Another short pause as my brain is too fried to translate anything!
In the meantime I’ve added a link to a complete text of La Mort de Marie for those who’d like it all in one place.
Mar19
Monthly Archives: March 2013
Mar14
Sonnet 213
Je suis plus aise en mon cœur que les Dieux,
Quand chaudement tu me baises, Maistresse :
De ton baiser la douceur larronnesse
Tout esperdu m’en-vole jusqu’aux Cieux.
Baise moy donc, mon cœur : car j’aime mieux
Ton seul baiser, que si quelque Deesse
Au jeu d’amour d’une accollade espesse
M’embrassoit nud d’un bras delicieux.
Mais ton orgueil a tousjours de coustume
D’accompagner ton baiser d’amertume,
Froid sans saveur : aussi je ne pourrois
Souffrir tant d’heur : car mon ame, qui touche
Mille beautez, s’enfuiroit par ma bouche,
Et de trop d’aise en ton sein je mourrois.
I am more at ease in my heart than the Gods When warmly you kiss me, my mistress; The stolen sweetness of your kiss Lifts me up, totally overcome, to the heavens. Kiss me then, my heart; for I prefer A single kiss from you, than if some goddess In the game of love should, with a particular embrace, Kiss me naked in her lovely arms. But your pride has always customarily Accompanied your kiss with bitterness, Cold and tasteless: nor could I Suffer such fortune: for my soul which touches A thousand beauties, would rush out of my mouth And from being too at ease in your bosom I would die.
A happy Ronsard?! Happiness obviously worried him; there are major changes between Blanchemain’s version and the one above! The two are not quite separate poems on the same theme, but they’re getting there.
Je suis plus aise en mon cœur que les Dieux, Quand maugré toi tu me baises, Maistresse : De ton baiser la douceur larronnesse Tout esperdu m’en-vole jusqu’aux Cieux. Quant est de moy, j’estime beaucoup mieux Ton seul baiser que si quelque deesse, En cent façons doucement tenteresse, M’accoloit nud d’un bras delicieux. Il est bien vrai que tu as de coustume D’entremesler tes baisers d’amertume, Les donnants courts. Mais quoi ? Je ne pourrois Vivre autrement : car mon ame, qui touche Tant de beautes, s’enfuyroit par ma bouche, Et de trop d’aise en ton sein je mourrois. I am more at ease in my heart than the Gods When despite yourself you kiss me, my mistress; The stolen sweetness of your kiss Lifts me up, totally overcome, to the heavens. As for me, I put far more value On a single kiss from you, than if some goddess Tempting me sweetly a hundred different ways Should embrace me naked in her lovely arms. It is indeed true that you have customarily Mixed your kisses with bitterness, Giving short ones only. So what? I could not Live otherwise: for my soul which touches So many beauties, would rush out of my mouth And from being too at ease in your bosom I would die.
Mar13
Sonnet 134
Je parangonne à ta jeune beauté,
Qui tousjours dure en son printemps nouvelle,
Ce mois d’Avril qui ses fleurs renouvelle
En sa plus gaye et verte nouveauté.
Loin devant toy fuira la cruauté :
Devant luy fuit la saison plus cruelle.
Il est tout beau, ta face est toute belle :
Ferme est son cours, ferme est ta loyauté.
Il peint les bords les forests et les plaines,
Tu peins mes vers d’un bel émail de fleurs :
Des laboureurs il arrose les peines,
D’un vain espoir tu laves mes douleurs :
Du Ciel sur l’herbe il fait tomber les pleurs,
Tu fais sortir de mes yeux deux fontaines.
