Le Voyage de Tours (part 3)

And, finally, the last third of the poem…

Bateau qui par les flots ma chere vie emportes, Des vents en ta faveur les haleines soient mortes. Et le Ban perilleux qui se trouve parmy Les eaux, ne t’envelope en son sable endormy : Que l’air, le vent, et l’eau favorisent ma dame, Et que nul flot bossu ne destourbe sa rame. En guise d’un estang sans vague paresseux Aille le cours de Loire, et son limon crasseux Pour ce jourd’huy se change en gravelle menüe, Pleine de meint ruby et meinte perle esleüe.   Que les bords soient semez de mille belles fleurs Representant sur l’eau mille belles couleurs, Et le tropeau Nymphal des gentilles Naïades Alentour du vaisseau face mille gambades : Les unes balloyant des paumes de leurs mains Les flots devant la barque, et les autres leurs seins Descouvrent à fleur d’eau, et d’une main ouvriere Conduisent le bateau du long de la riviere.   L’azuré Martinet puisse voler davant Avecques la Mouette, et le Plongeon suivant Son malheureux destin pour le jourd’huy ne songe En sa belle Hesperie, et dans l’eau ne se plonge : Et le Heron criard, qui la tempeste fuit, Haut pendu dedans l’air ne face point de bruit : Ains tout gentil oiseau qui va cherchant sa proye Par les flots poissonneux, bien-heureux te convoye, Pour seurement venir evecq’ ta charge au port, Où Marion verra, peut-estre, sur le bort Un orme des longs bras d’une vigne enlassée, Et la voyant ainsi doucement embrassée, De son pauvre Perrot se pourra souvenir, Et voudra sur le bord embrassé le tenir.   On dit au temps passé que quelques uns changerent En riviere leur forme, et eux-mesmes nagerent Au flot qui de leur sang goutte à goutte sailloit, Quand leur corps transformé en eau se distilloit.   Que ne puis-je muer ma ressemblance humaine, En la forme de l’eau qui ceste barque emmeine ? J’irois en murmurant sous le fond du vaisseau, J’irois tout alentour, et mon amoureuse eau Baiseroit or’ sa main, ore sa bouche franche, La suivant jusqu’au port de la Chappelle blanche : Puis laissant mon canal pour jouyr de mon vueil, Par le trac de ses pas j’irois jusqu’à Bourgueil, Et là dessous un pin, couché sur la verdure, Je voudrois revestir ma premiere figure.   Se trouve point quelque herbe en ce rivage icy Qui ait le goust si fort, qu’elle me puisse ainsi Muer comme fut Glauque, en aquatique monstre, Qui homme ne poisson, homme et poisson se monstre ? Je voudrois estre Glauque, et avoir dans mon sein Les pommes qu’ Hippomane eslançoit de sa main Pour gaigner Atalante : à fin de te surprendre, Je les ru’rois sur l’eau, et te ferois apprendre Que l’or n’a seulement sur la terre pouvoir Mais qu’il peult desur l’eau les femmes decevoir. Or cela ne peult estre, et ce qui se peult faire, Je le veux achever afin de te complaire : Je veux soigneusement ce coudrier arroser, Et des chapeaux de fleurs sur ses fueilles poser : Et avecq’un poinçon je veux desur l’escorce Engraver de ton nom les six lettres à force, Afin que les passans en lisant Marion, Facent honneur à l’arbre entaillé de ton nom.   Je veux faire un beau lict d’une verte jonchee, De Parvanche fueillue encontre-bas couchee, De Thym qui fleure bon, et d’Aspic porte-epy, D’odorant Poliot contre terre tapy, De Neufard tousjours verd, qui la froideur incite, Et de Jonc qui les bords des rivieres habite.   Je veux jusques au coude avoir l’herbe, et je veux De roses et de lys couronner mes cheveux. Je veux qu’on me défonce une pipe Angevine, Et en me souvenant de ma toute divine, De toy mon doux soucy, espuiser jusqu’au fond Mille fois ce jourd’huy mon gobelet profond, Et ne partir d’icy jusqu’à tant qu’à la lie De ce bon vin d’ Anjou la liqueur soit faillie.   Melchior Champenois, et Guillaume Manceau, L’un d’un petit rebec, l’autre d’un chalumeau, Me chanteront comment j’eu l’ame despourveüe De sens et de raison si tost que je t’eu veüe, Puis chanteront comment pour flechir ta rigueur Je t’appellay ma vie, et te nommay mon cœur, Mon œil, mon sang, mon tout : mais ta haute pensée N’a voulu regarder chose tant abaissee, Ains en me dedaignant tu aimas autre part Un qui son amitié chichement te depart. Voila comme il te prend pour mespriser ma peine, Et le rustique son de mon tuyau d’aveine.   Ils diront que mon teint vermeil au paravant, Se perd comme une fleur qui se fanist au vent : Que mon poil devient blanc, et que la jeune grace De mon nouveau printemps de jour en jour s’efface : Et que depuis le mois que l’amour me fit tien, De jour en jour plus triste et plus vieil je devien.   Puis ils diront comment les garçons du village Disent que ta beauté tire desja sur l’age, Et qu’au matin le Coq dés la poincte du jour N’oyra plus à ton huis ceux qui te font l’amour. « Bien fol est qui se fie en sa belle jeunesse, « Qui si tost se derobe, et si tost nous delaisse. « La rose à la parfin devient un gratecu, « Et tout avecq’ le temps par le temps est vaincu. »   Quel passetemps prens-tu d’habiter la valee De Bourgueil où jamais la Muse n’est allee ? Quitte moy ton Anjou, et vien en Vandomois : Là s’eslevent au ciel les sommets de nos bois, Là sont mille taillis et mille belles plaines, Là gargouillent les eaux de cent mille fontaines, Là sont mille rochers, où Echon alentour En resonnant mes vers ne parle que d’ Amour.   Ou bien si tu ne veux, il me plaist de me rendre Angevin pour te voir, et ton langage apprendre : Et pour mieux te flechir, les hauts vers que j’avois En ma langue traduit du Pindare Gregeois, Humble, je veux redire en un chant plus facile Sur le doux chalumeau du pasteur de Sicile.   Là parmy tes sablons Angevin devenu, Je veux vivre sans nom comme un pauvre incognu, Et dés l’Aube du jour avecq’ toy mener paistre Aupres du port Guiet nostre troupeau champestre : Puis sur le chaud du jour je veux en ton giron Me coucher sous un chesne, où l’herbe à l’environ Un beau lict nous fera de mainte fleur diverse, Pour nous coucher tous deux sous l’ombre à la renverse : Puis au Soleil penchant nous conduirons noz bœufs Boire le haut sommet des ruisselets herbeux, Et les reconduirons au son de la musette, Puis nous endormirons dessus l’herbe mollette.   Là sans ambition de plus grands biens avoir, Contenté seulement de t’aimer et te voir, Je passerois mon âge, et sur ma sepulture Les Angevins mettroient ceste breve escriture.   Celuy qui gist icy, touché de l’aiguillon Qu’ amour nous laisse au cœur, garda comme Apollon Les tropeaux de sa dame, et en ceste prairie Mourut en bien aimant une belle Marie, Et elle apres sa mort mourut aussi d’ennuy, Et sous ce verd tombeau repose avecques luy.   A peine avois je dit, quand Thoinet se dépâme, Et à soy revenu alloit apres sa dame : Mais je le retiray le menant d’autre part Pour chercher à loger, car il estoit bien tard.   Nous avions ja passé la sablonneuse rive, Et le flot qui bruyant contre le pont arrive, Et ja dessus le pont nous estions parvenus, Et nous apparoissoit le tumbeau de Turnus, Quand le pasteur Janot tout gaillard nous emmeine Dedans son toict couvert de javelles d’aveine.

“O boat who carry my dear life through the waves, May the breath of the winds favourable to you be dead, And may the perilous bank which is found In the waters not wrap you in his sleeping sands; May air, wind and water favour my lady And no bumpy wave disturb her oars. May the course of the Loire flow with the appearance Of a pool, without any lazy waves, and may its dirty lime For today change into fine gravel Full of many a ruby and many a choice pearl.   May the banks be sown with a thousand beautiful flowers Reflecting their thousand beautiful colours on the water; And may the nymphly troop of gentle Naiads Make around the vessel a thousand gambols, Some making the waves before the bark dance With the palms of their hands, others reveal Their breasts in the water’s foam, and with workers’ hands Lead the boat along the river.   Let the sky-blue martin fly before With the gull, and let the loon pursuing His wretched fate not dream for today Of his fair Hesperia, and not throw himself under the water; And let the noisy Heron, who flees the storm, Hanging high in the air make no sound; So, let every gentle bird which seeks its prey Among the fishy waves bring you with good fortune To come safely with your charge to port, Where Marion shall see perhaps on the bank An elm with long boughs, bound by a vine, And seeing it embraced so gently Shall maybe recall her poor Pete And wish to have him in her embrace on the bank.   “They used to say in past time that some people could change Their form into a river, and themselves swam In the waves which mounted drop by drop with their blood As their bodies, transformed into water, melted away.   “Why cannot I change my human appearance Into the form of the water which draws that bark? I would go murmuring under the bottom of the vessel, I would go all around it, and my loving water Would kiss now her hand, now her open lips, Following her right up to the White Chapel; Then, leaving the stream to enjoy my wish, I would follow the traces of her feet right to Bourgueil And there, lying beneath a pine on the green grass, I would want to re-assume my previous shape.   “Is there any plant on this bank here Which has so strong a taste that it might thus Change me as Glaucus was changed, into an aquatic beast, With the form of neither man nor fish, yet of both man and fish? I would like to be Glaucus and keep in my lap The apples which Hippomenes threw from his hand To win Atalanta; to surprise you I would hurl them on the water and make you realise That gold has power not only upon the earth, But that it can deceive women upon water also. Well, that won’t happen; but what can be done I want to achieve, to please you. I want to water this hazel-tree carefully And place chaplets of flowers upon its leaves; And with an awl upon its bark I want To engrave the six letters of your name strongly So that passers-by, reading ‘Marion’, May do honour to the tree cut with your name.   “I want to make a fair bed of green reeds, Laid upon leafy periwinkle And thyme which flowers well, and tufted spikenard, And fragrant mint carpeting the earth, And ever-green water-lilies, which bring on the cold, And reeds which live on the river-banks.   “I want to have grass up to my elbows, and I want With roses and lilies to crown my hair. I want someone to break me open an Angevin cask And, as I recall my completely divine one, You, my sweet care, to empty right to the bottom My deep cup, a thousand times this very day, And not to leave here until to the lees Of this fine wine of Anjou the liquor is drained.   Melchior of Champagne and William of Mance, One on his little fiddle, the other on pipes, Will sing of me, how my soul was destitute Of sense and reason as soon as I saw you. Then they’ll sing how, to turn aside your harshness, I called you my life, and named you my heart, My eyes, my blood, my everything: but your haughty thoughts Did not wish to look on a thing so abased, Even as – while you disdained me – you loved elsewhere Someone who stingily took away from you his love. See how he led you to despise my pain, And the rustic sound of my oat-stalk pipe.   They’ll sing how my previously-pink colour Was lost like a flower which withers in the wind: How my skin became pale, and how the youthful grace Of my fresh springtime has faded day by day: And how since the month when love made me yours From day to day I’ve become sadder and older.   Then they’ll sing how the boys in the village Say that your beauty is already lessening with age, And how in the morning the cock at break of day Won’t hear any more at your door those who make love to you. “The true fool is he who trusts in his fair youth, Which so soon fades, and so soon leaves us. The rose in the end becomes a rose-hip, And everything in time by time is overcome.”   Why do you pass your time living in the valley Of Bourgueil, where the Muse has never visited? Leave your Anjou for me, and come to the Vendôme: There the tops of our trees rise to the skies, There are a thousand copses and a thousand lovely plains, There the waters of millions of springs gurgle, There are a thousand rocks where Echo all around Re-sounding my verses speaks only of Love.   Or again, if you don’t want to, I’m happy to become Angevin, to see you, and to learn your language; And, to sway you further, the high-flown verse which I have Translated into my tongue from Greek Pindar I am willing humbly to re-write into an easier song Played on the sweet pipes of the Sicilian shepherd.   There among your sands, become an Angevin, I want to live nameless like a poor unknown, And from the dawn of day to lead with you to pasture Near the Guiet gate our country herd; Then, in the heat of the day, I want to lie In your lap beneath an oak, where the grass around Will make a lovely bed for us of many varied flowers So we can sleep, both of us, backwards beneath the shade; Then as the sun sets, we will lead our cattle To drink from the high origins of grassy streams, And lead them back, to the sound of the pipe, Then we’ll sleep upon the softest grass.   There, with no ambition to have greater goods, Contented only with loving you and seeing you, I shall live out my years, and on my grave The Angevins will place this brief inscription:   “He who lies here, wounded by the arrow Which love plants in our hearts, watched like Apollo His lady’s herds, and on this plain He died, loving well his fair Marie, And she after his death died too, of grief, And lies beneath this green tomb with him.”   I had barely spoken, when Tony came around, And, recovered, was going after his lady; But I drew him back, leading him elsewhere To find lodging, for it was very late.   We had already passed the sandy bank, And the waves which crash noisily against the bridge, And we’d already arrived on the bridge, And the tomb of Turnus had already appeared before us, When Johnny the shepherd gaily led us Into his home, covered with armful of oat-straw.

