Tag Archives: Cassandre
Helen 2:10
Mon colonnel m’envoye à grands coups de carquois,
Rassieger Ilion pour conquerir Heleine. And now, when I ought to be free of war’s harness, My colonel sends me with great blows from his quiver To besiege Troy again, to conquer Helen. “Ores que” is better than “Et ore que” with its hiatus, consistent with Ronsard’s desire to make the near-perfect that much more perfect. That it was not a straight-line process is made clear by the variant of line 4 Blanchemain also provides from 1578: “Le ciel se resjouist dans la terre est Marie” (‘Heaven rejoices, Marie is in the ground’). Frankly, it’s a terrible soundalike for the line in the ‘definitive version’, not just because it sounds as if Heaven is rejoicing because Marie is dead, but also because rhyming ‘Marie’ with ‘Marie’ is undeniably feeble.
Amours book 2 – Elégie à son livre
Although it’s been months since my last post, I find myself still in book 2 of the Amours! This is really the very last poem from book 2 I’ll be posting, though: the lengthy Elegy which Ronsard prefixed to the book as he sent it out into the world.
Mon fils, si tu sçavois ce qu’on dira de toy, Tu ne voudrois jamais desloger de chez moy, Enclos en mon estude : et ne voudrois te faire Salir ny fueilleter aux mains du populaire. Quand tu seras parti, sans jamais retourner, Estranger loin de moy te faudra sejourner : « Car ainsi que le vent sans retourner s’envole, « Sans espoir de retour s’eschappe la parole. Or tu es ma parole, à qui de nuict et jour J’ay conté les propos que me contoit Amour, Pour les mettre en ces vers qu’en lumiere tu portes, Crochetant maugré moy de ma chambre les portes, Pauvret! qui ne sçais pas que nos citoyens sont Plus subtils par le nez que le Rhinoceront. Donc avant que tenter la mer et le naufrage, Voy du port la tempeste, et demeure au rivage. « Tard est le repentir de tost s’estre embarqué. Tu seras tous les jours des médisans moqué D’yeux, et de hausse-becs, et d’un branler de teste. « Sage est celuy qui croit à qui bien l’amoneste. Tu sçais (mon cher enfant) que je ne te voudrois Tromper, contre nature impudent je faudrois, Et serois un Serpent de farouche nature Si je voulois trahir ma propre geniture : Car tout tel que tu es, n’agueres je te fis, Et je ne t’aime moins qu’un pere aime son fils. Quoy? tu veux donc partir : et tant plus je te cuide Retenir au logis, plus tu hausses la bride. Va donc puis qu’il te plaist, mais je te suppliray De respondre à chacun ce que je te diray, Afin que toy (mon fils) tu gardes en l’absence De moy le pere tien, l’honneur et l’innocence. Si quelque dame honneste et gentille de cœur (Qui aura l’inconstance et le change en horreur) Me vient, en te lisant, d’un gros sourcil reprendre Dequoy je ne devois oublier ma Cassandre, Qui la premiere au cœur le trait d’amour me mist, Et que le bon Petrarque un tel peché ne fist, Qui fut trente et un an amoureux de sa dame, Sans qu’une autre jamais luy peust eschauffer l’ame : Respons-luy je te pri’, que Petrarque sur moy N’avoit authorité pour me donner sa loy, Ny à ceux qui viendroyent apres luy, pour les faire Si long temps amoureux sans leur lien desfaire. Luy-mesme ne fut tel : car à voir son escrit Il estoit esveillé d’un trop gentil esprit Pour estre sot trente ans, abusant sa jeunesse Et sa Muse au giron d’une vieille maistresse : Ou bien il jouyssoit de sa Laurette, ou bien Il estoit un grand fat d’aimer sans avoir rien. Ce que je ne puis croire, aussi n’est-il croyable : Non, il en jouyssoit : puis la fist admirable, « Chaste, divine, saincte : aussi l’amoureux doit « Celebrer la beauté dont plaisir il reçoit : « Car celuy qui la blasme apres la jouissance « N’est homme, mais d’un Tygre il a prins sa naissance. Quand quelque jeune fille est au commencement Cruelle, dure, fiere à son premier amant, Constant il faut attendre : il peut estre qu’une heure Viendra sans y penser, qui la rendra meilleure. Mais quand elle devient voire de jour en jour Plus dure et plus rebelle, et plus rude en amour, On s’en doit esloigner, sans se rompre la teste De vouloir adoucir une si sotte beste. Je suis de tel advis : me blasme de ceci, M’estime qui voudra, je le conseille ainsi. Les femmes bien souvent sont cause que nous sommes Volages et legers, amadoüans les hommes D’un espoir enchanteur, les tenant quelquefois Par une douce ruse, un an, ou deux, ou trois, Dans les liens d’Amour sans aucune allegeance : Ce-pendant un valet en aura joüissance, Ou bien quelque badin emportera ce bien Que le fidele amy à bon droit cuidoit sien. Et si ne laisseront, je parle des rusées Qui ont au train d’amour leurs jeunesses usées, (C’est bien le plus grand mal qu’un homme puisse avoir Que servir une femme accorte à decevoir) D’enjoindre des travaux qui sont insupportables, Des services cruels, des tâches miserables : Car sans avoir esgard à la simple amitié De leurs pauvres servans, cruelles n’ont pitié, Non plus qu’un fier Corsaire en arrogance braves, N’a pitié des captifs aux environs esclaves. Il