais s’il advient que ces tresses orines,

Ces dois rosins et ces mains yvoirines

Froissent ma vie, en quoi retournera

 

Ce petit tout ? En eau, air, terre, ou flamme ?

Non, mais en voix qui toujours de ma dame

Par le grand tout les honneurs sonnera.

 

 

                                                                     Those little bodies tumbling sideways

                                                                     In their descent by slant-wise wanderings

                                                                     By crashing together have made up the world

                                                                     Grasping one another in various grips.

 

                                                                     Pain, care and hidden thoughts

                                                                     By falling thickly on my profound love

                                                                     Have fashioned with their plentiful fixings

                                                                     The whole universe of love within my heart.

 

                                                                     But if it happens that those golden locks,

                                                                     Those rosy fingers and those ivory hands

                                                                     Should hurt my life, to what will return

 

                                                                     My little all? To water, air, earth or fire?

                                                                     No: rather, to a voice which will always shout out

                                                                     The beauty of my lady throughout the great all.

 

 

This version manages to get all four of the elements into line 12, even if ‘air’ is a little awkwardly on an unstressed-syllable, as well as contrasting ‘my little all’ with the ‘great all’ of the universe in philosophical style. There are losses too: line 4 is pretty weak, for instance!  The enjambment in lines 11-12 is unusual for Ronsard.

 

 

 

Sonnet 36

Pour la douleur qu’Amour veut que je sente,

Ainsi que moy Phebus tu lamentois,

Quand amoureux et banny tu chantois

Pres d’Ilion sur les rives de Xante.

 

Pinçant en vain ta lyre blandissante,

Fleuves et fleurs et bois tu enchantois,

Non la beauté qu’en l’ame tu sentois,

Qui te navroit d’une playe aigrissante.

 

Là de ton teint tu pallissois les fleurs,

Là les ruisseaux s’augmentoyent de tes pleurs,

Là tu vivois d’une esperance vaine.

 

Pour mesme nom Amour me fait douloir

Pres de Vandôme au rivage du Loir,

Comme un Phenis renaissant de ma peine.

 

 

 

                                                                      With the sadness which Love wants me to feel

                                                                      You too, Phoebus, just like me lamented

                                                                      When, a banished lover, you sang

                                                                      By Ilium on the banks of the Xanthe.

 

                                                                      Vainly gripping your beguiling lyre

                                                                      You enchanted rivers, flowers, woods,

                                                                      But not the beauty whom your soul desired

                                                                      Who hurt you with a bitter wound.

 

                                                                      There, you made the flowers pale with your hue;

                                                                      There, the rivers grew deeper with your tears;

                                                                      There, you lived in empty hope.

 

                                                                      Now, Love makes me weep for the same name

                                                                      Near Vendôme on the banks of the Loir,

                                                                      Like a phoenix reborn from my pain.

 

 

 

Another mythological sequence: Ronsard once again creates a parallel between ‘his’ Cassandre and her Trojan namesake.  Phoebus (Apollo) was believed to have fallen in love with Cassandra of Troy (Ilium) but been rejected by her. The river Xanthe is one of the Trojan plain’s rivers.  The phoenix is the legendary bird reborn through fire – so that Ronsard evokes the burning pain he feels without actually having to use that phrase.  Note that the Loir is not the Loire – it’s further north in Eure-et-Loir.

 

I’ve translated line 7 rather loosely: strictly, it’s “But not the beauty whom you feel [or, ‘which you feel’] in your soul“; beauty may be the abstract or it may mean ‘her beauty’ or it may just mean Cassandra!  But I think Apollo is meant to feel the desire (or the wound), rather than just ‘sense her beauty’; so I’ve tried to convey that intent rather than translate the words directly.

 

Blanchemain’s version has (in my view) some improvements on this one – and some awkwardnesses missing here! In line 3 he has “Quand, amoureux, loin du ciel, tu chantois” (‘When, in love but far from heaven, you sang’); but the major differences, for better and worse, are in the final sestet. Here it is in his version:

 

 

Là de ton teint se pallissoient les fleurs,

Et l’eau, croissant du dégout de tes pleurs,

Portoit tes cris, dont elle rouloit pleine.

 

Pour mesme nom les fleurettes du Loir,

Pres de Vendôme, ont daigné me douloir,

Et l’eau se plaindre aux souspirs de ma peine.

 

 

                                                                     There, the flowers grew pale with your hue,

                                                                     And the waters, growing deeper as they tasted your tears,

                                                                     Carried your cries, as they flowed filled with them.