 

I love the way, a stanza before the end, Ronsard leads us to expect yet more extended lovers’ complaints, the instead brings things to a swift conclusion: “he was going to carry on, but instead we looked for a place to stay the night…”

 

As usual, plenty of classical references, and even a joke about re-writing his poem to be simpler and less learned! Note also the line about ‘learning her language’, a reminder that dialects could be extraordinarily unlike one another – consider the southern-French ‘langue d’oc’ which contains a considerable admixture of Spanish.

 – the Naiads, like mermaids, inhabit the waters, but these are river-spirits;

 – when his beloved Hesperia died, Aesacus leapt from a cliff and was transformed into a bird, as Bellay tells us in his note – not specifically a sand-martin but the image of these birds sweeping in and out of their riverside holes fits very well;

 – Bellay tells us that the people who “could change /Their form into a river” is a reference to the satyr Marsyas – Ovid links him with the river Marsyas, whose source was in Phrygia near that of the Maeander;

 – there’s no link between the legends of Hippomenes, throwing apples to delay Atalanta in her race with him, and Glaucus, the fisherman transformed into a mer-man or sea-god; Ronsard’s link is purely the translation of the land-based story of Hippomenes to an appropriate water-based figure;

 – Pindar was one of the ‘classic’ Greek poets, famed for the beauty of his images and the complexity of his writing; Daphnis the ‘Sicilian shepherd’, on the other hand, stands as ‘father’ of pastoral poetry;

 – Apollo, though he did act as a herdsman, is generally held to have done so as a punishment, and to have watched the herds of Admetus, not of a lady. However, while serving Admetus, Apollo did help him to win the hand of Alcestis, so perhaps Ronsard is simply conflating a couple of related myths here;

 – Bellay tells us, “they say that Turnus, who founded Tours, is buried under the town’s castle [or château], washed by the waters of the Loire, near the bridge in the wall of that castle”  He is probably referring to the Château des Sablons now a hotel with rooms available! Since Ronsard, no-one seems to have placed Turnus at Bourgueil, and indeed the guide-books tell us that Tours for a long time claimed (and displayed) the ‘tomb of Turnus’.

 

I should probably have translated the ‘White Chapel’ as ‘Whitechapel’, since it refers to a small village near Bourgueil rather than to a building. There was however a chapel (of St Nicholas) at the Guiet gate (le Port-Guyet) which you can see here. In his edition, Blanchemain identified the house as Marie’s. The name Melchior of Champagne is probably not a joke, but we might note that these days a giant, 24-bottle-sized bottle of champagne is called a ‘melchior’: was it when Ronsard wrote? Mance is another village in the area; I don’t imagine these two are supposed to recall ‘real’ musicians.

 

Bellay tells us that what Ronsard calls ‘Aspic’ or ‘spikenard’ is what is commonly called lavender. What he calls ‘Neufard’ is also called ‘neneufard’, from the same Arabic root as our own ‘ninufar’, a water-lily with very wide leaves, which can be used to cool the skin. (Here is one change in the later version which is certainly an improvement on the earlier version below, where the large leaves are ‘like tables’!)

 

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The earlier version given by Blanchemain of course differs in detail. The only substantial change is the  his pale skin: the earlier version offers an extended and perhaps over-done simile featuring the snow-capped mountains of southern France, the later version replaces it with a safer series of more conventional similes. Your preference probably depends on whether you prefer the bold rashness of the earlier approach, risking going too far in the search for originality, or whether you prefer the similes not to be so extreme!

 

Bateau qui par les flots ma chere vie emportes, Des vents en ta faveur les haleines soient mortes. Et le banc perilleux qui se trouve parmy Les eaux, ne t’envelope en son sable endormy : Que l’air, le vent, et l’eau ]favorisent ma dame, Et que nul flot bossu ne destourbe sa rame. En guise d’un estang sans vague paresseux Aille le cours de Loire, et son limon crasseux Pour ce jourd’huy se change en gravelle menüe, Pleine de meint ruby et meinte perle esleüe.   Que les bords soient semez de mille belles fleurs Representant sur l’eau mille belles couleurs, Et le tropeau Nymphal des gentilles Naïades Alentour du vaisseau face mille gambades : Les unes balloyant des paumes de leurs mains Les flots devant la barque, et les autres leurs seins Descouvrent à fleur d’eau, et d’une main ouvriere Conduisent le bateau du long de la riviere.   L’azuré Martinet puisse voler davant Avecques la Mouette, et le Plongeon suivant Son malheureux destin pour le jourd’huy ne songe En sa belle Hesperie, et dans l’eau ne se plonge : Et le Heron criard, qui la tempeste fuit, Haut pendu dedans l’air ne face point de bruit : Ains tout gentil oiseau qui va cherchant sa proye Par les flots poissonneux, bien-heureux te convoye, Pour seurement venir avec ta charge au port, Où Marion verra, peut-estre, sur le bort Une orme des longs bras d’une vigne enlassée, Et la voyant ainsi doucement embrassée, De son pauvre Perrot se pourra souvenir, Et voudra sur le bord embrassé le tenir.   On dit au temps passé que quelques uns changerent En riviere leur forme, et eux-mesmes nagerent Au flot qui de leur sang et de leurs yeux sailloit, Quand leur corps ondoyant peu à peu defailloit.   Que ne puis-je muer ma ressemblance humaine, En la forme de l’eau qui ceste barque emmeine ? J’irois en murmurant sous le fond du vaisseau, J’irois tout alentour, et mon amoureuse eau Baiseroit or’ sa main, ore sa bouche franche, La suivant jusqu’au port de la Chappelle blanche : Puis forçant mon canal pour ensuivre mon vueil, Par le trac de ses pas j’irois jusqu’à Bourgueil, Et là dessous un pin, couché sur la verdure, Je voudrois revestir ma premiere figure.   N’y a-t-il point quelque herbe en ce rivage icy Qui ait le goust si fort, qu’elle me puisse ainsi Muer comme fut Glauque, en aquatique monstre, Qui homme ne poisson, homme et poisson se monstre ? Je voudrois estre Glauque, et avoir dans mon sein Les pommes qu’ Hippomane eslançoit de sa main Pour gaigner Atalante : à fin de te surprendre, Je les ru’rois sur l’eau, et te ferois apprendre Que l’or n’a seulement sur la terre pouvoir Mais qu’il peult desur l’eau les femmes decevoir. Or cela ne peult estre, et ce qui se peult faire, Je le veux achever afin de te complaire : Je veux soigneusement ce coudrier arroser, Et des chapeaux de fleurs sur ses fueilles poser : Et avecq’un poinçon je veux dessus l’escorce Engraver de ton nom les six lettres à force, Afin que les passans en lisant Marion, Facent honneur à l’arbre entaillé de ton nom.   Je veux faire un beau lict d’une verte jonchee, De Parvanche fueillue encontre-bas couchee, De Thym qui fleure bon, et d’Aspic porte-epy, D’odorant Poliot contre terre tapy, De Neufard tousjours verd, qui les tables imitent, Et de Jonc qui les bords des rivieres habite.   Je veux jusques au coude avoir l’herbe, et si veux De roses et de lys couronner mes cheveux. Je veux qu’on me défonce une pipe Angevine, Et en me souvenant de ma toute divine, De toy mon doux soucy, espuiser jusqu’au fond Mille fois ce jourd’huy mon gobelet profond, Et ne partir d’icy jusqu’à tant qu’à la lie De ce bon vin d’ Anjou la liqueur soit faillie.   Melchior Champenois, et Guillaume Manceau, L’un d’un petit rebec, l’autre d’un chalumeau, Me chanteront comment j’eu l’ame despourveüe De sens et de raison si tost que je t’eu veüe, Puis chanteront comment pour flechir ta rigueur Je t’appellay ma vie, et te nommay mon cœur, Mon œil, mon sang, mon tout : mais ta haute pensée N’a voulu regarder chose tant abaissee, Ains en me dedaignant tu aimas autre part Un qui son amitié chichement te depart. Voila comme il te prend pour mespriser ma peine, Et le rustique son de mon tuyau d’aveine.   Ils diront que mon teint, auparavant vermeil, De crainte en te voyant se blanchit tout pareil A la neige ou d’Auvergne ou des monts Pyrénées, Qui se conserve blanche en despit des années, Et que depuis le mois que l’amour me fit tien, De jour en jour plus triste et plus vieil je devien.   Puis ils diront comment les garçons du village Disent que ta beauté touche desja sur l’age, Et qu’au matin le Coq dés la poincte du jour Ne voirra plus sortir ceux qui te font l’amour. « Bien fol est qui se fie en sa belle jeunesse, « Qui si tost se derobe, et si tost nous delaisse. « La rose à la parfin devient un gratecu, « Et tout avecq’ le temps par le temps est vaincu. »   Quel passetemps prens-tu d’habiter la valee De Bourgueil où jamais la Muse n’est allee ? Quitte moy ton Anjou, et vien en Vandomois : Là s’eslevent au ciel les sommets de nos bois, Là sont mille taillis et mille belles plaines, Là gargouillent les eaux de cent mille fontaines, Là sont mille rochers, où Echon alentour En resonnant mes vers ne parle que d’ Amour.   Ou bien si tu ne veux, il me plaist de me rendre Angevin pour te voir, et ton langage apprendre : Et là pour te flechir, les hauts vers que j’avois En ma langue traduit du Pindare Gregeois, Humble je redirai en un chant plus facile Sur le doux chalumeau du pasteur de Sicile.   Là parmy tes sablons Angevin devenu, Je veux vivre sans nom comme un pauvre incognu, Et dés l’Aube du jour avecq’ toy mener paistre Aupres du port Guiet nostre troupeau champestre : Puis sur le chaud du jour je veux en ton giron Me coucher sous un chesne, où l’herbe à l’environ Un beau lict nous fera de mainte fleur diverse, Où nous serons tournés tous deux à la renverse : Puis au Soleil couchant nous mènerons noz bœufs Boire sur le sommet des ruisselets herbeux, Et les remènerons au son de la musette, Puis nous endormirons dessus l’herbe mollette.   Là sans ambition de plus grands biens avoir, Contenté seulement de t’aimer et de voir, Je passerois mon âge, et sur ma sepulture Les Angevins mettroient ceste breve escriture.   Celuy qui gist icy, touché de l’aiguillon Qu’ amour nous laisse au cœur, garda comme Apollon Les tropeaux de sa dame, et en ceste prairie Mourut en bien aimant une belle Marie, Et elle apres sa mort mourut aussi d’ennuy, Et sous ce verd tombeau repose avecques luy.   A peine avois je dit, quand Thoinet se dépâme, Et à soy revenu alloit apres sa dame : Mais je le retiray le menant d’autre part Pour chercher à loger, car il estoit bien tard.   Nous avions ja passé la sablonneuse rive, Et le flot qui bruyant contre le pont arrive, Et ja dessus le pont nous estions parvenus, Et nous apparoissoit le tumbeau de Turnus, Quand le pasteur Janot tout gaillard nous emmeine Dedans son toict couvert de javelles d’aveine.