I propose as rival to your young beauty Which lasts forever in its own new spring This month of April which renews the flowers In their gayest and greenest newness. Cruelty will flee far from you Before him [i.e. April] flees the cruellest season; He is all handsomeness, your face all beauty; Firm is his course, firm is your loyalty; He paints the riverbanks, forests and plains, With a beautiful sprinkling of flowers; you paint my verse with them. He refreshes the hard work of labourers, With an empty hope you refresh my sadness; He makes the tears of Heaven fall on the grass, You make two springs flow from my eyes. Another attractive poem, with the parallel images thoroughly and delightfully worked through. It is good to see that the earlier version is little different: for once this is not a poem Ronsard had to wrestle with to reach this state of perfection. There are only a couple of changes in Blanchemain. In line 4 cruelty ‘flees before’ Cassandre (“Loin devant toy s’enfuit la cruauté”) – present rather than future tense, it actually flees now rather than potentially doing so in future. ( I wonder why he changed this? The later version is more awkward! ) Then in line 7, it’s the ‘woods, forests and plains’ rather than the ‘riverbanks, forests and plains’ which April paints with flowers (“Il peint les bois, les forests et les plaines”). Here at least the later version is smarter in identifying three completely different places rather than asking us to consider woods and forests as distinct…
Mar12
Sonnet 147
Un voile obscur par l’horizon espars
Troubloit le Ciel d’une humeur survenue,
Et l’air crevé, d’une gresle menue
Frappoit à bonds les champs de toutes pars :
Desja Vulcan de ses borgnes soudars
Hastoit les mains à la forge cognüe,
Et Jupiter dans le creux d’une nüe
Armoit sa main de l’esclair de ses dars :
Quand ma Nymphette, en simple verdugade
Cueillant les fleurs, des raiz de son œillade
Essuya l’air gresleux et pluvieux ;
Des vents sortis remprisonna les tropes,
Et fit cesser les marteaux des Cyclopes,
Et de Jupin rasserena les yeux.
A dark gloom, spread along the horizon,
Troubled the sky with its unexpected damps,
And the bursting air suddenly struck
The fields on every side with thin drizzle;
Already Vulcan with his disreputable troop
Was hastily setting to work at his well-known forge,
And Jupiter, in the hollow of a cloud,
Was arming himself with the lightning of his bolts;
When my little nymph, in just her petticoat,
Picking flowers, with a look of her eyes
Swept away the drizzling and rainy air,
Re-imprisoned the whirling of the escaped winds,
Stopped the hammers of the Cyclopes,
And calmed the eyes of Jove again.
Another charming image from Ronsard, a witty modern adaptation of various classical tropes: we also have Jupiter and his lightning-bolts, and Vulcan at his forge making them with his Cyclopean helpers. Blanchemain offers Ronsard’s earlier thoughts, where in the second stanza we see that an older Ronsard seems to have felt “les bras”‘ (arms) rather too common to be mentioned in such august company as the gods, and replaced them:
Desja Vulcan les bras de ses soudars
Hastoit, depit, à la forge cognüe …
Already Vulcan was speeding his troop’s arms
Spitefully to the well-known forge …
In the penultimate line he perhaps felt that his earlier thoughts (slowing down the hammers) were not decisive enough, and instead brought them to a halt: Blanchemain’s early version is “Et ralenta les marteaux des Cyclopes” (‘Slowed the hammers of the Cyclopes’).
POSTSCRIPT: I just found this lovely translation of the final sestet at Goodreads:
When my nymphet, in just her underwear,
goes picking flowers, her flirtatious stare
clears the rain and hail from above –
she returns the loosed wind’s moan to peace
and makes the Cyclops’ hammers cease,
and calms the eyes of Jove. Fabulous! For me that catches much of the style of Ronsard – easily flowing, a virtuoso mix of high-flown and ordinary language, the art that conceals art.
goes picking flowers, her flirtatious stare
clears the rain and hail from above –
she returns the loosed wind’s moan to peace
and makes the Cyclops’ hammers cease,
and calms the eyes of Jove. Fabulous! For me that catches much of the style of Ronsard – easily flowing, a virtuoso mix of high-flown and ordinary language, the art that conceals art.
Mar11
Sonnet 169
Ha, Belacueil, que ta douce parolle
Vint traistrement ma jeunesse offenser,
Quand au verger tu la menas danser
Sur mes vingts ans, l’amoureuse carolle !