faut vendre son bien, il faut faire presens De chaisnes, de carquans, de diamans luisans : Il faut donner la Perle, et l’habit magnifique, Il faut entretenir la table et la musique, Il faut prendre querelle, il faut les suporter. Certes j’aimerois mieux dessus le dos porter La hotte, pour curer les estables d’Augée, Que me voir serviteur d’une Dame rusée. « La mer est bien à craindre, aussi est bien le feu, « Et le Ciel quand il est de tonnerres esmeu, « Mais trop plus est à craindre une femme clergesse, « Sçavante en l’art d’amour, quand elle est tromperesse : « Par mille inventions mille maux elle fait, « Et d’autant qu’elle est femme, et d’autant qu’elle sçait. Quiconque fut le Dieu qui la mit en lumiere Il fut premier autheur d’une grande misere. Il falloit par presens consacrez aux autels Acheter nos enfans des grands Dieux immortels, Et non user sa vie avec ce mal aimable, Les femmes, passion de l’homme miserable, Miserable et chetif d’autant qu’il est vassal, Durant le temps qu’il vit, d’un si fier animal. Mais je vous pri’, voyez comment par fines ruses Elles sçavent trouver mille feintes excuses, Apres qu’ell’ ont failly ! voyez Helene apres Qu’Ilion fut bruslé de la flamme des Grecs, Comme elle amadoüa d’une douce blandice Son badin de mary, qui luy remit son vice, Et qui plus que devant de ses yeux fut épris, Qui scintilloient encor les amours de Pâris. Que dirons-nous d’Ulysse ? encores qu’une trope De jeunes poursuyvans aimassent Penelope, Devorans tout son bien, si est-ce qu’il brusloit D’embrasser son espouse, et jamais ne vouloit Devenir immortel avec Circe la belle, Pour ne revoir jamais Penelope, laquelle Pleurant luy rescrivoit de son fascheux sejour, Pendant qu’en son absence elle faisoit l’amour : Si bien que le Dieu Pan de ses jeux print naissance, (D’elle et de ses muguets la commune semence) Envoyant tout expres, pour sa commodité, Le fils chercher le père en Sparte la cité. « Voilà comment la femme avec ses ruses donte « L’homme, de qui l’esprit toute beste surmonte. Quand on peut par hazard heureusement choisir Quelque belle maistresse, et l’avoir à plaisir, Soit de haut ou bas lieu, pourveu qu’elle soit fille Humble, courtoise, honneste, amoureuse et gentille, Sans fard, sans tromperie, et qui sans mauvaitié Garde de tout son cœur une simple amitié, Aimant trop mieux cent fois à la mort estre mise, Que de rompre sa foy quand elle l’a promise : Il la faut honorer tant qu’on sera vivant, Comme un rare joyau qu’on treuve peu souvent. « Celuy certainement merite sur la teste « Le feu le plus ardent d’une horrible tempeste, « Qui trompe une pucelle et mesmement alors « Qu’elle se donne à nous, et de cœur et de cors. N’est-ce pas un grand bien quand on fait un voyage, De rencontrer quelcun qui d’un pareil courage Veut nous acompagner, et comme nous passer Les torrens, les rochers, fascheux à traverser ? Aussi n’est-ce un grand bien de trouver une amie, Qui nous aide à passer cette chetive vie, Qui sans estre fardée ou pleine de rigueur, Traite fidellement de son amy le cueur ? Dy leur, si de fortune une belle Cassandre Vers moy se fust monstrée un peu courtoise et tendre, Et pleine de pitié eust cherché à guarir Le mal dont ses beaux yeux dix ans m’ont fait mourir, Non seulement du corps, mais sans plus d’une œillade Eust voulu soulager mon pauvre cœur malade, Je ne l’eusse laissée, et m’en soit à tesmoin Ce jeune enfant ailé qui des amours a soin. Mais voiant que tousjours elle marchoit plus fiere, Je desliay du tout mon amitié premiere, Pour en aimer une autre en ce païs d’Anjou, Où maintenant Amour me detient sous le jou : Laquelle tout soudain je quitteray, si elle M’est comme fut Cassandre, orgueilleuse et rebelle, Pour en chercher une autre, à fin de voir un jour De pareille amitié recompenser m’amour, Sentant l’affection d’une autre dans moymesme : « Car un homme est bien sot d’aimer si on ne l’aime. Or’ si quelqu’un apres me vient blasmer, dequoy Je ne suis plus si grave en mes vers que j’estoy A mon commencement, quand l’humeur Pindarique Enfloit empoulément ma bouche magnifique : Dy luy que les amours ne se souspirent pas D’un vers hautement grave, ains d’un beau stille bas, Populaire et plaisant, ainsi qu’a fait Tibulle, L’ingenieux Ovide, et le docte Catulle. Le fils de Venus hait ces ostentations : Il suffist qu’on luy chante au vray ses passions Sans enflure ny fard, d’un mignard et doux stile, Coulant d’un petit bruit, comme une eau qui distile. Ceux qui font autrement, ils font un mauvais tour A la simple Venus, et à son fils Amour. S’il advient quelque jour que d’une voix hardie J’anime l’eschafaut par une tragedie Sentencieuse et grave, alors je feray voir Combien peuvent les nerfs de mon petit sçavoir. Et si quelque furie en mes vers je rencontre, Hardi j’opposeray mes Muses alencontre : Et feray resonner d’un haut et grave son (Pour avoir part au bouc) la tragique tançon. Mais ores que d’Amour les passions je pousse, Humble je veux user d’une Muse plus douce. Je ne veux que ce vers