“O boat who carry my dear life through the waves, May the breath of the winds favourable to you be dead, And may the perilous bank which is found In the waters not wrap you in his sleeping sands; May air, wind and water favour my lady And no bumpy wave disturb her oars. May the course of the Loire flow with the appearance Of a pool, without any lazy waves, and may its dirty lime For today change into fine gravel Full of many a ruby and many a choice pearl.   May the banks be sown with a thousand beautiful flowers Reflecting their thousand beautiful colours on the water; And may the nymphly troop of gentle Naiads Make around the vessel a thousand gambols, Some making the waves before the bark dance With the palms of their hands, others reveal Their breasts in the water’s foam, and with workers’ hands Lead the boat along the river.   Let the sky-blue martin fly before With the gull, and let the loon pursuing His wretched fate not dream for today Of his fair [ Hesperia ], and not throw himself under the water; And let the noisy Heron, who flees the storm, Hanging high in the air make no sound; So, let every gentle bird which seeks its prey Among the fishy waves bring you with good fortune To come safely with your charge to port, Where Marion shall see perhaps on the bank An elm with long boughs, bound by a vine, And seeing it embraced so gently Shall maybe recall her poor Pete And wish to have him in her embrace on the bank.   “They used to say in past time that some people could change Their form into a river, and themselves swam In the waves which mounted with their blood and tears As their bodies, wavering, little by little faded away.   “Why cannot I change my human appearance Into the form of the water which draws that bark? I would go murmuring under the bottom of the vessel, I would go all around it, and my loving water Would kiss now her hand, now her open lips, Following her right up to the White Chapel; Then, forcing a passage to follow my wish, I would follow the traces of her feet right to Bourgueil And there, lying beneath a pine on the green grass, I would want to re-assume my previous shape.   “Is there no plant on this bank here Which has so strong a taste that it might thus Change me as Glaucus was changed, into an aquatic beast, With the form of neither man nor fish, yet of both man and fish? I would like to be Glaucus and keep in my lap The apples which Hippomanes threw from his hand To win Atalanta; to surprise you I would hurl them on the water and make you realise That gold has power not only upon the earth, But that it can deceive women upon water also. Well, that won’t happen; but what can be done I want to achieve, to please you. I want to water this hazel-tree carefully And place chaplets of flowers upon its leaves; And with an awl upon its bark I want To engrave the six letters of your name strongly So that passers-by, reading ‘Marion’, May do honour to the tree cut with your name.   “I want to make a fair bed of green reeds, Laid upon leafy periwinkle And thyme which flowers well, and tufted aspic, And fragrant mint carpeting the earth, And ever-green water-lilies, which imitate tables, And reeds which live on the river-banks.   “I want to have grass up to my elbows, and I want With roses and lilies to crown my hair. I want someone to break me open an Angevin cask And, as I recall my completely divine one, You, my sweet care, to empty right to the bottom My deep cup, a thousand times this very day, And not to leave here until to the lees Of this fine wine of Anjou the liquor is drained.   Melchior of Champagne and William of [ Mance ], One on his little fiddle, the other on pipes, Will sing of me, how my soul was destitute Of sense and reason as soon as I saw you. Then they’ll sing how, to turn aside your harshness, I called you my life, and named you my heart, My eyes, my blood, my everything: but your haughty thoughts Did not wish to look on a thing so abased, Even as – while you disdained me – you loved elsewhere Someone who stingily took away from you his love. See how he led you to despise my pain, And the rustic sound of my oat-stalk pipe.   They’ll sing how my previously-pink colour For fear on seeing you paled just like The snow in the Auvergne or the Pyrenean mountains, Which remains white despite the passing year, And how since the month when love made me yours From day to day I’ve become sadder and older.   Then they’ll sing how the boys in the village Say that your beauty is already beginning to age, And how in the morning the cock at break of day Won’t any longer see leaving those who make love to you. “The true fool is he who trusts in his fair youth, Which so soon fades, and so soon leaves us. The rose in the end becomes a rose-hip, And everything in time by time is overcome.”   Why do you pass your time living in the valley Of Bourgueil, where the Muse has never visited? Leave your Anjou for me, and come to the Vendôme: There the tops of our trees rise to the skies, There are a thousand copses and a thousand lovely plains, There the waters of millions of springs gurgle, There are a thousand rocks where Echo all around Re-sounding my verses speaks only of Love.   Or even, if you don’t want to, I’m happy to become Angevin, to see you, and to learn your language; And there, to sway you, the high-flown verse which I have Translated into my tongue from Greek Pindar I shall humbly re-write into an easier song Played on the sweet pipes of the Sicilian shepherd.   There among your sands, become an Angevin, I want to live nameless like a poor unknown, And from the dawn of day to lead with you to pasture Near the Guiet gate our country herd; Then, in the heat of the day, I want to lie In your lap beneath an oak, where the grass around Will make a lovely bed for us of many varied flowers Where we shall both turn backwards; Then as the sun sets, we will lead our cattle To drink from the high origins of grassy streams, And we’ll lead them back, to the sound of the pipe, Then we’ll sleep upon the softest grass.   There, with no ambition to have greater goods, Contented only with loving you and looking, I shall live out my years, and on my grave The Angevins will place this brief inscription:   “He who lies here, wounded by the arrow Which love plants in our hearts, watched like Apollo His lady’s herds, and on this plain He died, loving well his fair Marie, And she after his death died too, of grief, And lies beneath this green tomb with him.”   I had barely spoken, when Tony came around, And, recovered, was going after his lady; But I drew him back, leading him elsewhere To find lodging, for it was very late.   We had already passed the sandy bank, And the waves which crash noisily against the bridge, And we’d already arrived on the bridge, And the tomb of Turnus had already appeared before us, When Johnny the shepherd gaily led us Into his home, covered with armful of oat-straw.

 

A complete version of the later text and translation is collected here.

 

 

Amours 1.194

Quelle langueur ce beau front des-honore ?

Quel voile obscur embrunist ce flambeau ?

Quelle palleur dépourpre ce sein beau,

Qui per à per combat avec l’Aurore?

 

Dieu medecin, si en toy vit encore

L’antique feu du Thessale arbrisseau,

Vien au secours de ce teint damoiseau,

Et son liz palle en œillets recolore.

 

Et toy Barbu, fidele gardien

Des Rhagusins, peuple Epidaurien,

Fais amortir le tison de ma vie :

 

S’il vit je vy, s’il meurt je ne suis riens :

Car tant son ame à la mienne est unie,

Que ses destins seront suivis des miens.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            What langour dishonours that fair brow?

                                                                            What shadowy veil darkens that torch?

                                                                            What pallor un-reddens that fair breast,

                                                                            Which competes on equal terms with the Dawn?

 

                                                                            O doctor-god, if in you still lives

                                                                            The antique fire of the Thessalian bush,

                                                                            Come to the aid of this maiden tint

                                                                            And re-colour her pale lilies as pinks.

 

                                                                            And you, Bearded God, faithful guardian

                                                                            Of the Rhagusians, a people of Epidaurum,

                                                                            Un-deaden the fire-brand of my life;

 

                                                                            If she lives, I live; if she dies, I am nothing;

                                                                            For her soul is so united to mine

                                                                            That her fate will be followed by mine.

 

 

 

 

Some neologisms from Ronsard in this lovely ‘get well soon’ message:  ‘un-redden’ in line 3, ‘un-deaden’ in line 11 – “amortir” usually means to reduce, but here it is “a-mort-ir”.  Ragusa is Dubrovnik, founded by Illyrians from Epidaurum (or Epidaurus, but not the one where the famous theatre is). Epidaurum was some 15km south of Dubrovnik, both on the Dalmatian coast. Its patron god was Asclepius/Aesculapius, the ‘bearded god’ of line 9 whose image can be found carved into a column in the portico of the Rector’s Palace in Dubrovnik today. Asclepius is also associated with Thessaly (it was there he was supposedly born), and in particular with Epidaurus (the one with the theatre!) where there is a temple to him.  So in lines 5-6 Ronsard may be referring to another aspect of the same deity, as well as making a link between the two Epidauruses. Alternatively, he may mean Apollo (father of Asclepius) whose association with the ‘Thesalian bush’ recalls Daphne, turned into a bush to escape his lustful pursuit.

 

Note that in line 12, Ronsard actually writes ‘if it [the torch or fire-brand] lives…’; I have personalised his simile to make it clearer.

 

Blanchemain’s text offers us another neologism in line 11 – “Déflamme aussi le tizon de ma vie” (‘Un-flame too the fire-brand…’); no doubt Ronsard adjusted this image as it is confusing to imagine the flames of a torch being put out but the torch still living… In line 7, Blanchemain’s text has “Las ! prends pitié de ce teint damoiseau”, adjusted in the later version to eliminate the weak exclamation.

 

 

 

 

 

Odes 1.3

Today one of Ronsard’s early Odes, very formally structured in the classical style with strophes & antistrophes repeating a metrical scheme, and then epodes acting as a ‘refrain’ structure in between pairs of these.

A LA ROYNE   Strophe 1   Je suis troublé de fureur, Le poil me dresse d’horreur, D’un effroy mon ame est pleine, Mon estomac est pantois, Et par son canal ma vois Ne se desgorge qu’à peine. Une deité m’emmeine ; Fuyez, peuple, qu’on me laisse, Voicy venir la deesse ; Fuyez, peuple, je la voy. Heureux ceux qu’elle regarde, Et plus heureux qui la garde Dans l’estomac comme moy !   Antistrophe 1   Elle, esprise de mes chants, Loin me guide par les champs Où jadis sur le rivage Apollon Florence aima, Lorsque jeune elle s’arma Pour combattre un loup sauvage. L’art de filer ny l’ouvrage Ne plurent à la pucelle, Ny le lit mignard ; mais elle, Devant le jour s’éveillant, Cherchoit des loups le repaire, Pour les bœufs d’Arne son père Sans repos se travaillant.   Epode 1   Ce Dieu, qui du ciel la vit Si valeureuse et si belle, Pour sa femme la ravit, Et surnomma du nom d’elle La ville qui te fit naistre, Laquelle se vante d’estre Mere de nostre Junon, Et qui par les gens étranges Pour ses plus grandes louanges Ne celebre que ton nom.   Strophe 2   Là les faits de tes ayeux Vont flamboyant comme aux cieux Flamboye l’aurore claire ; Là l’honneur de ton Julien Dans le ciel italien Comme une planette esclaire. Par luy le gros populaire Pratiqua l’experience De la meilleure science, Et là reluisent aussi Tes deux grands papes, qui ores Du ciel, où ils sont encores, Te favorisent icy.   Antistrophe 2   On ne compte les moissons De l’esté, ni des glaçons Qui, l’hiver, tiennent la trace Des eaux roides à glisser : Ainsi je ne puis penser Les louanges de ta race. Le Ciel t’a peint en la face Je ne sçay quoy qui nous monstre, Dès la premiere rencontre, Que tu passes par grand-heur Les princesses de nostre âge, Soit en force de courage, Soit en royale grandeur.   Epode 2   Le comble de ton sçavoir Et de tes vertus ensemble Dit que l’on ne peut icy voir Rien que toy qui te resemble. Quelle dame a la pratique De tant de mathematique ? Quelle princesse entend mieux Du grand monde la peinture, Les chemins de la nature Et la musique des cieux ?   Strophe 3   Ton nom, que mon vers dira, Tout le monde remplira De ta loüange notoire : Un tas qui chantent de toy Ne sçavent si bien que moy Comme il faut sonner ta gloire. Jupiter, ayant mémoire D’une vieille destinée Autrefois determinée Par l’oracle de Themis, A commandé que Florence Dessous les loix de la France Se courbe le chef soumis.   Antistrophe 3   Mais il veut que ton enfant En ait honneur triomphant, D’autant qu’il est tout ensemble Italien et François, Qui de front, d’yeux et de vois, A père et mere resemble. Déjà tout colere il semble Que sa main tente les armes, Et qu’au milieu des alarmes Jà desdaigne les dangers ; Et, servant aux siens de guide, Vainqueur, attache une bride Aux royaumes estrangers.   Epode 3   Le Ciel, qui nous l’a donné Pour estre nostre lumiere, Son empire n’a borné D’un mont ou d’une riviere. Le destin veut qu’il enserre Dans sa main toute la terre, Seul roy se faisant nommer, D’où Phébus les Indes laisse, Et d’où son char il abbaisse Tout panché dedans la mer.

To the Queen       I am assailed by madness, My hair stands up with horror, Panic fills my soul, My heart is stunned, And my voice can barely Pass through my throat. A deity has seized me. Run, people, please leave me, See, here comes the goddess ! Run, people, I see her ! Fortunate the men on whom she looks, More fortunate the man who keeps her In his heart, like me !       In love with my songs, she Guides me far among the fields Where once on the riverbank Apollo loved Florence, When the young [nymph] armed herself To fight a savage wolf. Not the art of spinning nor its works Could please the maid, Nor her pretty bed ; but she, Before the breaking day Would seek the dens of wolves, Working without rest For the cattle of her father Arno.       This god, who from heaven saw her So bold and so fair, Seized her as his wife And named from her name The town which gave you birth. That town boasts of being Mother of our Juno [queen], And amongst foreign peoples For her greater praise Celebrates only your name.       There the deeds of your ancestors Rise blazing, as in the heavens Blazes the bright dawn ; There [blazes] the glory of your Guiliano In the Italian skies Like a bright planet. Through him, the rude commons Gained understanding Of the best learning, And there shone forth too Your two great Popes, who still From heaven, where they are now, Favour you here.       We cannot count the harvest Of summer, nor the icicles Which in winter mark the route Of waters stubborn in flowing ; Just so I cannot encompass The praises of your family. Heaven painted something In your appearance which has shown us, Since first we met, That you surpass in the greatnes of your destiny The princesses of our age, Whether in the force of your courage Or in royal grandeur.       The sum of your learning And of all your virtues Tells us that we cannot see here Anyone but you, who is like you. What lady has the skill Of so much mathematics ? What princess understands better The design of the great world, The paths of nature And the music of the heavens ?       Your name, which my verse shall praise, Will fill the whole world With your well-known praise ; A mass of those who sing of you Do not know as well as I How we should sound your glory. Jupiter, recalling An ancient fate Once determined By the oracle of Themis, Commanded that Florence Beneath the laws of France Should bend its submissive head.       But he wanted your child To have triumphant honour from it As he is, at the same time, Italian and French, His brow, eyes and voice Resembling his father’s and mother’s. Already full of anger it seems That his hand tries out arms And in the midst of alarms Already disdains danger ; And, acting as a guide to his men, As victor places a bridle On foreign kingdoms.       Heaven, which gave us him To be our light, Has not bounded his empire With hill or river. Fate wants him to grip In his hand the whole earth, Giving him the name of king alone, From where Phoebus leaves the Indies To where he brings down his chariot Sinking into the sea.

 

We’ve seen Ronsard in panegyric mode before. Obviously it was important to lavish praise on potential patrons, especially royalty; what I think distinguishes Ronsard’s work in this vein is the way he knits so many ideas together into a complex and sophisticated hymn of (undeserved) praise.

