Helen 2:62

Ma Dame, je ne meurs abandonné d’espoir :

La playe est jusqu’à l’oz : je ne suis celuy mesme

Que j’estois l’autre jour, tant la douleur extréme

Forçant la patience, a dessus moy pouvoir.

 

Je ne puis ny toucher gouster n’ouïr ny voir :

J’ay perdu tous mes Sens, je suis une ombre blesme :

Mon corps n’est qu’un tombeau. Malheureux est qui aime,

Malheurueux qui se laisse à l’Amour decevoir !

 

Devenez un Achille aux playes qu’avez faites,

Un Telefe je suis, lequel s’en va perir :

Monstrez moy par pitié vos puissances parfaites,

 

Et d’un remede prompt daignez moy secourir.

Si vostre serviteur cruelle vous desfaites,

Vous n’aurez le Laurier pour l’avoir fait mourir.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            My Lady, I am dying abandoned by hope.

                                                                            My wound is to the bone. I am not even he

                                                                            Whom I was the other day, my extreme sorrow

                                                                            Beyond bearing has such power over me.

 

                                                                            I cannot touch, taste, hear or see :

                                                                            I have lost all my senses, I am a pallid shade ;

                                                                            My body is just a tomb. Unhappy he who loves,

                                                                            Unhappy he who allows himself to be deceived by love !

 

                                                                            Become an Achilles through the wounds you have given :

                                                                            I am your Telephus, who is going to die of them.

                                                                            Pity me and show your perfect power,

 

                                                                            Deign to help me with a prompt remedy.

                                                                            If you cruelly destroy your servant,

                                                                            You will not gain laurels for having killed him.

 

 

That last couplet is rather fun: a twist on the usual ‘killing me’ line, pointing out that no-one gets honoured for killing their own servant … The poem as a whole is interesting partly for showing how far our modern perception of the classics is from that of the past: Achilles we share, but Telephus?

 

The Trojan War is familiar to us, and the part of Achilles in it; and we are familiar with the ‘core’ Greek tragedies. But that the story of Telephus was a major preoccupation of the tragedians we are largely unaware – all three wrote (now lost) plays on the theme. And that familiarity with the tale extended to the renaissance, and not just in France: Shakespeare references Telephus in Henry VI part two.

 

So who was Telephus? The son of Heracles , he was wounded by Achilles in a preliminary to the Trojan War ; the wound would not heal, but the Delphic Oracle told him “your assailant will heal you”, a line which obsessed the Greeks and Romans. It turned out that he was to be healed by Achilles’ spear, not by Achilles himself, and the weapon that hurts & heals became a popular theme with  Roman poets – Horace, Ovid, Propertius and others all use it, often in this context of love poetry. Shakespeare’s use [Henry VI, Part 2, act 5.1.100–101] is witness to wider usage: “Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles’ spear / Is able with the change to kill and cure”.

 

(Wagner fans will readily see the similarities with the theme of the Holy Spear in ‘Parsifal’ which hurts and heals Amfortas.)

 

[For much more on the topic, see the vast Wikipedia article – an indication of the Telephus story’s lasting popularity through the centuries.]

 

Ronsard’s classicism of course runs deep: I like the second stanza whose details map onto the Virgilian underworld depicted in the Aeneid.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:17

Si de voz doux regars je ne vais me repaistre

A toute heure, et tousjours en tous lieux vous chercher,

Helas ! pardonnez-moy : j’ay peur de vous fascher,

Comme un serviteur craint de desplaire à son maistre,

 

Puis je crains tant vos yeux, que je ne sçaurois estre

Une heure en les voyant sans le cœur m’arracher,

Sans me troubler le sang : pource il faut me cacher,

A fin de ne mourir pour tant de fois renaistre.

 

J’avois cent fois juré de ne les voir jamais,

Me parjurant autant qu’autant je le promets :

Car soudain je retourne à r’engluer mon aile.

 

Ne m’appellez donq plus dissimulé ne feint.

Aimer ce qui fait mal, et revoir ce qu’on craint,

Est le gage certain d’un service fidele.

 

 

 

 

                                                                           Yes, I am not going to nourish myself on your glances

                                                                           At every moment, and always everywhere pursue you.

                                                                           Alas, pardon me: I fear to anger you,

                                                                           As a servant fears to displease his master.

 

                                                                           But then I fear your eyes so much that I could not

                                                                           Watch them for just one hour without my heart stopping,

                                                                           My blood being troubled: so, I must hide myself

                                                                           That I do not die to be reborn so many times.

 

                                                                           I’d sworn a hundred times never to see them,

                                                                           Forswearing myself as often as I promised it;

                                                                           For suddenly I’d return and glue my wings again.

 

                                                                           So don’t again accuse me of deception or pretence.

                                                                           Loving what harms us, and returning to what we fear,

                                                                           Is the certain token of faithful service.