 

                                                                     Now, for the same name, the little flowers of the Loir

                                                                     Near Vendôme have seen fit to grieve with me,

                                                                     And the waters to weep at my pain’s sighs.

 

 For better, Ronsard avoids the slightly approximate rhyme of ‘vaine – peine’ and uses a stricter rhyme instead; and he mirrors the flowers and waters of the first tercet in the second. But for worse, he loses the linking theme of Love’s intent, and the image of the phoenix. 

 

 

You can read Tony Kline’s version in verse here

 

 

 

 

 

Marie – Sonnet 9

Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner,

Il trouveroit aimer : aimez-moi donc, Marie,

Vostre nom de nature à l’amour vous convie,

A qui trahist Nature il ne faut pardonner:

 

S’il vous plaist vostre coeur pour gage me donner,

Je vous offre le mien : ainsi de ceste vie,

Nous prendrons les plaisirs, et jamais autre envie

Ne me pourra l’esprit d’une autre emprisonner.

 

Il faut aimer, maistresse, au monde quelque chose.

Celuy qui n’aime point, malheureux se propose

Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer

 

Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure.

Rien n’est doux sans Venus et sans son fils : à l’heure

Que je n’aimeray plus puissé-je trespasser.

 

 

 

                                                                      Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name

                                                                      Would find “Aimer” [‘to love’]; so love me, Marie,

                                                                      Your name by its nature makes you ready to love,

                                                                      And anyone who betrays Nature should not be pardoned.

 

                                                                      If you please, give me your heart as a pledge,

                                                                      I offer you mine; thus in this life

                                                                      We’ll take our pleasures, and never will any other desire

                                                                      Be able to make my spirit prisoner of another.

 

                                                                      You have to love something in this world, mistress.

                                                                      Whoever loves not at all, wretchedly offers himself

                                                                      The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days

 

                                                                      Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all.

                                                                      Nothing is sweet without Love and her son; at the moment

                                                                      When I cease loving, may I die!

 

 

Blanchemain helpfully (!) prints this footnote for lines 1-2:  “The anagram of Marie’s name is ‘aimer’.”  So now you see what Ronsard did there…   Any anagram is in one sense untranslateable: an English equivalent might be, “Olive, by mixing your name up we’d get ‘I love’ ” – – but Olive doesn’t sound as romantic as Marie to me, unfortunately. That said, the very first published set of French love sonnets was Joachim du Bellay’s “L’Olive” addressed, indeed, to Olive!

 

The Scythians were a nomadic ‘barbarian’ tribe – therefore one living a harsh life and possessing minimal luxuries.

 

This is one of those sonnets Ronsard re-wrote substantially. That line 8 above is as convoluted as anything he wrote, so I can see why he came back to this poem several times! Two more versions then: plus the English version by Tony Kline, which you can find here.

 

The version printed by Blanchemain is virtually a new poem, which just shares some lines with the one above:

 

 

Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner,

Il trouveroit Aimer : aimez-moy donc, Marie ;

Puisque vostre beau nom à l’amour vous convie,

Il faut vostre jeunesse à l’amour adonner.

 

S’il vous plaist pour jamais vostre amy m’ordonner,

Ensemble nous prendrons les plaisirs de la vie,

D’une amour contre-aimée, et jamais autre envie

Ne me pourra le coeur de vostre detourner.

 

Si faut-il bien aimer au monde quelque chose ;

Celuy qui n’aime point, pour son but se propose

Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer

 

Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure.

Eh! qu’est-il rien de doux sans Venus? las! à l’heure

Que je n’aimeray point puissai-je trespasser!

 

 

 

                                                                     Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name

                                                                     Would find “Aimer” [‘to love’]; so love me, Marie,

                                                                     Since your fair name makes you ready to love,

                                                                     You should give your youth to love.

 

                                                                     If you please to appoint me your love for ever,

                                                                     Together we shall take the pleasures of life,

                                                                     With a love loved in return, and never will any other desire

                                                                     Be able to turn my heart away from yours.

 

                                                                     You really must love something in this world;

                                                                     Whoever loves not at all, offers himself the goal of

                                                                     The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days

 

                                                                     Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all.

                                                                     Ah, is there anything that is sweet without Love? Oh, at the moment

                                                                     When I cease loving, may I die!

 

 

 

As if two substantially different poems wasn’t enough, Anthoine de Bertrand, in his 1576 collection of ‘Les Amours de Ronsard’, set the following version to music:

 

 

Marie, qui voudroit vostre beau nom tourner,

Il trouveroit Aimer: aimez-moi donc, Marie,

Faites cela vers moi dont vostre nom vous prie,

Vostre amour ne se peut en meilleur lieu donner:

 

S’il vous plaist pour jamais un plaisir demener,

Aimez-moi, nous prendrons les plaisirs de la vie,

Penduz l’un l’autre au col, et jamais nulle envie

D’aimer en autre lieu ne nous pourra mener.