d’ornement indigent Entre dans une escole, ou qu’un brave regent Me lise pour parade : il suffist si m’amie Le touche de la main dont elle tient ma vie. Car je suis satisfait, si elle prend à gré Ce labeur que je voüe à ses pieds consacré. | My son, if you knew what they’ll say of you, You’d never want to leave my home, But stay shut away in my study; you wouldn’t want yourself Dirtied or leafed thorough by the crowd’s hands. When you’ve gone, never to return, You’ll have to live like a stranger far from me : “For as the wind flies off without returning, So, without hope of returning, the word escapes.” And you are my word, to whom night and day I have told the ideas which Love told me, So I could put them into these verses which you take into the light, Picking the locks of the doors of my room in defiance of me, Poor thing, who know not that our citizens have Sharper noses than the rhinoceros. So, before trying the sea and shipwreck, See the storm from port, and stay on the shore. “Early to board, late to repent.” Every day you’ll be mocked by ill-wishers, With their eyes, their lifted noses, and a shake of the head. “Wise the man who believes a person who gives good advice.” You know, my dear child, that I have no desire To deceive you: I would have to be shameless, contrary to nature And a serpent with an untamed nature If I sought to betray my own offspring, For just as you are, I recently made you, And I love you no less than a father loves his son. Yet you still wish to go? And the more I wish To keep you at home, the more you pull at the bit. Go on then, since you want to, but I beg you To answer everyone as I will tell you, So that you, my son, protect in my absence Your father’s – my own! – honour and innocence. If some honest lady of noble heart, Who is horrified by inconstancy and change, On reading you reproves me with a heavy frown That I ought not to have forgotten my Cassandre, Who was first to shoot the arrow of love into my heart, And that good old Petrarch committed no such sin, Being thirty-one years in love with his lady Without any other ever being able to set his soul ablaze, Then reply to her, I beg, that Petrarch had No authority over me to subject me to his law, Nor those others who came after him, to make us Love so long a time without breaking our ties. He himself was not like that; for if you look at what he wrote He was a sharp man, with too noble a spirit To be a fool for thirty years, wasting his youth And his Muse in the lap of an old mistress. Either he enjoyed his little Laura, or he was Indeed a great fool to love but not have her at all. I can’t believe that, nor is it believable; No, he enjoyed her, then made her out to be admirable, Chaste, divine, holy: “The lover should also Celebrate the beauty from whom he gains his pleasure; For he who blames her after enjoying her Is no man, but was born of a tiger.” When some young girl is at the beginning Cruel, harsh and proud to her first lover, He must remain constant; it may be that the time Will come, unexpectedly, which will make her better. But when she becomes from day to day Harsher and more contrary, and coarser in love, You should distance yourself, without wearying yourself Trying to soften so foolish a beast. That’s my advice: blame me for it Or praise me who will, I counsel him thus. Women are often the reason we are Light and flighty, coaxing men With bewitching hope, sometimes keeping them With sweet tricks for a year, or two, or three, In love’s bonds without relief; And yet a servant will enjoy them, Or perhaps some wag will run off with the delight Which the faithful lover rightly thought his own. And still they won’t stop, I mean those sly girls Who have spent their youths in Love’s train, (It’s certainly the greatest trouble a man can have To serve a woman used to deception) [They won’t stop] demanding work which is insupportable, Cruel service, wretched tasks; For without regard to the simple love Of their poor servants, they cruelly have no pity, No more than a proud corsair, brave and arrogant, Has pity on the captives in his slave-quarters. [The lover] has to sell his goods, make presents Of chains, purses, and shining diamonds; He must give pearls and magnificent clothes, He must look after the table and the music, He must take up her quarrels, and endure them. Certainly I’d prefer to carry on my back A basket and clean the Augean stables, Than to become the servant of a sly Lady. “The sea really should be feared, the fire as well, And the sky when it is shaken with thunder, But much more to be feared is a learned woman Well-versed in the art of love, when she is a deceiver; By a thousand tricks she makes a thousand evils, And she’s as wise as she is a woman.” Whichever was the god who brought her to life, He was the prime author of great misery. We ought, with presents consecrated at their altars To offer bribes for our children with the great, immortal gods, So they don’t waste their lives with that pleasant evil Woman, the