 

So here he adopts a very classical style, with a very un-classical theme; and indeed opens with the singer being ‘possessed’ by a god in a theme harking back to Greek tragedy. Indeed the whole form of the poem echoes tragic choruses in Greek plays.

 

Antistrophe 1 invents a foundation myth for Florence. The poem is ddressed to Queen Catherine (de Medici), whose family famously rules Florence for much of the renaissance.  Ronsard himself offered some footnotes to help us through the invented myth:  “as in Pausanias Apollo loved the maiden Bolina, after whom is named a town in Achaea. In the style of the ancients, the poet disguises true things with fictions and fables, and invents a nymph who gave her name to the town of Florence, a daughter of Arno, loved and raped by Apollo; which in effect means that this town is full of courage and learning, as in truth many admirable spirits & many great captains have come from it.” Note that, for all his praise of Florence, Ronsard praises France more for having seized the city – strophe 3!

 

The authorial footnote is less helpful in strophe 2, where – regarding the reference to “Julien” he tells us only ‘See here the history of Florence’!  There are two famous Giuliano de Medicis – brother and son of Lorenzo the Magnificent. The former is famous for being assassinated in the Duomo (cathedral) in Florence; the latter for marrying into the royal family of Savoy and being made Duke of Nemours by king Francis I (of France), before dying prematurely. Both are buried side by side in the Medici chapel in Florence, beneath monuments designed by Michelangelo. I suspect Ronsard is referring to the Duke of Nemours – Catherine’s father’s uncle; but it could be either.

 

The two great Popes are also, of course, Medicis:  Clement VII, alias Giulio de Medici, the posthumous son of the assassinated Giuliano; and Leo X, alias Giovanni de Medici, nephew of the same Giuliano. Both feature in Raphael’s famous portrait of Leo X (Giulio as a cardinal).

 

Epode 2 brings an unexpected appearance of the word ‘mathematics’ in poetry…! While the praises here are overdone, there is no doubting that Catherine was cultured and knowledgeable: her patronage of the arts and of public spectacles has left little to remember, but she also spent enormous sums on building programmes, and no doubt took a close interest in the architectural designs (which would have been mathematically proportioned). The authorial footnote in any case tells us that ‘mathematics covers all kinds of science, geometry, astronomy and the others, which are all called mathematics’. Some have read the remaining lines as further evidence of scientific learning: ‘the painting of the great world’ (as it translates literally) might be cosmography, but could equally be a reference to her understanding of the art of perspective etc in painting; the ‘paths of nature’ might refer to an understanding of natural phenomena as much as the knowledge of physics (or perhaps alchemy/chemistry) suggested by some; and the ‘music of the spheres’ need not imply metaphysics any more than an understanding of ‘musical proportion’ etc. But however we read it the message is clear: a clever, learned and cultured queen.

 

Although the prophecy in strophe 3 is invented, Themis is invoked as the classical (or pre-classical) model of what is ‘right’. The footnote tells us ‘this ancient goddess is, high in the heavens for the gods, what justice is here below for men on the earth’. Themis can be translated as ‘right’, though it carries strong connotations of divine order, natural law, the right way of doing things, the will of the gods…  All of which Ronsard is invoking through his reference, as ordaining France’s conquest of Florence – so that France’s king, Catherine’s son, might have the best of French and Italian spirit and courage.  In the 1550s, this would have been a clear reference to Francis II; but in the following 30 years Catherine was a major power behind the throne for three of her sons, Francis being followed by Charles IX and then Henri III as the Valois dynasty tottered towards its collapse. Ronsard’s decision not to name her son here proved very handy, and kept the poem up-to-date through the rest of his life (Catherine died 4 years after him).

 

Strophe 3 and Epode 2 (in that order) form the text of Lassus’s 1571 musical setting and were also set by Clereau (here and here), who printed them as separate songs but in the same, reversed, order. Though neither openly names Catherine or is dedicated to her, both retain the reference to Florence as well as France. As Charles IX had married the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor in 1570, we can be pretty confident that the composers expected the song to be recognised as a tribute to the most powerful Queen in Europe; whether they also meant the song as a sign of support for the Catholic faith at a time when much of northern Europe was riven by the Protestant-Catholic troubles, is less obvious – though it may have been hard to separate the one from the other.

 

 

 

 

Poems 1.18 – The Marigold / Worries

Although the poem is about the marigold, the French word also means ‘cares’ or ‘worries’ – particularly in Ronsard, the troubles of a lover. Here there is a subtext throughout, a message to his lady about the pain she causes him. The title in Blanchemain’s version, ‘the marigold in the garden’, sets the expectation of a rather less ambiguous poem, perhaps.

Le Souci   Je veux chanter, Cherouvrier, le Souci Qui te plaist tant et qui me plaist aussi : Non les soucis dont Amour me fait guerre, Mais les Soucis estoiles de la terre : Ains les Soleils des jardins, tant ils sont Jaunes, luisans et dorez sur le front.   La rose emporte (empourprant son espine) Le premier lieu à cause d’Erycine, Et du beau sang d’Adon qui la peingnit : L’Oeillet apres qu’Apollon contraingnit Joüer au disque, et qui le fist occire Sans y penser à l’amoureux Zephire, Et fut depuis aux Spartes un grand Dieu.   Ces deux, Souci, ont eu le premier lieu, Toy le troisiesme, et s’il n’y a fleurette Ny giroflée, ou double violette, Genest, josmin plus odorant que toy : Au moins, Souci, s’il n’est vray, je le croy.   Soit que ma Dame autrefois m’ait donnée Ta couleur jaune, ou que l’ame inclinée A voir, sentir et contempler ta fleur, Sur tous parfums j’estime ton odeur : Jamais repas ne me fut agreable, Si ton bouton n’enfleurit une table, Salade, pain, et toute la maison Aux plus beaux mois de la prime saison : Car de couleur ta couleur je ressemble, Tu es, Souci, mon frere ce me semble.   Tu es tout jaune, et tout jaune je suis Pour trop d’amour qu’effacer je ne puis.   Printemps, Hyver, tu gardes ta verdure : Printemps, Hyver, le soin d’amour me dure.   Double est ta fleur, ta fleur est simple aussi, Mon cœur est simple, et vit tousjours ainsi : Mais mes pensers et mes ennuis sont doubles Selon les yeux et farouches et troubles De ma Maistresse, et mon soin est doublé Si son œil est ou farouche ou troublé.   Quand le Soleil ton amoureux s’abaisse Dedans le sein de Tethys son hostesse, Allant revoir le pere de la mer, On voit ton chef se clorre et se fermer Palle, desfait : mais quand sa tresse blonde De longs cheveux s’esparpille sur l’onde Se resveillant, tu t’esveilles joyeux, Et pour le voir tu dessilles tes yeux, Et sa clarté est seule ton envie, Un seul Soleil te donnant mort et vie.   Quand je ne voy mon beau Soleil levé, De toutes parts un sommeil agravé Dessus le front des tenebres me donne, Si qu’esblouy je ne cognois personne.   Mais aussi tost que ses rais dessus moy Me font un jour, des yeux du cœur je voy Mille beautez, tant sa gentille flame En m’esclairant me reluist dedans l’ame, Et loin du corps dont je suis empesché, Tient mon esprit aux Astres attaché.   On dit, Souci, quand au bras on te lie, Que tu guaris de la melancholie. Or en cela nous sommes differens : Ce que je voy, tout triste je le rens Ainsi que moy, tant il sort de tristesse Hors de mes yeux pour ma rude Maistresse, Qui froide et lente et morne en amitié Mon pauvre cœur ne veut prendre à pitié, Me consommant d’amour, tant elle est belle : Et je veux bien me consommer pour elle.   Adieu Souci, si Cherouvrier passant Par son jardin voit ton chef florissant, Qui toute fleur au temps d’Hyver surpasse, Que l’Aube engendre et qu’une nuict efface, Te voyant naistre aussi tost que fanir : Soir et matin fay le moy souvenir Que nostre vie aux fleurettes resemble, Qui presque vit et presque meurt ensemble : Et ce-pendant qu’il est en son printemps, Vive amoureux et n’espargne le temps.   Si en naissant ce grand Maistre qui donne Heur et malheur à chacune personne, M’avoit donné, mon Cherouvrier, ta vois Dont tu flechis les peuples et les Rois, Comme estant seul de France la merveille Pour attirer une ame par l’oreille : Je chasserois la fiévre de mon corps Par la douceur de tant de beaux accords.   En lieu d’avoir ta nombreuse Musique J’ay l’autre ardeur, la vérve poëtique, Qui rompt ma fiévre et charme mon souci, Ou s’il n’est vray, je me console ainsi.   Donq si j’avois ceste voix si divine, Present du ciel qui sort de ta poitrine, Je chanterois : mais ne pouvant chanter, De l’autre ardeur il me faut contenter.

The Marigold   I shall sing, Cherouvrier, of the marigold Which pleases you so, and pleases me too ; Not the cares with which Love makes war on me But the flowery stars of the earth, Like suns in the garden, so yellow Are they, shining gold on their brows.   The rose (em-purpling its thorns) takes First place, because of Erycine [Venus of Mt Eryx] And the fair blood of Adonis which colours it ; The carnation next, which Apollo made Play at the discus and whom Zephyr made him kill Without considering his lover, And was afterward a great god to the Spartans.   These two, marigold, have first place, You the third, and indeed there is no flower, Not the wallflower nor double-violet, Broom nor jasmine more sweet-smelling than you ; At least, marigold, that’s what I believe, true or not.   Whether my Lady had once given me Your yellow tint, or whether my soul was inclined To look at, smell and consider your flower, Above all perfumes I esteem your odour ; Never was a meal pleasing to me Unless your bud flowered on the table, Salad, bread and all the house In the fairest months of the best season ; Because in my colour your colour I resemble You are, marigold, my brother, it seems.   You are all yellow, and I am all yellow From too much love, nor can I wipe it away.   In Spring and Winter, you keep your freshness ; In Spring and Winter, love’s cares linger in me.   Double is your flower, but single too ; My heart is single, and lives always thus ; But my thoughts and cares are doubled Because of the timid, troubled eyes Of my mistress, and my care is doubled If her eyes are either timid or troubled.   When the sun, your lover, sets Within the breast of Tethys his hostess, Going to see again the father of the sea, We see your bloom close, lock itself away Pale and undone ; but when his yellow locks Scatter their long hair over the waves As he awakes again, then you wake joyfully And open your eyes to see him And his brightness is your only desire, The Sun alone bringing you death and life.   When I do not see my own Sun arise, From every side a painful sleep Gives me shadows on my brow, So that, dazzled, I recognise no-one.   But as soon as her rays shine daylight Upon me, with my heart’s eyes I see A thousand beauties, so much does her noble flame Shining on me lighten again my soul, And, far from the body with which I am weighted down, Keeps my spirit bound to the stars.   They say, marigold, that when we tie you to our arm You will cure melancholy. Well, in that we are different : Whatever I see, I make unhappy Like I am myself, so much sadness flows From my eyes for my harsh mistress, Who – cold, slow and sad in loving – Does not want to take pity on my poor heart, Consuming me with love, so beautiful she is ; And I’d willingly consume myself for her.   Farewell, marigold : if Cherouvrier passes By your garden and sees your flowering head Which surpasses all flowers in winter-time, Which Dawn brings to birth and a single night extinguishes, Seeing you born as quick as fading ; Night and day remind him for me That our life is like that of the flowers Who virtually live and die at the same moment ; And yet while he is in his springtime Let him live, love, and not spare of his time.   If at birth that great Master who gives Fortune and misfortune to each person Had given me, my Cherouvrier, your voice With which you sway peoples and Kings, As if the sole wonder in France Able to draw out the soul through the ears, I would drive away the fever from my body Through the sweetness of so many fine harmonies.   Instead of having your many-faceted Music I have that other passion, poetic inspiration, Which breaks my fever and charms away my cares – Or so I console myself, even if it is not true.   So, if I had your god-like voice, Which emerges from your breast like a gift from heaven, I would sing : but being unable to sing, With that other passion I must content myself.

 

We met Guillaume Cherouvrier a while back in one of Ronsard’s more cynical poems, so it is good to find him here as the recipient of something far less cynical!  You may recall he was a member of the Royal Chapel, hence the reference to ‘his music’ near the end of the poem.

 

Tethys in the middle of the poem is the sun’s ‘hostess’ because she is a sea-nymph, and of course the sun spends his nights in the sea. Adonis, near the beginning, is more usually associated with the blood-red anemone, though it’s obvious why the rose could also fit; he links closely to Venus (who loved him) but not especially to her cult on Mt Eryx in Sicily.  The three lines about the carnation are confusing, not least because you need to know the story to be able to work out who is doing what to whom! The carnation here replaces the hyacinth: Hyacinth was loved by Apollo, but also by Zephyr who, while Apollo and Hyacinth were throwing the discus, blew it off course so that Apollo’s throw killed Hyacinth. So here the meaning is that Apollo made Hyacinth play, Zephyr made Apollo kill him, sacrificing his own love to spite Apollo. (Apollo transformed the blood of Hyacinth into a flower, marked with his tears or the blood depending on the version of the myth and the flower it represents!)