 

Si faut il bien aimer au monde quelque chose:

Cellui qui n’aime point, cellui-là se propose

Une vie d’un Scyte; et ses jours veut passer

 

Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure.

E, qu’est-il rien de doux sans Venus? las! à l’heure

Que je n’aimeray point puissai-je trépasser!

                                                                                   (Source:  recmusic.org/lieder)

 

 

 

                                                                     Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your lovely name

                                                                     Would find “Aimer” [‘to love’]; so love me, Marie,

                                                                     Do to me what your name asks of you,

                                                                     Your love cannot be given anywhere better.

 

                                                                     If you please to keep it a pleasure for ever,

                                                                     Love me, we will enjoy the pleasures of life

                                                                     Hanging on each other’s necks, and never will any desire

                                                                     To love elsewhere be able to lead us away.

 

                                                                     After all, you have to love something in this world;

                                                                     Whoever loves not at all offers himself only

                                                                     The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days

 

                                                                     Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all.

                                                                     What is there that is sweet without Love? Oh, at the moment

                                                                     When I cease loving, may I die!

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 35

Puisse advenir qu’une fois je me vange

De ce penser qui devore mon cueur,

Et qui tousjours comme un lion veinqueur

Le tient l’estrangle et sans pitié le mange!

 

Avec le temps le temps mesme se change :

Mais ce cruel qui suçe ma vigueur,

Opiniastre à garder sa rigueur,

En autre lieu qu’en mon coeur ne se range.

 

Il est bien vray qu’il contraint un petit

Durant le jour son secret appetit,

Et sur mon coeur ses griffes il n’allonge ;

 

Mais quand le soir tient le jour enfermé,

Il sort en queste et lion affamé,

De mille dents toute nuict il me ronge.

 

 

 

                                                                      Oh, if only just once I could chance to take revenge

                                                                      On this thought which eats away at my heart,

                                                                      And which always, like a conquering lion,

                                                                      Keeps it in a stranglehold and devours it pitilessly!

 

                                                                      With time, time itself changes:

                                                                      But this cruel (thought) which sucks dry my vigour,

                                                                      Stubborn in preserving its harsh grip,

                                                                      Will settle nowhere else than in my heart.

 

                                                                      True it is that, during the day, it holds back

                                                                      Its hidden appetite a little,

                                                                      And does not extend its claws onto my heart;

 

                                                                      But when evening brings the day to a close,

                                                                      Out it comes on the hunt, and like a hungry lion

                                                                      With a thousand teeth gnaws at me all night.

 

 

Blanchemain has various minor differences:  in line 7, “Opiniastre au cours de sa rigueur” (‘Stubborn in its harshness’); in line 9 a rearrangement of the words so that it becomes “Bien est-il vray qu’il contraint un petit” – which, to me, is more elegant than Marty-Laveaux’s version; in line 11, “Et dans mes flancs ses griffes …” (‘extend its claws onto my breast’); and then in line 12, “Mais quand la nuit tient le jour enfermé” (‘when night brings the day to a close’).

 

Although Ronsard often uses a Petrarchan sonnet as his starting point, lifting a theme or a phrase, I was intrigued by Blanchemain’s claim (in a footnote) that “all of this sonnet is taken from Petrarch”.  A little research demonstrated that claim to be untrue!  In fact, Ronsard borrows the beginning of the first quatrain & the end of the second, merges them into his own first quatrain, and then heads off in a completely different direction – as usual.

 

Here is Petrarch – no. 256 in the Canzoniere – with my (slightly approximate) translation:

 

 

Far potess’io vendetta di colei

che guardando et parlando mi distrugge,

et per piú doglia poi s’asconde et fugge,

celando gli occhi a me sí dolci et rei.

 

Cosí li afflicti et stanchi spirti mei

a poco a poco consumando sugge,

e ‘n sul cor quasi fiero leon rugge

la notte allor quand’io posar devrei.

 

L’alma, cui Morte del suo albergo caccia,

da me si parte, et di tal nodo sciolta,

vassene pur a lei che la minaccia.

 

Meravigliomi ben s’alcuna volta,

mentre le parla et piange et poi l’abbraccia,

non rompe il sonno suo, s’ella l’ascolta.

 

 

                                                                      If only I could have revenge on her

                                                                      who destroys me with glances and words,

                                                                      and, for greater pain, then ups and flees,

                                                                      hiding the eyes so sweet and hurtful to me.