passion of wretched men, Wretched and weak insofar as they’re vassals During their lives of so proud a beast. I beg you, see how by subtle tricks They are able to find a thousand fake excuses After they’ve deceived! Look at Helen after Troy was burned by the Greeks’ fire, How she wheedled with sweet flattery Her fool of a husband, who forgave her vice And fell in love more than before with her eyes Which sparkled still with love for Paris. And what shall we say of Ulysses? While a troop Of young suitors was making love to Penelope, Devouring all his goods, yet still he burned To kiss his wife, and never wished To become immortal with the beautiful Circe So as never again to see Penelope, whom Weeping he wanted to tell about his wearisome journey, While in his absence she was making love: So much so that the god Pan was born from their frolics (The common seed of her and her dandies) As she immediately sent, to make things easier for her, The son to seek his father in the city of Sparta. “That is how woman with her cunning defeats Man, whose spirit overcomes all the animals.” If by chance you might fortunately choose Some fair mistress, and have her for your pleasure, No matter if she’s from a high or low place provided she is A humble, courteous, honest, loving and gentle girl, Without disguise, without trickery, who without wickedness Keeps with all her heart her simple love, Much preferring to be put to death a hundred times Than to break her word when she has promised it; Then you must honour her while you live As a rare jewel most infrequently found. “He certainly deserves the hottest fires Of terrible storms upon his head Who deceives a maid, especially when She gives herself to us heart and body.“ Isn’t it a great delight when we’re travelling To meet someone who with equal bravery Wishes to a company us and like us to journey Over torrents and rocks, tiresome to cross? And isn’t it a great delight to find a girl Who helps us on this life’s wretched journey, Who without being burdened or full of harshness Treats her lover’s heart faithfully? Tell them, then, if perchance the fair Cassandre Had showed herself a little courteous and tender towards me, And full of pity had sought to cure The ills with which her fair eyes had put me to death those ten years; If not with her body but with just a single glance She’d been willing to soothe my poor, ill heart, I’d not have left her, let my witness be That young winged child who watches over love-affairs. But seeing how she always continued more proud I unbound myself from all my first love To love with it another in the country of Anjou, Where Love now keeps me under his yoke. [A love] which I will immediately abandon if she Is to me as Cassandre was, proud and rebellious, To find another, so that one day I may see My love returned with an equal love, Feeling the affection of another within myself: “For a man is a complete fool to love if he isn’t loved.” So, if someone afterwards chooses to blame me that I am no more as grave in my verse as I was At the beginning, when the Pindaric mood Puffed up in swollen words my magniloquent voice; Then tell him that love does not sigh In high-flown grave verse, but in a fine low style, Pleasant and popular, like that of Tibullus, The ingenious Ovid and the learned Catullus. The son of Venus hates ostentation: Enough that we sing his passions to him truly Without bombast or disguise, in a charming sweet style Flowing with a gentle sound like a tinkling spring. Those who do otherwise do a bad turn To simple Venus and her son Love. If it should happen one day that with bold voice I enliven the stage with some tragedy Grave and sententious, then I shall show How loud the strings of my little learning can sound. And if I encounter passion in my verse I shall boldly set my Muses against it, And make a tragic dialogue resound with high-flown And serious tones (assuming the tragic buskin). But while I focus on the passions of Love, In lower style I prefer to employ a sweeter Muse. I do not want these verses, stripped of ornament, To enter some school, or a worthy regent To read me for show; it’s enough if my beloved Touches it with the hand in which she holds my life. For I am satisfied if she approves This work which I dedicate, consecrated, at her feet. |
A few words of commentary on these 200 lines:- the rhinoceros (or, in the earlier version, elephant) has a ‘subtle’ nose, one good for smelling out the good and the bad: ‘sharp’, we could more easily say in English, but while it’s obvious which sort of ‘sharpness’ the elephant’s nose has, it’s perhaps less so for the rhinoceros where a ‘sharp’ nose could refer to its horn not its sensitivity.- Ronsard’s cynicism about Petrarch’s chaste relationship with Laura is perhaps also a corrective to those scholars who think Ronsard’s own affairs were more imagined than real? His harsh words about women, implicitly applied to Cassandra, should not be taken too literally: he speaks elsewhere of still loving her.