Amour a donc me mit à son escolle,
Ayant pour maistre un peu-sage penser,
Qui sans raison me mena commencer
Le chapelet de la danse plus folle.
Depuis cinq ans hoste de ce verger,
Je vay balant avecque faux-danger,
Tenant la main d’une dame trop caute.
Je ne suis seul par Amour abusé :
A ma jeunesse il faut donner la faulte :
En cheveux gris je seray plus rusé.
Oh, Bel-Accueil [=Fair-Welcome], how your soft words
Came treacherously to assault my youth
When you led it to dance in the orchard
A lover’s dance for my twentieth birthday!
So Love has placed me in his school
With an unwise thought as teacher
Which, without reason, leads me to begin
The steps of a really foolish dance.
For five years a visitor to this orchard
I went dancing with False-Captivity,
Holding the hand of a too-wily lady.
I am not the only one abused by love;
You must blame my youth.
When my hair is white, I shall be more crafty.
Bel-Accueil & Faux-Danger are well-known characters in the Romance of the Rose. They are joined, in Blanchemain’s version, by a supplementary cast of characters: Fol-Plaisir, Erreur, Vain-Desir, Perte-de-mon-âme! The chanson “Allegez-moi” (‘Relieve me’) is a well-known racy song of the time – there is a famous version by Josquin des Prez, for instance.
Ha ! Bel-Acueil, que ta douce parole
Vint traistrement ma jeunesse offenser,
Quand au premier tu la menas danser
Dans le verger l’amoureuse carolle !
Amour adonc, me mit à son escolle,
Ayant pour maistre un peu-sage penser,
Qui dès le jour me mena commencer
Le chapelet de la danse plus folle.
Depuis cinq ans dedans ce beau verger,
Je vay balant avecque Faux-Danger,
Sous la chanson d’Allégez-moi, Madame:
Le tabourin se nomme Fol-Plaisir,
La flute, Erreur ; le rebec, Vain-Desir,
Et les cinq pas, la Perte de mon âme.
Ah, fair welcome, how your sweet words
Came treacherously to assault my youth
When at first you led it to dance
An amorous round-dance in the orchard.
Oh Love, place me in your school,
Let me have for a little while wise thought as a teacher
Who will lead me without delay to begin making
A circlet for the maddest kind of dance.
For five years I have gone dancing
In this fine orchard with False-Captivity,
To the tune ‘Oh relieve me’, my Lady.
The drummer is called Mad Pleasure
The flute Error, the fiddle Empty Desire
And their short dance the loss of my soul.
Mar10
Sonnet 163
Voicy le bois, que ma sainte Angelette
Sur le printemps resjouist de son chant :
Voicy les fleurs où son pied va marchant,
Quand à soy-mesme elle pense seulette :
Voicy la prée et la rive mollette,
Qui prend vigueur de sa main la touchant,
Quand pas à pas en son sein va cachant
Le bel émail de l’herbe nouvelette.
Icy chanter, là pleurer je la vy,
Icy sourire, et là je fu ravy
De ses discours par lesquels je des-vie :
Icy s’asseoir, là je la vy danser :
Sur le mestier d’un si vague penser
Amour ourdit les trames de ma vie.
Here is the wood which my holy angel
Makes happy during the spring with her singing;
Here are the flowers where her feet pass
When she is thinking to herself, on her own.
Here is the meadow and the languid riverbank
Which gain vigour from her hand as they touch it,
As step by step she walks, hiding in her bosom
The lovely jewels of the new-grown grass.
Here I see her singing, there weeping,
Here smiling, and there I was delighted
By her conversation which diverts me;
Here I see her sitting, there dancing;
On the loom of such wandering thoughts
Love weaves the threads of my life.
A beautiful poem: I love this one. Among his finest sonnets in my view, perhaps even more so in the earlier version.
For yes, there is (of course!) an earlier version in Blanchemain. There are no really structural changes, just Ronsard in his age tweaking the poem. In fact, as in some other cases, I rather feel the earlier version is the better (except perhaps for line 5) and that the later changes rob it of some of its spontaneity and charm.