 

 

This is a much more straightforward poem than the last we looked at! Textually it still offers a few interpretative decisions (though textually there are no variants to report). The opening, for instance, could as easily read “If I am not going to nourish myself … [then] alas, pardon me”. But I prefer to treat the opening ‘si’ as an assertive, contradictory ‘yes!’ rather than an uncertain ‘if’. At the other end of the poem, the ‘gage’ in the final line could be a ‘guarantee’ rather than a token: your choice.

 

The reference to glued wings is to the practice catching birds on sticky limed twigs: Ronsard here is the bird, once caught, who willingly comes back and is caught again.

 

After a reference to Petrarch in the last poem, here is a poem which springs from imitation of Petrarch. Canzoniere no.39 is the following, closely-related to Ronsard’s poem though Ronsard re-orders and re-imagines Petrarch’s original, like a true ‘Petrarchist’. (Note that ‘pegno’ in the last line has just the same dual meaning as ‘gage’ in Ronsard’s.)

 

 

Io temo sí de’ begli occhi l’assalto

ne’ quali Amore et la mia morte alberga,

ch’i’ fuggo lor come fanciul la verga,

et gran tempo è ch’i’ presi il primier salto.

 

Da ora inanzi faticoso od alto

loco non fia, dove ‘l voler non s’erga

per no scontrar chî miei sensi disperga

lassando come suol me freddo smalto.

 

Dunque s’a veder voi tardo mi volsi

per non ravvicinarmi a chi mi strugge,

fallir forse non fu di scusa indegno.

 

Piú dico, che ‘l tornare a quel ch’uom fugge,

e ‘l cor che di paura tanta sciolsi,

fur de la mia fede non leggier pegno.

 

 

 

                                                                           I fear so much the assault of those lovely eyes

                                                                           In which Love and my death lodge,

                                                                           That I flee them like a child flees the rod,

                                                                           And it’s a long time since I took the first step.

 

                                                                           From now on, no awkward or high

                                                                           Place exists where my will would not strive [to reach]

                                                                           So as not to encounter what scatters my senses

                                                                           Leaving me frozen like enamel.

 

                                                                           So if to see you I have turned only slowly

                                                                           That I might not come nearer to what consumes me,

                                                                           Perhaps I am not unworthy of excuse for my failing.

 

                                                                           Further I say that returning to what a man flees

                                                                           And a heart which is melted by such great fear

                                                                           Is no light token to my faithfulness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:55

Je te voulois nommer pour Helene, Ortygie

Renouvellant en toy d’Ortyge le renom.

Le tien est plus fatal : Helene est un beau nom,

Helene, honneur des Grecs, la terreur de Phrygie :

 

Si pour sujet fertil Homere t’a choisie,

Je puis suivant son train qui va sans compagnon,

Te chantant m’honorer, et non pas toy, sinon

Qu’il te plaise estimer ma rude Poësie.

 

Tu passes en vertus les Dames de ce temps

Aussi loin que l’Hyver est passé du Printemps,

Digne d’avoir autels, digne d’avoir Empire.

 

Laure ne te veincroit de renom ny d’honneur

Sans le Ciel qui luy donne un plus digne sonneur,

Et le mauvais destin te fait present du pire.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I’d have preferred to name you, instead of Helen, Ortygian,

                                                                            Renewing in you the renown of Ortygia.

                                                                            Your own [name] is more deadly : [yet] Helen is a lovely name,

                                                                            Helen, glory of the Greeks, terror of Phrygia ;

 

                                                                            If Homer had chosen you as his fruitful subject,

                                                                            I could, following the train of him who goes without companion

                                                                            And singing of you, honour myself yet not you, unless

                                                                            It pleases you to value my crude poetry.

 

                                                                            You surpass in virtues the ladies of our time

                                                                            As far as Winter is surpassed by Spring,

                                                                            Worthy to have altars, worthy to have Dominion.

 

                                                                            Laura would not beat you in fame or honour

                                                                            If Heaven had not given her a worthier poet

                                                                            And evil destiny made you the gift of a worse one.

 

 

This poem offers a number of difficulties, which make it the more interesting: the thought is quite compressed in stanza 2, in particular.

 

The opening lines differentiate ‘Ortygie’ and ‘Ortyge’. They are both presented as nouns: yet awkwardly, classical ‘Ortygia’ is another name for Delos, while ‘Ortyga’ (perhaps the English – or Italian – equivalent of ‘Ortyge’) is a town in Sicily. The renown of Delos, yes, not least as the birthplace of the chaste goddess Artemis-Diana: is Ortyga renowned for anything? And clearly there is no way Ronsard is looking to the Greek noun ‘ortyx’ – it means a quail! So I’ve reasoned that, instead, Ronsard intends the first as an adjective formed from the second – ‘Ortygian’ from ‘Ortygia’ – even though that’s not quite what he appears to say …

 

Then, line 3: “is Helen’s ‘name’ or ‘renown’ more deadly (or, associated with death)? And whichever it is, how to manage the sharp contrast between its deadliness and Helen being ‘a lovely name’? I’ve added a ‘yet’ to make that transition. (Helen is ‘terror of the Phrygians’, being dangerous to Troy whose queen, Hecuba, was a Phrygian princess.)