– there’s a cluster of classical references in the middle of the poem: the Augean stables, cleaning whose filth was one of Heracles’ ‘impossible’ tasks; Helen of Troy, taken back by Menelaus after Troy’s fall as she was still the most beautiful woman in the world, though her continuing love for Paris is largely a Ronsardian invention (in Homer, she and Menelaus are genuinely reconciled)
– Ronsard invents, too, Penelope’s unfaithfulness to Odysseus with her troop of suitors – in the Odyssey she famously remains loyal; his son Telemachus journeys to Sparta seeking information from Menelaus at the goddess Athene’s prompting, not sent away by Penelope; and Circe did not offer Odysseus immortality but threatened to turn him into a pig like his followers! Ronsard has, ironically because it would be obvious to all his readers, twisted the Greek tale on its head. However, at the same time he demonstrates his wide and deep reading: in a pretty obscure Pindar fragment, but as far as I know nowhere else, Penelope is indeed said to be Pan’s mother (the father, though, Apollo not one or several human suitors!)
– where Ronsard turns to his new love in Anjou, he says “Je desliay du tout mon amitié premiere, / Pour en aimer une autre en ce païs d’Anjou“; that “en” technically means that he is giving Marie his first love, transferring it from Cassandre: this is not a new love, but the old one with a new subject.
– for the really interested, “empoulément” is ampoulément, from the same root as ampoule, a ‘swollen’ bulb of glass.
– Ronsard contrasts the style of Pindar – the great Greek poet of Odes – with that of Tibullus, Ovid and Catullus: Romans, but principally contrasted as love-poets and slightly licentious ones at that. (The ‘son of Venus’ is of course Cupid, god of love.)
See the next post for Blanchemain’s earlier version with its many variants.
Élégie à Cassandre (Am. 1.227b)
Mon œil, mon cœur, ma Cassandre, ma vie, Hé! qu’à bon droit tu dois porter d’envie A ce grand Roy, qui ne veut plus souffrir Qu’à mes chansons ton nom se vienne offrir. C’est luy qui veut qu’en trompette j’echange Mon luth, afin d’entonner sa louange, Non de luy seul mais de tous ses ayeux Qui sont là hault assis au rang des Dieux. Je le feray puis qu’il me le commande : Car d’un tel Roy la puissance est si grande, Que tant s’en faut qu’on la puisse eviter, Qu’un camp armé n’y pourroit resister. Mais que me sert d’avoir tant leu Tibulle, Properce, Ovide, et le docte Catulle, Avoir tant veu Petrarque et tant noté, Si par un Roy le pouvoir m’est oté De les ensuyvre, et s’il faut que ma Iyre Pendue au croc ne m’ose plus rien dire ? Doncques en vain je me paissois d’espoir De faire un jour à la Tuscane voir, Que nostre France, autant qu’elle, est heureuse A souspirer une pleinte amoureuse : Et pour monstrer qu’on la peut surpasser, J’avois desja commencé de trasser Mainte Elegie à la façon antique, Mainte belle Ode, et mainte Bucolique. Car, à vray dire, encore mon esprit N’est satisfait de ceux qui ont escrit En nostre langue, et leur amour merite Ou du tout rien, ou faveur bien petite. Non que je sois vanteur si glorieux D’oser passer les vers laborieux De tant d’amans qui se pleignent en France : Mais pour le moins j’avoy bien esperance, Que si mes vers ne marchoient les premiers, Qu’ils ne seroient sans honneur les derniers. Car Eraton qui les amours descœuvre, D’assez bon œil m’attiroit à son œuvre. L’un trop enflé les chante grossement, L’un enervé les traine bassement, L’un nous depeint une Dame paillarde, L’un plus aux vers qu’aux sentences regarde, Et ne peut onq tant se sceut desguiser, Apprendre l’art de bien Petrarquiser. Que pleures-tu, Cassandre, ma douce ame ? Encor Amour ne veut couper la trame Qu’en ta faveur je pendis au métier, Sans achever l’ouvrage tout entier. Mon Roy n’a pas d’une beste sauvage Succé le laict, et son jeune courage, Ou je me trompe, a senti quelquefois Le trait d’Amour qui surmonte les Rois. S’il l’a senti, ma coulpe est effacee, Et sa grandeur ne sera corroucee Qu’à mon retour des horribles combas, Hors de son croc mon Luth j’aveigne à-bas, Le pincetant, et qu’en lieu des alarmes Je chante Amour, tes beautez et mes larmes. « Car l’arc tendu trop violentement, « Ou s’alentit, ou se rompt vistement. Ainsi Achille apres avoir par terre Tant fait mourir de soudars en la guerre, Son Luth doré prenoit entre ses mains Teintes encor de meurdres inhumains, Et vis à vis du fils de Menetie, Chantoit l’amour de Brisëis s’amie : Puis tout soudain les armes reprenoit, Et plus vaillant au