 

I should just mention the ‘double / single’ antithesis in the middle of the poem. Ronsard’s words are “double / simple”, so that each time something is ‘single’ it is also ‘simple’. I have reluctantly chosen ‘single’, so that the antithesis works, but I feel that the other meaning, of simplicity, is really the one that should come through!

 

Let’s have a look at the variant texts offered by Blanchemain: 

 

Le Souci du Jardin   Au Sieur Cherouvrier Excellent musicien   Je veux chanter, Cherouvrier, le Souci Qui te plaist tant, et qui me plaist aussi ; Non les soucys qui tout le cœur nous serre, Mais les Soucis, estoilles d’un parterre, Ains les soleils des jardins, tant ils sont Jaunes, luisans, et dorez sur le front.   La rose emporte (empourprant son espine) Le premier lieu à cause d’Erycine, Et du beau sang d’Adon qui la peingnit ; L’œillet après qu’Apollon contraingnit Jouer au disque, et qui le fit occire Sans y penser à l’amoureux Zephyre, Et fut depuis aux Spartes un grand Dieu.   Ces deux, Soucy, ont eu le premier lieu, Toy le troisiesme, et s’il n’y a fleurette, Ny giroflée, ou double violette, Genest, josmin plus odorant que toy ; Au moins, Souci, s’il n’est vray, je le croy.   Soit que ma dame autresfois m’ait donnée Ta couleur jaune, ou que l’âme inclinée A voir, sentir, et contempler ta fleur, Sur tous parfums j’estime ton odeur ; Jamais repas ne me fut agreable, Si ton bouton n’enfleurit une table, Salade, pain, et toute la maison Aux plus beaux mois de la prime saison ; Car de couleur, Soucy, je te ressemble, Tu es, Soucy, mon frere, ce me semble.   Tu es tout jaune, et tout jaune je suis Pour trop d’amour qu’effacer je ne puis.   Printemps, hyver, tu gardes ta verdure ; Printemps, hyver, le soin d’amour me dure.   Double tu es et simple. Quant à moy J’ay simple cœur et j’ay simple la foy ; Mais mes pensers et mes ennuis sont doubles Selon les yeux et farouches et troubles De ma maistresse, et mon soin est doublé Si son œil est ou farouche ou troublé.   Quand le soleil, ton amoureux, s’abaisse Dedans le sein de Tethys son hostesse, Allant revoir le pere de la mer, On voit ton chef se clorre et se fermer Palle, défait ; mais quand sa tresse blonde De longs cheveux s’esparpille sur l’onde Se réveillant, tu t’éveilles joyeux, Et pour le voir tu dessiles tes yeux, Et sa clarté est seule ton envie, Un seul soleil te donnant mort et vie.   Quand je ne voy les yeux de mon soleil, De toutes parts un aggravé sommeil Dessus le front des tenebres me donne, Si qu’esblouy je ne cognois personne.   Mais aussi tost que ses rais dessus moy Me font un jour, d’yeux et de cœur je voy Mille beautez, tant sa gentille flame En m’éclairant me reluit dans l’ame, Et loin du corps dont je suis empesché, Tient mon esprit aux astres attaché.   On dit, Souci, quand au bras on te lie, Que tu guaris de la melancholie. Or en cela nous sommes differens ; Ce que je voy, tout triste je le rens Ainsi que moy, tant il sort de tristesse Hors de mes yeux pour ma rude maistresse, Qui froide et lente, et morne en amitié Mon pauvre cœur ne veut prendre à pitié, Me consommant d’amour, tant elle est belle ; Et je veux bien me consommer pour elle.   Adieu, Souci ! si Cherouvrier, passant Par son jardin, voit ton chef florissant, Qui toute fleur au temps d’hyver surpasse, Que l’aube engendre et qu’une nuict efface, Te voyant naistre aussi tost que fanir ; Soir et matin fay-le-moy souvenir Que nostre vie aux fleurettes ressemble, Qui presque vit, et presque meurt ensemble ; Et ce-pendant qu’il est en son printemps, Vive amoureux et n’espargne le temps.   Si en naissant ce grand maistre qui donne Heur et mal-heur à chacune personne, M’avoit donné, mon Cherouvrier, ta vois Dont tu flechis les peuples et les Rois, Comme estant seul de France la merveille Pour attirer une âme par l’aureille ; Je chasserois la fiévre de mon corps Par la douceur de mes divers accords.   En lieu d’avoir ta nombreuse musique, J’ay l’autre ardeur, la verve poëtique, Qui rompt ma fiévre et charme ma langueur, Me fait gaillard et me tient en vigueur.   Doncq’ si j’avois ceste voix si divine, Present du ciel, qui sort de ta poitrine, Je chanterois ; mais ne pouvant chanter, D’escrire en vers il me faut contenter.

The garden Marigold   To my lord Cherouvrier An excellent musician   I shall sing, Cherouvrier, of the marigold Which pleases you so, and pleases me too ; Not the cares which grip our whole heart But the flowery stars of a lawn, Like suns in the garden, so yellow Are they, shining gold on their brows.   The rose (em-purpling its thorns) takes First place, because of Erycine And the fair blood of Adonis which colours it ; The carnation next, which forced Apollo Play at the discus and made him kill Without considering it the amorous Zephyr, And was afterward a great god to the Spartans.   These two, marigold, have first place, You the third, and indeed there is no flower, Not the wallflower nor double-violet, Broom nor jasmine more sweet-smelling than you ; At least, marigold, that’s what I believe, true or not.   Whether my Lady had once given me Your yellow tint, or whether my soul was inclined To look at, smell and consider your flower, Above all perfumes I esteem your odour ; Never was a meal pleasing to me Unless your bud flowered on the table, Salad, bread and all the house In the fairest months of the best season ; Because my colour resembles yours, marigold, You are, marigold, my brother, it seems.   You are all yellow, and I am all yellow From too much love, nor can I wipe it away.   In Spring and Winter, you keep your freshness ; In Spring and Winter, love’s cares linger in me.   Double you are and single too ; as for me, I have a single heart and my faithfulness is single too ; But my thoughts and cares are doubled Because of the timid, troubled eyes Of my mistress, and my care is doubled If her eyes are either timid or troubled.   When the sun, your lover, sets Within the breast of Tethys his hostess, Going to see again the father of the sea, We see your bloom close, lock itself away Pale and undone ; but when his yellow locks Scatter their long hair over the waves As he awakes again, then you wake joyfully And open your eyes to see him And his brightness is your only desire, The Sun alone bringing you death and life.   When I do not see the eyes of my own sun, From every side a painful sleep Gives me shadows on my brow, So that, dazzled, I recognise no-one.   But as soon as her rays shine daylight Upon me, with my eyes and heart I see A thousand beauties, so much does her noble flame Shining on me lighten again my soul, And, far from the body with which I am weighted down, Keeps my spirit bound to the stars.   They say, marigold, that when we tie you to our arm You will cure melancholy. Well, in that we are different : Whatever I see, I make unhappy Like I am myself, so much sadness flows From my eyes for my harsh mistress, Who – cold, slow and sad in loving – Does not want to take pity on my poor heart, Consuming me with love, so beautiful she is ; And I’d willingly consume myself for her.   Farewell, marigold : if Cherouvrier passes By your garden and sees your flowering head Which surpasses all flowers in winter-time, Which Dawn brings to birth and a single night extinguishes, Seeing you born as quick as fading ; Night and day remind him for me That our life is like that of the flowers Who virtually live and die at the same moment ; And yet while he is in his springtime Let him live, love, and not spare of his time.   If at birth that great Master who gives Fortune and misfortune to each person Had given me, my Cherouvrier, your voice With which you sway peoples and Kings, As if the sole wonder in France Able to draw out the soul through the ears, I would drive away the fever from my body Through the sweetness of my varied harmonies.   Instead of having your many-faceted Music I have that other passion, poetic inspiration, Which breaks my fever and charms away my pining, Makes me jolly and keeps me vigorous.   So, if I had your god-like voice, Which emerges from your breast like a gift from heaven, I would sing : but being unable to sing, With writing in verse I must content myself.

 

Note that the variant of line 3 is placed by Blanchemain in a footnote and his ‘preferred’ text retains the same line 3 as in Marty-Laveaux. In mid-poem I find the text “dans l’ame” odd – it scans but only painfully, and the revised version (“dedans l’ame”) works so much more easily!

 

 

 

Odes 3.21

 

A GASPAR D’AUVERGNE   Gaspar, qui, loin de Pegase, As les filles de Parnase Conduites en ta maison, Ne sçais-tu que moy, poête, De mon Phoebus je souhéte Quand je fais une oraison ?   Les moissons je ne quiers pas Que le faux arrange à bas Sur la Beauce fructueuse ; Ny tous les cornus troupeaux Qui sautent sur les coupeaux De l’Auvergne montueuse ;   Ny l’or sans forme qu’ameine La mine pour nostre peine ; Ny celuy qui est formé Portant d’un roy la figure Ou la fiere pourtraiture De quelque empereur armé ;   Ny l’ivoire marqueté En l’Orient acheté Pour parade d’une sale ; Ny les cousteux diamans Magnifiques ornemens D’une majesté royale ;   Ny tous les champs que le fleuve Du Loir lentement abreuve ; Ny tous les prez emmurez Des plis de Braye argentine ; Ny tous les bois dont Gastine Void ses bras en-verdurez ;   Ny le riche accoustrement D’une laine qui dément Sa teinture naturelle Ez chaudrons du Gobelin, S’yvrant d’un rouge venin Pour se disguiser plus belle   Que celuy dans une coupe Toute d’or boive à la troupe De son vin de Prepatour, A qui la vigne succede, Et près Vendôme en possede Deux cents arpens en un tour.   Que celuy qui aime Mars S’enrolle entre les soldars, Et face sa peau vermeille D’un beau sang pour son devoir, Et que la trompette, au soir, D’un son luy raze l’aureille.   Le marchant hardiment vire Par le mer de sa navire La proue et la poupe encor ; Ce n’est moy, bruslé d’envie, A tels despens de ma vie, Rapporter des lingots d’or.   Tous ces biens je ne quiers point, Et mon courage n’est poingt De telle gloire excessive. Manger o mon compagnon Ou la figue d’Avignon, Ou la provençale olive,   L’artichôt et la salade, L’asperge et le pastenade, Et les pompons tourangeaux, Me sont herbes plus friandes Que les royales viandes Qui se servent à monceaux.   Puis qu’il faut si tost mourir, Que me vaudroit d’acquerir Un bien qui ne dure guere, Qu’un heritier qui viendroit Après mon trespas vendroit Et en feroit bonne chere ?   Tant seulement je desire Une santé qui n’empire ; Je desire un beau sejour, Une raison saine et bonne Et une lyre qui sonne Tousjours le vin et l’amour.

TO GASPAR OF AUVERGNE   Gaspar, who – without Pegasus – Has brought the daughters of Parnassus Into your home, Do you not know what I, a poet, Ask of my Apollo When I make him a prayer ?   Crops I don’t request, Those which the scythe cuts down Upon the fruitful Beauce ; Nor do I ask for all the horned troop Which leap upon the scarps Of the mountainous Auvergne ;   Nor shapeless gold which the mine Provides for our trouble ; Nor do I ask to be one made To bear a king’s figure Or the proud appearance Of some armed emperor ;   Nor inlaid ivory Bought in the East For some dishonest woman’s display ; Nor costly diamonds, Magnificent ornaments Of royal majesty ;   Nor all the fields which the river Loir slowly waters ; Nor all the meadows walled in By the bends of the silvery Braye ; Nor all the woods with which Gastine Sees his arms greened ;   Nor the rich clothing Of wool which gives the lie to Its natural colour In Gobelin’s cauldrons, Drinking in the red poison To disguise itself, more beautiful   Than his wine of Prepatour, Which he himself, in a cup Made all of gold, drinks to his troop – The vines to which he succeded And possesses near Vendome Two hundred acres of them.   Let he who loves Mars [war] Enrol among his soldiers, And print his pink skin With bright blood for his work, And let the evening trumpet With its call crash on his ear.   Let the merchant boldly steer Over the sea his ship’s Prow and poop too ; It’s not for me, burning with desire At such cost to my life, To bring back golden ingots.   All these good things I seek not at all, And my courage is not pricked To such excessive glory. Eating with my friend Figs from Avignon Or olives from Provence,   Artichokes and salad, Asparagus and parsnip And melons from Tours, These are tastier foods Than the king’s meat Which is served in mountains.   Since we must die so soon, What use to me is gaining Some good thing which hardly lasts, Which my inheritor will come After my death and sell And make a great deal from ?   I simply desire Health which doesn’t worsen ; I desire a fine time here, My reason unimpaired, And a lyre which sings Always of wine and love.

 

 

Blanchemain reprints several footnotes from Richelet’s commentary.In the 4th stanza, he notes that “tous les champs” are ‘the fields of his Vendome region’ (as we’d have guessed from the references to the Braye & Gastine); in the following stanza he tells us that Gobelin was  ‘formerly the famous & rich dyer of Paris’, though we now think of his Belgin tapestry factory; and explains that the “rouge venin” (‘red poison’) is scarlet dye in which the wool is soaked for a long time. A stanza later, he epxlains that Prepatour is ‘an excellent wine, whose vine belongs to the king & is in his domain in the Vendome’.