Voicy le bois, que ma sainte Angelette
Sur le printemps anima de son chant :
Voicy les fleurs où son pied va marchant,
Lorsque, pensive, elle s’ébat seulette :
Io, voicy la prée verdelette,
Qui prend vigueur de sa main la touchant,
Quand pas à pas, pillarde, va cherchant
Le bel émail de l’herbe nouvelette.
Icy chanter, là pleurer je la vy,
Icy sourire, et là je fu ravy
De ses beaux yeux par lesquels je des-vie :
Icy s’asseoir, là je la vy danser :
Sur le mestier d’un si vague penser
Amour ourdit les trames de ma vie.
Here is the wood which my holy angel
Enlivens during the spring with her singing;
Here are the flowers where her feet pass
When pensively she frolics alone.
See, here is the green meadow
Which gains vigour from her hand as they touch it,
As step by step she walks, a thief, seeking
The lovely jewels of the new-grown grass.
Here I see her singing, there weeping,
Here smiling, and there I was delighted
By her fair eyes which divert me;
Here I see her sitting, there dancing;
On the loom of such wandering thoughts
Love weaves the threads of my life.
Mar9
Sonnet 137
Oeil dont l’esclair mes tempestes essuye,
Sourcil, mais ciel de mon cœur gouverneur,
Front estoilé, Trofee à mon Seigneur,
Où son carquois et son arc il estuye :
Gorge de marbre, où la beauté s’appuye,
Menton d’albastre, enrichy de bon heur,
Tetin d’ivoire où se loge l’honneur,
Sein dont l’espoir mes travaux desennuye :
Vous avez tant apasté mon desir,
Que pour souler la faim et mon plaisir,
Cent fois le jour il faut que je vous voye :
Comme un oiseau, qui ne peut sejourner,
Sans sur les bords poissonneux retourner,
Et revoler pour y trouver sa proye.
Eye whose flash wipes away my outbursts, Eyebrow, the heaven which directs my heart, Starry brow, trophy for my Lord Where he hides his quiver and his bow; Throat of marble where beauty rests, Alabaster chin enriched with happiness, Bust of ivory where honour lives, Breast the hope for which makes light my labours; You have fed my desire so As to satisfy my hunger and my pleasure, And a hundred times a day I have to see you; Like a bird which cannot rest Without returning to the fishy banks And flying again to find there its prey. For me, this is one of those poems which is better in conception than execution: somehow it fails to ‘lift off’. Ronsard clearly had some difficulties with it; Blanchemain’s version has variant readings all over the place – yet this earlier version too doesn’t quite work. Oeil, qui mes pleurs de tes rayons essuye, Sourcil, mais ciel des autres le greigneur, Front estoilé, trophée à mon seigneur, Où son carquois et son arc il estuye : Gorge de marbre, où la beauté s’appuye, Col albastrin emperlé de bonheur, Tetin d’yvoire où se niche l’honneur, Sein dont l’espoir mes travaux desennuye: Vous avez tant apasté mon desir, Que pour saouler ma faim et mon plaisir, Et nuit et jour il faut que je vous voye, Comme un oiseau, qui ne peut sejourner, Sans revoler, tourner, et retourner, Aux bords connus pour y trouver sa proye. Eye, which with your glance wipes away my tears Eyebrow, by heaven the greatest of all Starry brow, trophy for my Lord Where he hides his quiver and his bow; Throat of marble where beauty rests Neck of alabaster pearled with happiness Bust of ivory where honour is stationed Breast the hope for which makes light my labours You have fed my desire so As to satisfy my hunger and my pleasure, And night and day I have to see you again Like a bird which cannot rest Without flying again, turning and turning about Over well-known territory to find there its prey.