combat retoumoit. Ainsi, apres que l’ayeul de mon maistre Hors des combats retirera sa dextre, Se desarmant dedans sa tente à part, Dessus le Luth à l’heure ton Ronsard Te chantera : car il ne se peut faire Qu’autre beauté luy puisse jamais plaire, Ou soit qu’il vive, ou soit qu’outre le port, Leger fardeau, Charon le passe mort. | My eyes, my heart, my Cassandre, my life, Oh, how rightly you must be envious Of that great King who no longer wishes to suffer Your name to put itself forward in my songs. It is he who wishes that I should change my lute For a trumpet, to sing out his praises, And not only his own but those of his ancestors Who are seated above in the ranks of the gods. I shall do it, as he commands it : For the power of such a King is so great That it is as hard to keep out of its way As for an armed force to resist it. What use for me to have read so much of Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, and the learned Catullus ; To have looked over and noted so much of Petrarch, If by a King the power is taken from me Of following them, and if my lyre must Hang from a hook and dare no longer speak ? I have therefore vainly fed the hope Of one day seeing Tuscany, When our France, as much as it, is happy To sigh a lover’s plaint ; And, to show [Italy] can be surpassed I had already begun to set down Many an Elegy in the antique fashion, Many a fine Ode, many a Pastoral. For to speak the truth, my soul is still Not satisfied with those who have written In our language, and their love deserves Either nothing at all, or very little favour. Not that I am so vainglorious a boaster As to venture to surpass the laborious poetry Of so many lovers who have made their plaints in France ; But at least I have a fair hope That, even if my verse does not go first, It will not be dishonourably last. For Erato, who discloses love-affairs, Drew me with a clear eye to her work. One puffed-up poet sings grossly of love, Another nervous one drags on in too mean a style ; One depicts a Lady who is lewd, Another takes more care over his verse than his meaning And can never, however he tries to conceal it, Learn the art of Petrarch-ising well. Why do you weep, Cassandre, my sweet soul ? Love does not yet seek to cut off the warp and weft Which I have hung on my loom for you, Without completing the whole of my work. My King has not sucked the milk of some Savage beast, and his youthful courage too, Unless I am mistaken, has sometimes felt The wound of Love which can overcome Kings. If he has felt it, my [ error ] is erased And his greatness will not be angered If, on my return from terrible battles, I take my lute down from its hook And pluck it, and instead of loud war I sing of Love, your beauty, and my tears. « For the bow which is drawn too tightly Either weakens [slows] or quickly breaks. » Just so Achilles, after having across the world Put so many soldiers to death in war, Took his golden lute in his hands – Still stained with inhuman massacres – And sitting opposite the son of Menetius Sang of his love for Briseis, his beloved ; Then as suddenly took up arms again And returned, more courageous, to battle. And so, after my master’s ancestor Withdraws his hand from battle, Disarming himself within his tent away from the field, Upon his lute just then your Ronsard will sing To you ; for it cannot be That another beauty could ever please him While he is alive or when, beyond this harbour, Charon carries his light burden, dead. |
Amours 1.196
In the end, does it matter?! Poetry does not, after all, have to be subjected to the analysis which a strict biographer might apply. It is an attractive poem with a novel image in the opening quatrain and some unusual phrases in the second. In both, there are variants in the earlier Blanchemain edition: of these I think we can safely say the older versions of lines 2 and 7 are weaker, but that does not make the version less interesting. Au plus profond de ma poitrine morte Sans me tuer une main je reçoy, Qui, me pillant, entraine avecques soy Mon cœur captif, que, maistresse, elle emporte. Coustume inique et de mauvaise sorte, Malencontreuse et miserable loy, Tant à grand tort, tant tu es contre moy, Loy sans raison miserablement forte. In the deepest place in my dead breast I feel a hand which does not kill me, Which as it plunders me drags with it My captive heart, and takes it to be its mistress. Iniquitous custom, wicked fate, Unlucky and wretched law, So wrongly, so much you are against me, Law without reason, wretchedly strong.