 

Then stanza 2: I think the logic is, ‘if Homer had written about Helen I could follow him; but writing poetry (even about you) would only bring me honour, not you, unless you value my poetry (which would mean you would value both what I’ve written and the good things people say about it); and yet (last stanza), you have an inferior poet in me (regardless of how much you value my writing)’. Though, of course, Ronsard clearly expects people to say good things about his poetry, even if it’s inferior to Petrarch’s …

 

Petrarch is a ‘sonneur’, which is more ‘musician’ than poet; but once again it’s worth remembering that for Ronsard the two are closely linked.

 

Only one tiny variant in Blanchemain, in line 9 ‘vertu‘ instead of the plural.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:60

Passant dessus la tombe où Lucrece repose,

Tu versas dessus elle une moisson de fleurs :

L’eschaufant de souspirs, et l’arrosant de pleurs,

Tu monstras qu’une mort tenoit ta vie enclose.

 

Si tu aimes le corps dont la terre dispose,

Imagine ta force et conçoy tes rigueurs :

Tu me verras cruelle entre mille langueurs

Mourir puis que la mort te plaist sur toute chose.

 

C’est acte de pitié d’honorer un cercueil,

Mespriser les vivans est un signe d’orgueil.

Puis que ton naturel les fantômes embrasse,

 

Et que rien n’est de toy, s’il n’est mort, estimé,

Sans languir tant de fois, esconduit de ta grace,

Je veux du tout mourir pour estre mieux aimé.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Passing over the tomb where Lucrece lies,

                                                                            You poured upon her a harvest of flowers :

                                                                            Warming her with your sighs, wetting her with your tears,

                                                                            You showed that the dead girl held your life prisoner.

 

                                                                            If you love the body which belongs to the earth,

                                                                            Imagine your power and consider your harshness ;

                                                                            Cruel one, you will see me among a thousand sufferings

                                                                            Dying – since death pleases you above all.

 

                                                                            It is an act of pity to honour a coffin,

                                                                            But despising the living is a sign of pride.

                                                                            Since your nature is to caress ghosts,

 

                                                                            And nothing is esteemed by you unless it is dead,

                                                                            Suffering no more by being dismissed from your favour,

                                                                            I’d prefer to die, that I might be better loved.

 

 

 

It sometimes seems that you can hear real irritation in Ronsard. To me, this is one of those places: ‘yes, Helene, it’s all very well remembering the dead, but remember the living too’. Note that, in line 3, ‘eschauffer’ carries an implied meaning of ‘arousing’ as well as ‘warming’ – as if Helen could raise Lucrece from the dead.

 

Richelet informs us that “this Lucrece was a girl from Bacqueville [Normandy], young, fair, learned, among the most perfect at Court, who was among Helen’s best friends”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:32

J’avois esté saigné, ma Dame me vint voir

Lors que je languissois d’une humeur froide et lente :

Se tournant vers mon sang, comme toute riante

Me dist en se jouant, Que vostre sang est noir !

 

Le trop penser en vous a peu si bien mouvoir

L’imagination, que l’ame obeissante

A laissé la chaleur naturelle impuissante

De cuire de nourrir de faire son devoir.

 

Ne soyez plus si belle, et devenez Medée :

Colorez d’un beau sang ma face ja ridée,

Et d’un nouveau printemps faites moy r’animer.

 

Aeson vit rajeunir son escorce ancienne :

Nul charme ne sçauroit renouveller la mienne.

Si je veux rajeunir il ne faut plus aimer.

 

 

                                                                            I’d just been bled when my Lady came to see me,

                                                                            While I was suffering from a cold and indolent humour;

                                                                            Turning towards my blood, as if laughing at me,

                                                                            She said in joke, “How dark your blood is!

 

                                                                            Thinking too much has managed so to move

                                                                            Your imagination that your obedient soul

                                                                            Has lost its natural warmth, unable

                                                                            To heat, to nourish, to do its duty.”

 

                                                                            Oh, be no longer so fair, become Medea;

                                                                            Put colour in my already-lined cheeks with fresh blood,

                                                                            And make me live again with a new springtime.

 

                                                                            Aeson saw his ancient hide rejuvenated;

                                                                            But no magic could renew mine.

                                                                            If I wish to become young again, I must love no more.

 

 

Humours and bleeding – very sixteenth-century, not the medicine we know today. But all pretty elf-explanatory, I think. 

 

A couple of classical names that may not be so clear: Medea and Aeson.

 

Blanchemain to the rescue: ‘Medea, who rejuvenated with her magic the aged Æson’. Aeson was Jason’s (aged) father and, when Jason returned from Colchis with Medea, she did indeed rejuvenate him – by slitting his throat and boiling him in a pot! Aeson emerged , youn g again. It was all a plot to get rid of Pelias who was threatening to oust Aeson: promising to rejuvenate him too, Medea killed and boiled him – but without bringing him back to life.

 

Hence the references to blood, fresh and good, a new springtime, and magic. The names may also be familiar from a modern form of magic – Aeson is a parsing library for JSON (get it?), and named from these myths.