 

                                                                      So, my afflicted and tired spirits

                                                                      little by little seem consumed,

                                                                      and in my heart like a fierce lion she roars

                                                                      all night when I should rest.  

 

                                                                      My soul, which Death pursues from its home,

                                                                      parts from me, and freed from that trap

                                                                      goes straight to her who threatens it.

 

                                                                      I wonder indeed if at any time,

                                                                      with my calling and crying and embracing,

                                                                      her sleep is broken, if she hears it.

 

(A footnote on the Petrarch: I’m not sure. in line 13, whether it’s ‘me’ that’s calling etc, or whether it’s ‘my soul’ which has gone to her and is calling etc. Feel free to read it the other way if you prefer.)

 

 

 

Sonnet 33

Je ne serois d’un abusé la fable,

Fable future au peuple survivant,

Si ma raison alloit bien ensuivant

L’arrest fatal de ta voix veritable,

 

Chaste prophete, et vrayment pitoyable,

Pour m’advertir tu me predis souvent,

Que je mourray, Cassandre, en te servant :

Mais le malheur ne te rend point croyable.

 

Le fier destin qui trompe mon trespas,

Et qui me force à ne te croire pas,

Pour me piper tes oracles n’accorde.

 

Puis je voy bien, veu l’estat où je suis,

Que tu dis vray :  toutesfois je ne puis

D’autour du col me detacher la corde.

 

 

 

                                                                      I would not be the tale of a misused man,

                                                                      A future tale for the people living after us,

                                                                      If my mind were well, following

                                                                      Its fateful capture by your truthful voice,

 

                                                                      Chaste prophetess, and truly to be pitied.

                                                                      To warn me you often give me the prediction

                                                                      That I will die, Cassandre, serving you;

                                                                      But my misfortune does not make you at all believable.

 

                                                                      The proud destiny which denies me my death,

                                                                      And which forces me not to believe you,

                                                                      Does not grant that your oracles should snare me.

 

                                                                      But then I see clearly, given the position I’m in,

                                                                      That you speak the truth:  anyway, I cannot

                                                                      Remove the rope from round my neck.

 

 

 

Let me admit this up front:  the fluidity of Ronsard’s thought in this sonnet leaves me very uncertain that I’ve translated it correctly. I’m not quite sure I follow all his twists and turns.  Anyway, the translation is what it is: if you can offer improvements let me know!!

 

In the middle, Ronsard is clearly once again aligning his Cassandre with Cassandra of Troy, the ‘chaste prophetess’.  Assuming that I recall correctly it was her who lost her voice (see Sonnet 27), then ‘l’arrest … de ta voix’ may have a double meaning: for Trojan Cassandra, ‘the stoppage of your voice’, while for modern Cassandre, ‘my capture by your voice’. I say ‘may have’ – I may have misunderstood what’s going on here!

 

One difficulty is the punctuation in the first octet. Marty-Laveaux has this all as one sentence, which leaves me confused!  I have split the sentence at the end of line 5 – which is probably not what Ronsard would want, as he generally keeps his thought-units aligned with the sections of the sonnet. Blanchemain (for that reason?) makes each of the quatrains a complete sentence in itself.

 

And what of Blanchemain’s text? Well, he presents a different arrangement of the first line: “D’un abusé je ne serois la fable”, which does not affect the meaning; but he offers not one but two different versions of the final sestet.

 

Car ton destin qui cèle mon trespas,

Et qui me force à ne te croire pas,

D’un faux espoir tes oracles me cache.

 

Et si voy bien, veu l’estat où je suis,

Que tu dis vray ;  toutesfois je ne puis

D’autour du col me denouer l’attache.

 

 

                                                                      For your fate which conceals my death (from me),

                                                                      And which forces me not to believe you,

                                                                       Hides your oracles in a false hope.

 

                                                                      And if I see clearly, given the position I’m in,

                                                                      That you speak the truth, anyway, I cannot

                                                                      Un-knot the cord from round my neck.

 

 The version above, you may note, makes the fate definitely hers; my translation implicitly assumed the fate or destiny was his. Blanchemain’s second version is as above except that he goes back to the same last line as Marty-Laveaux, above, but has a different line 11 rhyming with it. If anything, the new line 11 increases my uncertainty even more – see the tentative translation of the first sestet below!

 

(l. 11) Nulle créance à tes propos n’accorde …

(l. 14) D’autour du col me detacher la corde.

 

                                                                      For your destiny which conceals my death (from me),

                                                                      And which forces me not to believe you,

                                                                      Does not accept any claim from your suggestions.