Amours retranch. 49 – A Song for Cassandre
Il me semble que la journée Dure plus longue qu’une année, Quand par malheur je n’ay ce bien De voir la grand’ beauté de celle Qui tient mon cœur, et sans laquelle Vissé-je tout, je ne voy rien. Quiconques fut jadis le Sage Qui dit que l’amoureux courage Vit de ce qu’il ayme, il dit vray ; Ailleurs vivant il ne peut estre, Ny d’autre viande se paistre : J’en suis seur, j’en ay fait l’essay. Tousjours l’amant vit en l’aimée : Pour cela mon ame affamée Ne se veut souler que d’amour, De l’amour elle est si friande, Que sans plus de telle viande Se veut repaistre nuit et jour. Si quelqu’un dit que je m’abuse, Voye luy-mesme la Meduse Qui d’un rocher m’a fait le cœur ; Et l’ayant veuë je m’asseure Qu’il sera fait sur la mesme heure Le compagnon de mon malheur. Car est-il homme que n’enchante La voix d’une Dame sçavante, Et fust-il Scythe en cruauté ? Il n’est point de plus grand’ magie Que la docte voix d’une amie, Quand elle est jointe à la beauté. Or j’aime bien, je le confesse, Et plus j’iray vers la vieillesse, Et plus constant j’aimeray mieux : Je n’oubliray, fussé-je en cendre, La douce amour de ma Cassandre, Qui loge mon cœur dans ses yeux. Adieu liberté ancienne, Comme chose qui n’est plus mienne, Adieu ma chere vie, adieu : Ta fuite ne me peut desplaire, Puis que ma perte volontaire Se retreuve en un si beau lieu. Chanson, va-t’en où je t’adresse Dans la chambre de ma Maistresse, Dy-luy, baisant sa blanche main, Que pour en santé me remettre, Il ne luy faut sinon permettre Que tu te caches dans son sein. | It seems to me that a day Lasts longer than a year When by mischance I do not have the benefit Of seeing the great beauty of her Who holds my heart, and without whom Even if I see everything I see nothing. Whoever was in olden days the wise man Who said that a lover’s courage Lives on the one he loves, spoke truly; He could not live in any other way, Nor feed on any other food. I’m sure of it: I’ve tried it. The lover lives all the time in the beloved; For that reason my famished soul Wishes to drink deeply of Love alone; It is so partial to love That on such food and nothing more It wishes to dine both night and day. If anyone wants to claim I’m deceiving myself, Let him look upon the Medusa Who has made my heart into a rock; Having seen her, I am sure That he will be made that same moment A fellow in my troubles. For is there a man whom the voice Of a wise woman cannot enchant, Even if he were like a Scythian in cruelty? There is no greater magic Than the cunning voice of your beloved When it is joined with beauty. Still, I love it, I confess, And the further I go towards old age The more, and the more constantly, I shall love it. I will not forget, even were I mere dust, The sweet love of my Cassandre Who keeps me heart in her eyes. Farewell my old freedom, Like something no longer mine, Farewell my dear life, farewell: Your loss cannot displease me Since my own voluntary ruin Has landed me in so fair a place. Away, my song, go where I send you Into the chamber of my mistress, And tell her, kissing her white hand, That to return me to health She need only allow You to hide in her breast. |
Amours retranch. 2
After that recent poem on reading Homer, another which demonstrates the effect of that reading! It’s possible that the family tree of the royal house of Troy may not be too familiar to you(!) so here’s a very useful quick summary: several of the names above are highlighted to make navigation easy. The basic assumption is that ‘you’ (=Cassandre) are equivalent to the prophetess Cassandra of Troy.