Mar8
Sonnet 63
Qui voudra voir dedans une jeunesse
La beauté jointe avec la chasteté,
L’humble douceur, la grave majesté,
Toutes vertus et toute gentilesse;
Qui voudra voir les yeux d’une Deesse
Et de nos ans la seule nouveauté,
De ceste Dame oeillade la beauté,
Que le vulgaire appelle ma maistresse :
Il apprendra comme Amour rit et mord,
Comme il guarit, comme il donne la mort,
Puis il dira, Quelle estrange nouvelle !
Du ciel la terre empruntoit sa beauté,
La terre au ciel a maintenant osté
La beauté mesme, ayant chose si belle.
Whoever would like to see within one young lady
Beauty joined with chastity,
Soft humility, grave majesty,
All virtues and all nobility;
Whoever would like to see the eyes of a goddess
And the only novelty of our times;
Let him cast his eye on the beauty of this lady
Whom the common folk call my mistress.
He will learn how love smiles and bites,
How it heals and how it gives death;
Then he will say: “What a strange thing!
From heaven, earth borrowed its beauty;
But the earth now has taken away from heaven
Beauty itself, having such a beautiful thing [upon it].”
Beautifully-formed, a lovely poem, practically perfect. Maybe it is relevant that Ronsard is adapting Petrarch here: sometimes having a model seems to help him express himself at his best? But (see below) his version is in my view a considerable improvmeent on the relatively loose-ly structured Petrarchan original.
Blanchemain shows, though, that perfection in this case was hard-won: what makes this so satisfying (for me) is the way it reaches its conclusion, yet in the earlier Blanchemain version the conclusion is much looser and at the same time plays with its repetitions less artfully:
…Puis il dira, voyant chose si belle:
Heureux, vraiment, heureux qui peut avoir
Heureusement cet heur que de la voir,
Et plus heureux qui meurt pour l’amour d’elle!
… Then he will say, seeing a thing so lovely:
Happy is he, happy indeed, who can have
Just this happy hour to see her,
And happier still he who dies for love of her!
Turning to Petrarch, we can find Ronsard’s inspiration in Sonnet 261 of the Canzoniere. He doesn’t make a direct translation, but there are very clear echoes:
Qual donna attende a glorïosa fama
Di senno, di valor, di cortesia,
Miri fiso negli occhi a quella mia
Nemica, che mia donna il mondo chiama.
Come s’acquista honor, come Dio s’ama,
Come è giunta honestà con leggiadria,
Ivi s’impara, e qual è dritta via
Di gir al ciel, che lei aspetta e brama.
Ivi ’l parlar che nullo stile aguaglia,
E ’l bel tacere, e quei cari costumi,
Che ’ngegno human non pò spiegar in carte ;
L’infinita belleza ch’altrui abbaglia,
Non vi s’impara : ché quei dolci lumi
S’acquistan per ventura e non per arte.
The Lady who wants glorious fame
For wisdom, virtue, and nobility,
She should fix her eyes on this my
Enemy, whom the world calls my lady.
How honour’s to be gained, how God’s to be loved,
How faithfulness is joined with levity,
Is to be learned there; and which is the direct way
To climb to heaven, which waits and hopes for her.
There the speech which no style can equal
And her sweet silence, and her dear manners,
Which no human understanding can define on paper;
The infinite beauty which dazzles others
Is not to be learned there; since those sweet eyes
Are to be gained by fate and not by art.
Mar7
Stances (Stanzas) – 135a
In book 1, also, Ronsard inserts occasional lyrics which do not conform to sonnet form. This one is a lovely frisky light-hearted one!