 

The stanzas 3rd & 4th from last also deserve a note or two: Ronsard says “Manger o mon compagnon”, which I guess to be Provençal dialect (“o” for “au”?), suited to the Avignon/Provencal food mentioned in the following lines, and or the Auvergne form which Gaspar hails. “Pastenade” is also Provençal, and there is even today a special variety of melon (“pompon”) grown around Tours: see here.

 

And what of Gaspar himself? Ronsard’s friend Gaspar (or Gaspard) was another of that learned circle of humanists, known among other things for translating Machiavelli into French – particularly ‘Le Prince’ and “Les discours de l’estat de paix et de guerre”, the former apparently undertaken between 1547 and 1553 but not published till the 1560s, one of three roughly contemporary translations of the notorious work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson (Amours 2:49b)

Je suis si ardent amoureux,

Que fol souvenir ne me puis,

Ny où je suis ne qui je suis,

Ny combien je suis malheureux.

 

J’ay pour mes hostes nuict et jour

En mon cœur la rage et l’esmoy

Qui vont pratiquant dessus moy

Toutes les cruautez d’Amour.

 

Et toutesfois je n’ose armer

Ma raison pour vaincre le tort :

Car plus on me donne la mort,

Et plus je suis content d’aimer.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I am so ardently in love

                                                                            That, mad, I cannot remember

                                                                            Where I am, or who I am,

                                                                            Or how unhappy I am.

 

                                                                            I have as guest night and day

                                                                            In my heart rage and agitation

                                                                            Which practice on me

                                                                            All the cruelties of love.

 

                                                                            And yet all the time I dare not arm

                                                                            My reason to overcome wrong;

                                                                            For the more it pains me to death

                                                                            The more I’m happy to be in love.

 

 

 

A lovely, neatly-wrought poem. Who’d have thought it had been so revised?!  Here’s Blancheamin’s earlier version, sharing just over half its text with the later one!

 

Je suis tellement amoureux,

Qu’au vray raconter je ne puis,

Ny où je suis, ne qui je suis,

Ny combien je suis malheureux. 

 

J’ay pour mon hoste nuict et jour

Comme un tigre, un cruel esmoy

Qui va pratiquant dessus moy

Toutes les cruautez d’Amour. 

 

Et si mon cœur ne peut s’armer

Contre l’œil qui le navre à tort :

Car, plus il me donne la mort,

Plus je suis contraint de l’aimer.

 

 

 

                                                                            I am so in love

                                                                           That truly I cannot tell

                                                                           Where I am, or who I am,

                                                                           Or how unhappy I am. 

 

                                                                           I have as guest night and day

                                                                           Like a tiger a cruel agitation

                                                                           Which practices on me

                                                                           All the cruelties of love. 

 

                                                                           And yet my heart cannot arm itself

                                                                           Against the eyes which wrongly rend it;

                                                                           For the more they pain me to death

                                                                           The more I’m forced to love them.

 

 

 

The poem is another of Ronsard’s responses to Marullus, this time an epigram “De suo amore” (‘On his love’):

 

Jactor, dispereo, crucior, trahor huc miser atque huc,

ipse ego jam quis sim nescio aut ubi sim :

tot simul insidiis premor undique : proh dolor !  In me

saevitiae Cypris dat documenta suae.

Saevitiae documenta suae dat, ego hanc tamen unam

depereo, utque nocet, sic libet usque sequi.

Qua siquis miserum solam me liberet horam,

Hic mihi sit Phoebo doctior et melior.

 

 

                                                 I am cast down, I despair, I’m tortured, I drag myself here and there wretchedly,

                                                 I don’t now know who I am, or where I am;

                                                 I am caught in so many plots, at the same time, on all sides; o wretchedness, against me

                                                 Cypris [Venus] has given evidence of her savagery.

                                                 She has given evidence of her savagery, but I perish

                                                 For this one lady, and as she harms me so I am pleased to follow her further.

                                                 If anyone could free me in my wretchedness from her for just one hour,

                                                 He would be to me wiser and better than Apollo.

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 161

Que n’ay-je, Amour, cette Fere aussi vive

Entre mes bras, qu’elle est vive en mon cœur ?

Un seul moment guariroit ma langueur,

Et ma douleur feroit aller à rive.

 

Plus elle court, et plus elle est fuitive

Par le sentier d’audace et de rigueur :

Plus je me lasse, et recreu de vigueur

Je marche apres d’une jambe tardive.

 

Au moins escoute, et ralente tes pas :

Comme veneur je ne te poursuy pas,

Ou comme archer qui blesse à l’impourveuë.

 

Mais comme amy de ton amour touché,

Navré du coup qu’Amour m’a décoché,

Forgeant ses traits des beaux rais de ta veuë.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Why do I not have, o Love, this wild animal as alive

                                                                            Within my arms, as she is within my heart?

                                                                            A single moment would cure my listlessness,

                                                                            And make my sadness go by the board.

 

                                                                            The more she runs away, and the more she flies

                                                                            Along the path of boldness and harshness,

                                                                            The more I become tired and, recovering my strength,

                                                                            I walk after her with slow limbs.

 

                                                                            At least hear me, and slow your pace;

                                                                            I do not pursue you like a hunter,

                                                                            Or an archer who wounds unexpectedly;

 

                                                                            But like a lover, wounded by your love,

                                                                            Struck down by the blow which Love loosed on me,

                                                                            Forging his darts from the fair rays of your glance.

 

 

 

 Another satisfying arc to the poem, but why the switch from 3rd to 2nd person halfway through? Odd, though far from unusual in Ronsard!

 

Only minor variants from the Blanchemain version: the very opening, “Puissé-je avoir ceste fere aussi vive …” (‘Oh that I might have this wild animal as alive …’); and in lines 12-13 he is “comme amy de ton amour touché / Du fer cruel qu’Amour m’a décoché”. That could be translated either with the two clauses in juxtaposition – – ‘like a lover, wounded by your love, / By the cruel weapon which Love loosed on me’ – – but if we prefer to enjamb the lines and make a proper sentence out of it, we have something along the lines of ”as one who loves being in love with you, wounded by the cruel weapon …’ (and contrariwise, the Marty-Laveaux version can be read with the verbs juxtaposed as ‘as one who loves being in love with you, wounded and struck down by the blow …’) Though that second option makes sense, context suggests the first version.

 

Muret reminds us that Ronsard is alluding to a well-known passage in Ovid’s metamorphoses in the sestet:  in Dryden’s translation, Apollo calls to Daphne

 

Stay Nymph, he cry’d, I follow, not a foe.

Thus from the lyon trips the trembling doe;

Thus from the wolf the frighten’d lamb removes,

And, from pursuing faulcons, fearful doves;

Thou shunn’st a God, and shunn’st a God, that loves.

 

He adds that the opening two lines are adapted from Pietro Bembo; Ronsard’s poem however goes off in a different direction thereafter. Bembo’s poem is below; my translation is again approximate.

 

La fera che scolpita nel cor tengo,

Così l’avess’ io viva entro le braccia:

Fuggì sì leve, ch’io perdei la traccia,

Né freno il corso, né la sete spengo.

 

Anzo così tra due vivo e sostengo

L’anima forsennata, che procaccia

Far d’una tigre sciolta preda in caccia,

Traendo me, che seguir lei convengo.

 

E so ch’io movo indarno, o penser casso,

E perdo inutilmente il dolce tempo

De la mia vita, che giamai non torna.

 

Ben devrei ricovrarmi, or ch’i’ m’attempo

Et ho forse vicin l’ultimo passo:

Ma piè mosso dal ciel nulla distorna.

 

 

 

                                                                            The wild beast which I keep engraved in my heart,

                                                                            Oh that I thus had her alive within my arms;

                                                                            She flees so lightly that I lose the track,

                                                                            Nor slow my course nor sate my thirst.

 

                                                                            Yet thus between the two I live and my soul

                                                                            Remains crazed, as it tries

                                                                            To make a free-roaming tigress its prey in the hunt,

                                                                            Dragging me along as I agree to pursue her.

 

                                                                            And I know I pursue in vain, my thoughts shattered,

                                                                            And uselessly waste the sweet time

                                                                            Of my life, which will never return.

 

                                                                            I must indeed recover, or at least attempt it,

                                                                            And I am perhaps close to that last step;

                                                                            But a step away from heaven can never turn back.

 

 

 

Sonnet 155

Comme le chaud au feste d’Erymanthe,

Ou sus Rhodope, ou sur quelque autre mont

Sur le printemps la froide neige fond

En eau qui fuit par les rochers coulante :

 

Ainsi tes yeux (soleil qui me tourmente)

Qui cire et neige à leur regard me font,

Frappant les miens, ja distillez les ont

En un ruisseau qui de mes pleurs s’augmente.

 

Herbes ne fleurs ne sejournent aupres,

Ains des Soucis, des Ifs et des Cypres :

Ny de crystal sa rive ne court pleine.

 

Les autres eaux par les prez vont roulant,

Mais ceste-ci par mon sein va coulant,

Qui sans tarir s’enfante de ma peine.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            As the heat at the summit of Erymanthus

                                                                            Or on Rhodope, or some other mountain

                                                                            In springtime melts the cold snow

                                                                            Into water which runs off through the rocks;

 

                                                                            So your eyes, the sun which torments me,

                                                                            Which melt me like wax and snow at their glance,

                                                                            Striking my own have already melted them

                                                                            Into a river which grows bigger with my tears.

 

                                                                            Plants and flowers do not live there,

                                                                            Except marigolds, yews and cypresses;

                                                                            Nor does their stream flow full of crystal water.

 

                                                                            Other streams roll through the meadows,

                                                                            But this one flows down my breast

                                                                            And without slowing is born of my pain.

 

 

Line 10 perhaps needs a word of explanation: marigolds are there because the word “souci” (marigold) also means ‘care’ or ‘worry’; yews and cypresses are associated with mourning. In the opening lines, Rhodope is just one of many classically Greek mountains snow-capped in winter, though in modern terms it is a Bulgarian mountain (still called Rhodope).

 

In the opening line the “feste d’Erymanthe” is the ‘summit of Erymanthus’. But it could just be the ‘festival of Erymanthus ‘ – perhaps the Adonia, centred in the Peloponnese and celebrated in the hot Greek late spring or summer? (Although the link between Erymanthus and the Adonia is tenuous: Erymanthus was Apollo’s son, and was blinded by Venus for spying on her love-making with the fair Adonis.) This, however, is far-fetched.

 

If we were in doubt, the earlier version of the poem more clearly presents the image of hot weather melting snow on a mountian; Erymanthus is the geographical location, in the mountains just south of Patras in the northern Peloponnese. Here’s Blanchemain’s text:

 

 

Comme le chaud, ou dedans Erymanthe,

Ou sus Rhodope, ou sur un autre mont,

En beau cristal le blanc des neiges fond

Par sa tiedeur lentement vehemente,

 

Ainsi tes yeux (éclair qui me tourmente)

Qui cire et neige à leur regard me font,

Touchant les miens, ja distillez les ont

En un ruisseau qui de mes pleurs s’augmente.

 

Herbes ne fleurs ne sejournent auprés,

Ains des soucis, des ifs et des cyprés,

Ny d’un vert gai sa rive n’est point pleine.

 

Les autres eaux par les prez vont roulant,

Mais ceste-cy par mon sein va coulant,

Qui nuit et jour s’enfle et bruit de ma peine.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            As the heat within Erymanthus

                                                                            Or on Rhodope, or on another mountain

                                                                            Into fair crystal [streams] melts the white of the snow

                                                                            With its slow but insistent warmth,

 

                                                                            So your eyes, whose sparkle torments me,

                                                                            Which melt me like wax and snow at their glance,

                                                                            Touching my own have already melted them

                                                                            Into a river which grows bigger with my tears.

 

                                                                            Plants and flowers do not live there,

                                                                            But rather marigolds, yews and cypresses;

                                                                            Nor is the bank filled with gay greenery.

 

                                                                            Other streams roll through the meadows,

                                                                            But this one flows down my breast

                                                                            Which night and day swells and murmurs with my pain.

 

 

 

 

 

Discours – à Pierre L’Escot

This ought to be, approximately, the 300th poem I’ve posted. So to mark this ‘special occasion’ I thought I’d post a tongue-in-cheek follow-up to Ronsard’s autobiographical Elegy which was my 200th post.  This time it’s from book 2 of his “Poems”, and one of many longer poems which Ronsard called ‘discours’ – discourses. Here his father lectures him – in perfect Alexandrines! – about why almost anything is better than being a poet…

It’s addressed to Pierre L’Escot, architect and friend of Ronsard. In Marty-Laveaux’s edition he is identified just as ‘Pierre L’Escot, Lord of Clany’, but in the earlier edition he is given a longer set of titles: ‘Abbot of Cleremont, Lord of Clany, chaplain in ordinary to the King’. Blanchemain further adds: ‘This piece is addressed to Lord L’Escot of Clany, who designed the pavilion of the Louvre. In the 1572 edition, it begins the 2nd book of Poems, which is dedicated as a whole to Pierre L’Escot.’