Many of the references are not just to the characters but to the relevant myths: – Paris, so handsome that he was chosen to judge the goddesses’ beauty & gained Helen’s love; – Polyxena, whose calm wisdom encouraged Achilles (having captured her) to trust her with the information that led to his death, and who (in Euripides) nobly accepts her death as a sacrifice to Achilles’ ghost; – Helenus, Cassandra’s twin and also endowed with prophetic powers; – Laomedon, perjured because he persuaded Neptune to build Troy’s great walls (see line 9) but then refused to give the promised reward; – Priam, whose pride kept the war going (but who was capable of humbling himself before Achilles, to recover his son Hector’s body, in a truly noble/regal way); – Antenor, not a family member but Priam’s closest and wisest advisor (and an advocate for peace in the war); – Antigone, whose ‘arrogance’ is the centre of Sophocles’ play as her stubbornness leads to confrontation with the state and general tragedy; – Hector, generally considered a noble hero, but who of course has a long list of victims in the Iliad. Generally, Achilles not Hector is seen as the proudly cruel one! Which leaves us only with the reference to Ulysses, who is responsible for the fall of Troy because he came up with the idea of the Trojan Horse. Unusually for a poem that has been set aside, there is a variant in Blanchemain’s version at the beginning of the last line: … que tu combles mon cœur, De brasiers et de morts, de sanglots, et de larmes … as you fill my heart With fire and death, with sobs and tears.
Amours retranch. 43
To Cassandre – Ode 2:5
La Lune est coustumiere Renaistre tous les mois ; Mais, quand nostre lumiere Sera morte une fois, Longtemps sans réveiller Nous faudra sommeiller. Tandis que vivons ores, Un baiser donne moy ; Donne-m’en mille encores : Amour n’a point de loy ; A sa grand’ deité Convient l’infinité. Ah ! vous m’avez, maistresse De la dent entamé La langue chanteresse De vostre nom aimé. Quoi ! est-ce là le prix Du labeur qu’elle a pris, Elle qui voz louanges Dessus le luth vantoit, Et aux peuples estranges Vos mérites chantoit, Ne faisant l’air si non Bruire de votre nom. De vos tetins d’yvoire (Joyaux de l’Orient) Elle chantoit la gloire, Et de votre œil friant, Pour la récompenser La faut-il offenser ? Las ! de petite chose Je me plains durement : La playe en l’ame enclose Me cuit bien autrement, Que ton œil m’y laissa Le jour qu’il me blessa. | The moon is accustomed To being reborn every month; But when our light Is once dead, For long without waking We’ll have to sleep. While we live, though, Give me a kiss, Give me a thousand more; Love has no rules, Infinity suits His great godhood. Ah, mistress, you have Injured with your teeth, The tongue which sings Of your beloved name; So what? That is the price Of the task it undertook, [The tongue] which extolled Your praises on the lute, And sang to unknown peoples Your merits Making the air Resound with your name. It sang of the glory Of your ivory breasts, The jewels of the Orient, And of your dainty eyes; To repay [my tongue] for this, Must you hurt it? Alas, of little things I complain harshly; The wound hidden in my soul Burns me very differently From when your eyes left me it On the day when they wounded me. |
Chanson (Amours 1.228a)
Du jour que je fus amoureux, Nul past, tant soit-il savoureux, Ne vin tant soit il delectable, Au cœur ne m’est point agreable : Car depuis l’heure je ne sceu Manger ou boire qui m’ait pleu. Une tristesse en l’ame close Me nourrist, et non autre chose. Tous les plaisirs que j’estimois Alors que libre je n’aimois, Maintenant je les desestime : Plus ne m’est plaisante l’escrime, La paume, la chasse, et le bal, Mais comme un farouche animal Je me pers pour celer ma rage, En l’abry d’un antre sauvage. L’amour fut bien forte poison Qui m’ensorcela la raison, Et qui me desroba l’audace Que je portoy dessus la face, Me faisant aller pas à pas, Triste et pensif, le front à bas, En homme qui craint et qui n’ose Se fier plus en nulle chose. Le torment qu’on feint d’Ixion, N’approche de ma passion, Et mieux j’aimerois de Tantale Endurer la peine fatale Un an, qu’estre un jour amoureux, Pour languir autant malheureux Que j’ay fait, depuis que Cassandre Tient mon cœur et ne le veut rendre. | From the day when I fell in love, No food however tasty, No wine however delectable, Is pleasant to my heart; For since that hour I’ve been unable To drink or eat what pleased me. A sadness shut up in my soul Feeds me, and nothing else. All the pleasures which I valued When I was free and didn’t love, Now I value them not at all; No more pleasant to me are battles, Tennis, hunting, balls; But like a wild animal I lose myself to conceal my madness In the shelter of a wild cave. Love was the very strong poison Which bewitched my reason And stole away the daring I wore on my face, Making me go step by step Sad and pensive, my head bowed, Like a man who fears and dares No longer trust in anything. The pretended torture of Ixion Does not approach my passion, And I’d rather endure The deadly punishment of Tantalus For a year, than be for one day in love And languish as sadly As I have since Cassandre Has held my heart and won’t give it back. |