| Quand au temple nous serons Agenouillez, nous ferons Les devots selon la guise De ceux qui pour loüer Dieu Humbles se courbent au lieu Le plus secret de l’Eglise. Mais quand au lict nous serons Entrelassez, nous ferons Les lascifs selon les guises Des Amans qui librement Pratiquent folastrement Dans les draps cent mignardises. Pourquoy donque quand je veux Ou mordre tes beaux cheveux, Ou baiser ta bouche aimee, Ou toucher à ton beau sein, Contrefais-tu la nonnain Dedans un cloistre enfermee ? Pour qui gardes-tu tes yeux Et ton sein delicieux, Ton front, ta lèvre jumelle ? En veux-tu baiser Pluton Là bas, apres que Charon T’aura mise en sa nacelle ? Apres ton dernier trespas, Gresle, tu n’auras là bas Qu’une bouchette blesmie : Et quand mort je te verrois Aux Ombres je n’avou’rois Que jadis tu fus m’amie. Ton test n’aura plus de peau, Ny ton visage si beau N’aura veines ny arteres : Tu n’auras plus que les dents Telles qu’on les voit dedans Les testes des cimeteres. Donque tandis que tu vis, Change, Maistresse, d’avis, Et ne m’espargne ta bouche : Incontinent tu mourras, Lors tu te repentiras De m’avoir esté farouche. Ah je meurs ! Ah baise moy ! Ah, Maistresse, approche toy ! Tu fuis comme un Fan qui tremble : Au-moins souffre que ma main S’esbate un peu dans ton sein, Ou plus bas, si bon te semble. | When we are in the temple [church] Kneeling, we will look like The devout, the very image Of those who, to worship God, Humbly bow towards the Most holy part of the church. But when we are in bed Entwined, we will look like The lascivious, the very image Of lovers who freely And friskily perform A hundred little acts of love under the sheets. So why, when I want To bite your lovely hair Or to kiss your beloved lips Or to brush against your lovely breast, Do you pretend to be a little nun In an enclosed convent? For whom are you keeping your eyes And your delicious breast, Your brow, your twin lips? Do you want to kiss Pluto with them Down below, after Charon Has taken you into his little boat? After your eventual death, Down there you’ll be spindly, with nothing But a deathly-pale mouth; And when I’m dead and see you In the Shades I will not recognise That you were formerly my beloved. Your head will no longer have skin on it Your face – oh so beautiful ! – Won’t have its veins and arteries; You will just have teeth left, Like those you see inside The skulls in cemeteries. So, while you are alive, Change your mind, my mistress, And don’t be sparing with your lips; All at once you will be dead, And then you will repent Of having been shy with me. I’m dying, so kiss me. Oh Mistress, come near me. Like a quaking fawn you flee. At least allow my hand to rest, All a-tremble, on your breast, Or farther down still, if may be. |
Mar6
Sonnet 197
Ren moy mon cœur, ren moy mon cœur, mignarde
Que tu retiens dans ton sein arresté :
Ren moy, ren moy ma douce liberté,
Qu’à tes beaux yeux, mal-caut, je mis en garde :
Ren moy ma vie, ou bien la mort retarde,
Qui me poursuit en aimant ta beauté
Par ne sçay quelle honneste cruauté,
Et de plus pres mes angoisses regarde.
Si d’un trespas tu payes ma langueur,
L’âge à venir maugreant ta rigueur,
Dira sus toy : De ceste fiere amie
Puissent les oz reposer durement,
Qui de ses yeux occis cruellement
Un qui l’avoit plus chere que sa vie.
Give back my heart, give it back, darling,
That you’re keeping locked in your breast –
Give it back, and give me my sweet liberty
Which, caught by your lovely eyes, I now put on guard.
Give me my life, or else slow death
Which pursues me in loving your beauty
By some well-meaning cruelty,
And consider my agonies more closely.
If you pay me for my pining with death,
The age to come, cursing your harshness,
Will say of you: May the bones of this
Proud lover rest uncomfortably,
Who with her eyes cruelly killed
One who held her dearer than his life.
Not the best of Ronsard’s “Rends-moi” poems, though I like lots of the parts! Blanchemain has as the last word of the first line “pilarde” (‘thief’) which seems better to me – another late change Ronsard made which made things worse… 😦
In line 6 he has “Qui me devance en aimant ta beauté” (‘Which anticipates me / which advances on me’).
Blanchemain also notes a pretty vindictive alternative for the final couplet, in a footnote:
La terre soit à son corps ennemie,
Et vif et mort soit tousjours en tourment !
May the earth be hostile to her body,
And living or dead may she be always in torment!
Oeuvres de Ronsard 