(I hope this layout works – I’m having trouble getting the ‘stanzas’ lined up 🙂 )

 

Puis que Dieu ne m’a fait pour supporter les armes, Et mourir tout sanglant au milieu des alarmes En imitant les faits de mes premiers ayeux, Si ne veux-je pourtant demeurer ocieux : Ains comme je pourray, je veux laisser memoire Que j’allay sur Parnasse acquerir de la gloire, Afin que mon renom des siecles non veincu, Rechante à mes neveux qu’autrefois j’ay vescu Caressé d’Apollon et des Muses aimées, Que j’ay plus que ma vie en mon âge estimées. Pour elles à trente ans j’avois le chef grison, Maigre, palle. desfait, enclos en la prison D’une melancolique et rheumatique estude, Renfrongné, mal-courtois, sombre, pensif, et rude, A fin qu’en me tuant je peusse recevoir Quelque peu de renom pour un peu de sçavoir.   Je fus souventesfois retansé de mon pere Voyant que j’aimois trop les deux filles d Homere, Et les enfans de ceux qui doctement ont sceu Enfanter en papier ce qu’ils avoient conceu : Et me disoit ainsi, Pauvre sot, tu t’amuses A courtizer en vain Apollon et les Muses : Que te sçauroit donner ce beau chantre Apollon, Qu’une lyre, un archet, une corde, un fredon, Qui se respand au vent ainsi qu’une fumée, Ou comme poudre en l’air vainement consumée ? Que te sçauroient donner les Muses qui n’ont rien ? Sinon au-tour du chef je ne sçay quel lien De myrte, de lierre, ou, d’une amorce vaine T’allecher tout un jour au bord d’une fontaine, Ou dedans un vieil antre, à fin d’y reposer Ton cerveau mal-rassis, et béant composer Des vers qui te feront, comme pleins de manie, Appeller un bon fol en toute compagnie ?   Laisse ce froid mestier, qui jamais en avant N’a poussé l’artizan, tant fust-il bien sçavant : Mais avec sa fureur qu’il appelle divine, Meurt tousjours accueilly d’une palle famine : Homere que tu tiens si souvent en tes mains, Qu’en ton cerveau mal-sain comme un Dieu tu te peins, N’eut jamais un liard ; sa Troyenne vielle, Et sa Muse qu’on dit qui eut la voix si belle, Ne le sceurent nourrir, et falloit que sa fain D’huis en huis mendiast le miserable pain.   Laisse-moy, pauvre sot, ceste science folle : Hante-moy les Palais, caresse-moy Bartolle, Et d’une voix dorée au milieu d’un parquet Aux despens d’un pauvre homme exerce ton caquet, Et fumeux et sueux d’une bouche tonnante Devant un President mets-moy ta langue en vente : On peut par ce moyen aux richesses monter, Et se faire du peuple en tous lieux bonneter.   Ou bien embrasse-moy l’argenteuse science Dont le sage Hippocras eut tant d’experience, Grand honneur de son isle : encor que son mestier Soit venu d’Apollon, il s’est fait heritier Des biens et des honneurs, et à la Poësie Sa sœur n’a rien laissé qu’une lyre moisie.   Ne sois donq paresseux d’apprendre ce que peut La Nature en nos corps, tout cela qu’elle veut, Tout cela qu’elle fuit : par si gentille adresse En secourant autruv on gaigne la richesse.   Ou bien si le desir genereux et hardy, En t’eschauffant le sang, ne rend acoüardy Ton cœur à mespriser les perils de la terre, Pren les armes au poing, et va suivre la guerre, Et d’une belle playe en l’estomac ouvert Meurs dessus un rempart de poudre tout couvert : Par si noble moyen souvent on devient riche, Car envers les soldats un bon Prince n’est chiche.   Ainsi en me tansant mon pere me disoit, Ou fust quand le Soleil hors de l’eau conduisoit Ses coursiers gallopans par la penible trette, Ou fust quand vers le soir il plongeoit sa charrette, Fust la nuict, quand la Lune avec ses noirs chevaux Creuse et pleine reprend l’erre de ses travaux.   « O qu’il est mal-aisé de forcer la nature ! « Tousjours quelque Genie, ou l’influence dure « D’un Astre nous invite à suivre maugré tous « Le destin qu’en naissant il versa desur nous.   Pour menace ou priere, ou courtoise requeste Que mon pere me fist, il ne sceut de ma teste Oster la Poesie, et plus il me tansoit, Plus à faire des vers la fureur me poussoit.   Je n’avois pas douze ans qu’au profond des vallées, Dans les hautes forests des hommes recullées, Dans les antres secrets de frayeur tout-couvers, Sans avoir soin de rien je composois des vers : Echo me respondoit, et les simples Dryades, Faunes, Satyres, Pans, Napées, Oreades, Aigipans qui portoient des cornes sur le front, Et qui ballant sautoient comme les chévres font, Et le gentil troupeau des fantastiques Fées Autour de moy dansoient à cottes degrafées.   Je fu premierement curieux du Latin : Mais voyant par effect que mon cruel destin Ne m’avoit dextrement pour le Latin fait naistre, Je me fey tout François, aimant certes mieux estre En ma langue ou second, ou le tiers, ou premier, Que d’estre sans honneur à Rome le dernier.    Donc suivant ma nature aux Muses inclinée, Sans contraindre ou forcer ma propre destinée, J’enrichy nostre France, et pris en gré d’avoir, En servant mon pays, plus d’honneur que d’avoir.    Toy, L’Escot, dont le nom jusques aux Astres vole, As pareil naturel : car estant à l’escole, On ne peut le destin de ton esprit forcer Que tousjours avec l’encre on ne te vist tracer Quelque belle peinture, et ja fait Geomettre, Angles, lignes et poincts sur une carte mettre : Puis estant parvenu au terme de vingt ans, Tes esprits courageux ne furent pas contans Sans doctement conjoindre avecques la Peinture L’art de Mathematique et de l’Architecture, Où tu es tellement avec honneur monté, Que le siecle ancien est par toy surmonté.    Car bien que tu sois noble et de mœurs et de race, Bien que dés le berceau l’abondance te face Sans en chercher ailleurs, riche en bien temporel, Si as-tu franchement suivi ton naturel : Et tes premiers Regens n’ont jamais peu distraire Ton cœur de ton instinct pour suivre le contraire.    On a beau d’une perche appuyer les grands bras D’un arbre qui se plie, il tend tousjours en bas : La nature ne veut en rien estre forcée, Mais suivre le destin duquel elle est poussée.   Jadis le Roy François des Lettres amateur, De ton divin esprit premier admirateur, T’aima par dessus tous : ce ne fut en son âge Peu d’honneur d’estre aimé d’un si grand personnage, Qui soudain cognoissoit le vice et la vertu, Quelque desguisement dont l’homme fust vestu.   Henry qui apres luy tint le sceptre de France, Ayant de ta valeur parfaite cognoissance Honora ton sçavoir, si bien que ce grand Roy Ne vouloit escouter un autre homme que toy, Soit disnant et soupant, et te donna la charge De son Louvre enrichi d’edifice plus large, Ouvrage somptueux, à fin d’estre montré Un Roy tres-magnifique en t’ayant rencontré.   Il me souvient un jour que ce Prince à la table Parlant de ta vertu comme chose admirable, Disoit que tu avois de toy-mesmes appris, Et que sur tous aussi tu emportois le pris, Comme a fait mon Ronsard, qui à la Poësie Maugré tous ses parens a mis sa fantaisie.   Et pour cela tu fis engraver sur le haut Du Louvre, une Déesse, à qui jamais ne faut Le vent à joüe enflée au creux d’une trompete, Et la monstras au Roy, disant qu’elle estoit faite Expres pour figurer la force de mes vers, Qui comme vent portoyent son nom par l’Univers.   Or ce bon Prince est mort, et pour faire cognoistre Que nous avons servi tous deux un si grand maistre, Je te donne ces vers pour eternelle foy, Que la seule vertu m’accompagna de toy.

Although God did not make me to take up arms And die all bloodied in the midst of alarms Mimicking the deeds of my earliest ancestors, Yet do I not want to remain useless: However I can I want to leave a memorial That I went up Parnassus to gain glory, That my fame, unconquered by the centuries, Should sing to my descendants that I lived Cherished by Apollo and his beloved Muses, Whom I have honoured more than my life in this age. For them, I was grey-haired at thirty, Thin, pale, defeated, shut up in the prison Of melancholic and arthritic study, Scowling, discourteous, gloomy, pensive and coarse, So that in killing myself I might have gained Some little fame for little understanding.       I was many times scolded by my father Who saw I loved too much Homer’s two daughters, And the children of those who learnedly were able To give birth on paper to what they’d conceived; And he would say to me, “You poor fool, you amuse yourself With courting – in vain! – Apollo and the Muses ; What can he give you, that fine singer Apollo, But a lyre, a bow on a string, a murmur Which will be lost in the wind like smoke, Or like ash in the air burned up without gain? What can the Muses give you, who have nothing themselves? Perhaps around your head some thread Of myrtle, or ivy? Or with empty attraction Luring you all day beside a fountain, Or in some ancient cave, so that there you can rest Your un-calm head, and gaping compose Some verses which, as if full of madness, will get you Called a right fool in all company?         “Leave this cold career, which has never brought To the fore the artisan, however skilled he is; But rather, in that passion he calls divine, He always dies, welcomed by pale famine. That Homer you have so often in your hands, Whom you paint as some sort of god in your unsound brain, Never had a farthing; his Trojan fiddle, And his Muse whom they say had so fair a voice, Could not feed him, and his hunger had To beg from door to door for the wretched pain.     “Leave this foolish study for me, you poor fool; Haunt palaces for me, caress Bartolle for me;, Either carry on your cackle with your golden voice In the middle of the floor [=centre-stage?] at the expense of some poor man, Or smoky and sweaty, with thundering lips, Put your tongue on sale for me before some president; In this way one can arrive at riches And make oneself lionised by people in all places.     “Or else embrace for me that silvery learning Of which the wise Hippocras had such experience, The great honour of his island; though his path too Came from Apollo, he became the heir Of goods and honours, while to Poetry His sister left nothing but a mildewed lyre.     “Or be not idle in learning what Nature Can do in our bodies, all that she favours, All that she rejects; through noble address In helping others, you can win riches.     “Or even, if noble and bold desire Does not, as it warms your blood, make your heart Too afraid to undertake earthly dangers. Take arms in your fist, go follow war, And with a fine wound opened in your stomach Die upon some rampart, covered in dust; By such noble means people often become rich, For to his soldiers a good Prince is not stingy.”       Reproaching me thus my father spoke to me, Whether when the Sun leads from the waters His chargers galloping on their arduous course, Or when towards evening he submerges his chariot, Or at night, when the Moon with her dark horses, Both hollow and full, takes up the course of her labours.       “Oh how uncomfortable it is to force nature! Always some spirit, or the harsh influence Of some star, invites us to follow, despite everything, The fate which it poured upon us at our birth.”   Whatever threat or prayer or courteous request My father made me, he could not drive Poetry from my head, and the more he reproached me, The more the passion to write verse drove me on.   I was not yet twelve when, in deep valleys, In the high forests from which men shrink, In hidden caves entirely swathed in dread, Without a care for anything I composed verses; Echo replied to me, and the simple Dryads, Fauns, Satyrs, Pans, Naiads, Oreads, Goat-Pans who bear horns on their brows And who in their dances leap as stags do, And the gentle troop of fantastical Fairies Danced around me, their skirts unfastened.     I was at first intrigued by Latin; But seeing by trying that my cruel fate Had not made me naturally skilful in Latin, I made myself entirely French, preferring far to be In my own tongue the second, or third, or first, Than to be the last, and without honour, in Rome.     So, following my nature inclined to the Muses, Without constraining or forcing my own fate, I enriched our France, and made the choice to have In serving my country more honour than wealth.     You too, L’Escot, whose name flies high as the stars, Have a similar nature: for when you were at school They could not compel your mind’s destiny, So that you could always be seen with ink tracing Some fine painting, or now doing Geometry, Making angles, lines and points upon some sheet; Then when you reached the end of twenty years, Your brave spirits were not content Till learnedly joining together with Painting The arts of Mathematics and Architecture, In which you have risen so high with honour That ancient times are surpassed by you.       For though you are noble in manner and family, Although since the cradle abundance has been yours Without seeking it from outside, rich in worldly goods, Yet have you boldly followed your nature; And your first regents never could distract Your heart from your instinct to oppose them.         One might as well prop up with a pole the great limbs Of a tree which bends over, it will still tend downwards; Nature does not wish anywhere to be compelled, But to follow the destiny by which she is impelled.     Previously King François, a lettered man, The first admirer of your divine spirit, Loved you above all others; there was not in his time Little honour in being loved by so great a personage Who could immediately recognise vice and virtue Whatever disguise a man was dressed in.     Henry who after him took up the sceptre of France, Having perfect understanding of your worth, Honoured your learning so well that that great King Wanted to hear no other man than you, Whether at dinner or supper, and gave you the charge Of enriching his Louvre with a larger building, A sumptuous work, that he might be shown to be A most magnificent King in having encountered you.   I recall a day when that Prince, speaking At table of your virtue as a thing to be wondered at, Said that you had learned from yourself And that beyond all others too you took the prize, As has done my Ronsard who to Poetry Despite all his family has set his imagination.   And therefore you had sculpted at the top Of the Louvre a goddess, never short of breath, Her cheek puffed out at the mouthpiece of a trumpet, And showed it to the King, saying that she had been made Expressly to symbolise the power of my verse, Which like the wind bore his name throughout the world.     Now that good Prince is dead, and that it should be known That both of us have served so great a master I give you these verses as an everlasting oath That virtue alone accompanies me from you.

 

 

In the second ‘stanza’, Homer’s two daughters are the epic poems Iliad and Odyssey. In the fourth, the advice to ‘caress Bartolle’ apparently refers to a ‘spiky’ senior lawyer (he’s referred to elsewhere as “l’espineux Bartolle”). 

 

In the 5th ‘stanza’, Marty-Laveaux’s text has “Hippocras”: hippocras is a drink, but Ronsard (or his father) here clearly means Hippocrates the Greek physician. I’m not sure whose mistake this is – I suppose Ronsard is making fun of his father for not quite getting the name right?! Blanchemain’s version has “Hippocrate” so Ronsard (or his father, or Blanchemain) obviously had got the right one at some stage… The island Hippocrates honours is Cos, where he was born. His medical learning comes from Apollo, because Aesculapius was Apollo’s son; Apollo’s sister is Minerva.

 

In ‘stanza’ 7, I enjoy his father saying ‘go and die in battle – that’s a good way to get rich’… Ronsard poking a little fun at his father again…

 

The statue placed by L’Escot on the Louvre represents Fame. Though Ronsard says that the King ‘gave you the charge / Of enriching his Louvre with a larger building’, he doesn’t say that the original work was undertaken by L’Escot’s rival, Philibert de Lorme, whom Ronsard apparently disliked (perhaps out of loyalty to L’Escot!). In  poems 2.3 he writes

 

Maintenant je ne suis ny veneur, ny maçon
Pour acquerir du bien en si basse façon,
Et si j’ay fait service autant à ma contrée
Qu’une vile truelle à trois crosses tymbrée !

 

 

                                                                         Now I am neither a hunter [ overtones of ‘venal’, arriviste’] nor a mason

                                                                         To gain riches in so base a fashion,

                                                                         And yet I have done as good service to my country

                                                                         As a vile trowel stamped with three bishoprics!

 

The last line is an allusion to the three abbeys enjoyed by Philibert de Lorme; and note that “timbré” also means ‘crack-brained’…

 

 

 

Variants

Naturally there are also plenty of variants in Blanchemain’s version. These are:

 

‘stanza’ 1

line 2, “Et pour mourir sanglant …” (‘And to die bleeding …’)

line 6, “Que les Muses jadis m’ont acquis de la gloire” (‘I want to leave a memorial / That the Muses once gained me glory’)

 

‘stanza’ 3

«  Laisse ce froid mestier qui ne pousse en avant

Celuy qui par sus tous y est le plus sçavant ;

Mais avec sa fureur qu’il appelle divine,

Tout sot se laisse errer accueilly de famine.

Homère, que tu tiens si souvent en tes mains,

Que dans ton cerveau creux comme un Dieu tu te peins,

N’eut jamais un liard ; si bien que sa vielle,

Et sa Muse qu’on dit qui eut la voix si belle,

Ne le sceurent nourrir, et falloit que sa faim

D’huis en huis mendiast le miserable pain.

 

 

                                                                         “Leave this cold career, which does not bring to the fore

                                                                          He who above all others is the most skilled;

                                                                          But rather, in that passion he calls divine,

                                                                          All those fools allow themselves to wander in error, welcomed by famine.

                                                                          That Homer you have so often in your hands,

                                                                          Whom you paint as some sort of god in your empty brain,

                                                                          Never had a farthing; so much so that his fiddle,

                                                                          And his Muse whom they say had so fair a voice,

                                                                          Could not feed him, and his hunger had

                                                                          To beg from door to door for the wretched pain.

 

Later on, the Sun’s chargers are “haletans de la penible trette” (‘panting from their arduous pulling’); and the fairies dance “à cottes agrafées” (‘their skirts pinned up’). As for Ronsard’s Latin, “Mais cognoissant, helas! que mon cruel destin … ” (‘But recognising, alas, that my cruel fate / Had not made me naturally skilful…).

 

When he arrives at the description of L’Escot’s youth, he says:

 

Toy, L’Escot, dont le nom jusques aux astres vole,

En as bien fait ainsi ; car estant à l’escole,

Jamais on ne te peut ton naturel forcer

Que tousjours avec l’encre on ne te vist tracer

Quelque belle peinture, et ja fait geomettre,

Angles, lignes et poincts sur une carte mettre ;

Puis arrivant ton âge au terme de vingt ans,

Tes esprits courageux ne furent pas contens …

 

 

                                                                          You too, L’Escot, whose name flies high as the stars,

                                                                          Have rightly done the same: for when you were at school

                                                                          They could never compel your nature,

                                                                          So that you could always be seen with ink tracing

                                                                          Some fine painting, or now doing Geometry,

                                                                          Making angles, lines and points upon some sheet;

                                                                          Then when your age arrived at the term of twenty years,

                                                                          Your brave spirits were not content …

 

and later “Toutefois si as-tu suivi ton naturel ” (‘Yet always have you followed your nature’).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 57

Divin Bellay, dont les nombreuses lois

Par un ardeur du peuple separée,

Ont revestu l’enfant de Cytherée

D’arcs, de flambeaux, de traits, et de carquois :

 

Si le doux feu dont jeune tu ardois,

Enflambe encor ta poitrine sacrée,

Si ton oreille encore se recrée,

D’ouir les plaints des amoureuses vois :

 

Oy ton Ronsard qui sanglote et lamente,

Pâle de peur, pendu sur la tourmente,

Croizant en vain ses mains devers les Cieux,

 

En fraile nef, sans mast, voile ne rame,

Et loin du havre où pour astre Madame

Me conduisoit du Fare de ses yeux.

 

 

 

                                                                           Divine Bellay, whom numerous statutes

                                                                           For your ardour distinct from the norm

                                                                           Have invested as the son of Venus

                                                                           With bows, torches, arrows and quiver;

 

                                                                           If the soft fire with which you burned when young

                                                                           Still flames within your holy breast,

                                                                           If your ear still enjoys

                                                                           Hearing the woes of lovers’ tongues;

 

                                                                           Then hear your Ronsard, who sobs and weeps,

                                                                           Pale with fear, suspended in torment,

                                                                           Holding his hands up in vain to Heaven,

 

                                                                           In a frail ship without mast, sail or oar,

                                                                           Far from the harbour where, like a star, my Lady

                                                                           Leads me with the beacon of her eyes.

 

 

 

Here is Ronsard writing a sonnet to his friend Joachim du Bellay, in response to one du Bellay had written him in his “Olive” (the first book of French love sonnets and inspiration for Ronsard’s own “Amours”). But, as will appear, it is not a direct response, for it is a carefully-constructed love poem about Cassandre while addressed to du Bellay.  Bellay’s, by contrast, is in praise of Ronsard himself. Should we read too much into that? I don’t think so: there’s no intended slight on du Bellay simply because Ronsard doesn’t tell him he too is marvellous! After all, both call the other ‘divine’.

 

Let’s have a look at du Bellay’s sonnet to Ronsard:

 

 

Divin Ronsard, qui de l’arc à sept cordes

Tiras premier au but de la Memoire

Les traits ailez de la françoise gloire,

Que sur ton luth hautement tu accordes.

 

Fameux harpeur et prince de nos odes,

Laisse ton Loir, hautain de ta victoire,

Et vien sonner au rivage de Loire

De tes chansons les plus nouvelles modes.

 

Enfonce l’arc du vieil Thebain archer,

Où nul que toi ne sceut onc encocher

Des doctes sœurs les sagettes divines.

 

Porte pour moy parmy le ciel des Gaules

Le sainct honneur des nymphes angevines,

Trop pesant faix pour mes foibles espaules.

 

 

 

                                                                           Divine Ronsard, who with the seven-stringed bow

                                                                           First shot at the target of Memory

                                                                           The winged arrows of French glory

                                                                           Which you tune precisely  on your lute;

 

                                                                           Famous harper and prince of our [French] odes,

                                                                           Leave your Loir, proud in your victory,

                                                                           And come to sing on the banks of the Loire

                                                                           The newest strains of your songs.

 

                                                                           Bend the bow of the old Theban archer,

                                                                           On which none but you have ever been able to notch

                                                                           The divine arrows of the learned Sisters.

 

                                                                           Bear for me among the Gallic heavens

                                                                           The holy honour of the nymphs of Anjou,

                                                                           Too weighty a deed for my feeble shoulders.

 

 

Wonderful as this poem is, it’s immediately obvious that it’s in a far more ‘learned’ style, replete with classical allusions: we know Ronsard can do this too if he wants to, so it is worth noticing that he didn’t. That is, perhaps, what sets Ronsard apart in his earliest poetry – the cultivation of a more natural style, a new way of writing French poetry which retains the art but broadens the range of subjects, of themes and of language.

 

Just how complex du Bellay’s classical references are, is worth a brief digression. In fact, trying to pinpoint them requires a digression! In lines 9-11 we have the ‘Theban archer’ and the ‘divine arrows of the learned Sisters’. Neither seem (to me) to translate simply into an obvious classical figure…

 

So, Theban archer?  Well, Ulysses famously had a bow that could not be bent by anyone else (end of the Odyssey); but he’s not Theban. Philoctetes (in Sophocles’ play) has to be lured back to the Trojan War because only he can use the essential bow; but he’s not Theban either. Diana/Artemis joins with her brother Apollo in killing Niobe’s children – Niobe was Theban, but not the gods. I think the likeliest candidate is Hercules – who is also not Theban.  Philoctetes is keeper of the bow of Hercules, which only he can draw; and Hercules married Megara, the daughter of the Theban king, before killing their children in a divinely-induce rage and thus having to undertake the twelve Labours. The children (and, some say, Megara) were venerated at, and  said to be buried in, a ‘heroon’ (hero’s tomb) at Thebes in classical times.

 

The how about the ‘divine arrows of the learned sisters’?  Well, Apollo and Artemis certainly have divine arrows – see Niobe’s fate above – but they are not ‘learned sisters’. Equally, the Muses are learned but not in the arts of war. Other groups of siblings might include the Graiai and Moirai (Fates) but they don’t use arrows. And of course the arrows in du Bellay’ metaphor are the arrows of art & poetry. So, my own hunch – no more than that – is that du Bellay is conflating the Muses and Apollo, for Apollo was ‘mousagetes’, the leader of the Muses:  Apollo brings the bow, the ‘arrows’ are the attainments of the Muses.

 

His vocabulary is also deliberately demanding of the reader:  in line 2 the target “Memoire” is clearly Remembrance or being remembered, the target of gaining a Memorial, rather than simple Memory. And in what way does du Bellay want Ronsard to sing his ‘newest modes’ on the Loire – is that new poetic forms (ode, elegy, hymn); or the stylistic innovations mentioned above; or simply ‘come and write your new poems here on the Loire’? 

 

Well, enough about du Bellay’s complexity. Let’s return to Ronsard’s artful simplicity, and look at the minor variants in Blanchemain’s earlier version:

 

 

Divin Bellay, dont les nombreuses lois

Par une ardeur du peuple separée,

Ont revestu l’enfant de Cytherée

D’arc, de flambeau, de traits, et de carquois :

 

Si le doux feu dont jeune tu ardois,

Enflambe encor ta poitrine sacrée,

Si ton oreille encore se recrée,

D’ouir les plaints des amoureuses vois :

 

Oy ton Ronsard qui sanglote et lamente,

Pâle, agité des flots de la tourmente,

Croizant en vain ses mains devers les Cieux,

 

En fraile nef, et sans voile et sans rame,

Et loin du bord où pour astre sa dame

Le conduisoit du Fare de ses yeux.

 

 

 

 

                                                                           Divine Bellay, whom numerous statutes

                                                                           For your ardour distinct from the norm

                                                                           Have invested as the son of Venus

                                                                           With bow, torch, arrows and quiver;

 

                                                                           If the soft fire with which you burned when young

                                                                           Still flames within your holy breast,

                                                                           If your ear still enjoys

                                                                           Hearing the woes of lovers’ tongues;

 

                                                                           Then hear your Ronsard, who sobs and weeps,

                                                                           Pale and tossed by waves of torment,

                                                                           Holding his hands up in vain to Heaven,

 

                                                                           In a frail ship, without either sail or oar,

                                                                           Far from the shore where, like a star, his lady

                                                                           Leads him with the beacon of her eyes.

 

 

Notably (to me at least) the early version of the ending is consistently third-person – Ronsard is ‘he’. In the later version at the top of the page, he is third-person in the first tercet but switches awkwardly to first-person in the second tercet.  That could have been easily remedied:  “Croizant en vain les mains devers les Cieux” would have done the trick. It is interesting to see that Ronsard puts the poetic effect of the repeated ‘s’ and ‘z’ sounds – and the visual effect of the other ‘s’s in the line – ahead of a strictly consistent pictorial or grammatical approach.