Amours retranchées 3

Le seul penser, qui me fait devenir

Brave d’espoir, est si doulx que mon ame

Desja gaignée, impuissante se pasme,

Songeant au bien qui me doit advenir.

 

Donc sans mourir pourray-je soustenir

Le doux combat que me garde ma Dame,

Puis qu’un penser si brusquement l’entame

Du seul plaisir d’un si doulx souvenir ?

 

Helas ! Venus, que l’escume féconde,

Non loin de Cypre enfanta dessus l’onde,

Si de fortune en ce combat je meurs ;

 

Reçoy ma vie, ô Déesse, et la guide

Par les odeurs de tes plus belles fleurs,

Dans les vergers du Paradis de Gnide.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            The thought alone, which makes me become

                                                                            Bold in hope, is so sweet that my soul

                                                                            Already defeated, faints weakened away

                                                                            Dreaming of the good which must come to me.

 

                                                                            Could I sustain, without dying,

                                                                            The sweet combat which my lady reserves for me,

                                                                            With just the pleasure of so sweet a memory,

                                                                            Since a thought begins it so suddenly? 

 

                                                                            Alas, Venus, whom the fertile surf

                                                                            Bore upon the waves not far from Cyprus,

                                                                            If by chance I die in that combat, 

 

                                                                            Receive my life, o goddess, and guide it

                                                                            Amongst the fragrances of your most beautiful flowers,

                                                                            In the orchards of the gardens of Cnidus.

 

 

 

It’s relatively uncommon to have a sonnet with just the one theme all the way through. But this is a good one; I wonder why Ronsard withdrew it?

 

The love-death is a fine romantic theme, but here of course it’s a more neo-Platonic love-death, more the anticipation than the reality of love.

 

The second quatrain is one of those whose grammar is rather contorted: unusually, I’ve opted to re-organise the translation to prioritise sense over parallelism with Ronsard’s French. Taking it line by line it would go something like:

 

              Without dying, then, could I sustain

              The sweet combat which my lady reserves for me

              (Since a thought so suddenly launches it)

              With just the pleasure of so sweet a memory?

 

We’ve met Venus as goddess of Cnidus before; and Cnidus as a place rich in agriculture (though, as noted before, its real wealth was apparently based more on trade than agriculture).

 

There are plenty of changes in Blanchemain’s version, some of them minor re-orderings of word for euphony; here it is complete:

 

 

Le seul penser, qui me fait devenir

Haultain et brave, est si doulx que mon ame

Desja desja impuissante, se pasme,

Yvre du bien qui me doibt avenir.

 

Sans mourir donq, pourray-je soustenir

Le doux combat que me garde ma Dame,

Puis qu’un penser si brusquement l’entame

Du seul plaisir d’un si doulx souvenir ?

 

Helas ! Venus, que l’escume féconde,

Non loin de Cypre enfanta dessus l’onde,

Si de fortune en ce combat je meurs ;

 

Reçoy ma vie, ô Déesse, et la guide

Parmy l’odeur de tes plus belles fleurs,

Dans les vergers du Paradis de Gnide.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            The thought alone, which makes me become

                                                                            Proud and bold, is so sweet that my soul

                                                                            Now already weakened, faints away

                                                                            Drunk on the good which must come to me.

 

                                                                            Could I sustain, without dying,

                                                                            The sweet combat which my lady reserves for me,

                                                                            With just the pleasure of so sweet a memory,

                                                                            Since a thought begins it so suddenly? 

 

                                                                            Alas, Venus, whom the fertile surf

                                                                            Bore upon the waves not far from Cyprus,

                                                                            If by chance I die in that combat, 

 

                                                                            Receive my life, o goddess, and guide it

                                                                            Amongst the fragrance of your most beautiful flowers,

                                                                            In the orchards of the gardens of Cnidus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:54

Quiconque voudra suivre Amour ainsi que moy,

Celuy se delibere en penible tristesse

Vivre comme je vy, il pleust à la Déesse

Qui tient Cypre en ses mains, d’ordonner telle loy.

 

Apres avoir souffert les maux que je reçoy,

Il mourra de langueur, et sa fiere maistresse,

Le voyant trespassé sautera de liesse,

Se moquant du tombeau du mort et de sa foy.

 

Allez donc Amoureux faire service aux Dames,

Offrez leur pour present et vos corps et vos ames,

Vous en receverez un salaire bien doux.

 

« Je croy que Dieu les feit à fin de nuire à l’homme :

« Il les feit (Pardaillan) pour nostre malheur, comme

« Les Tygres les Lions les Serpens et les Loups.

 

 

 

                                                                            Whoever would like to follow Love as I do,

                                                                            Let him plan to live like I live,

                                                                            In vexed sadness ; for it pleases the goddess

                                                                            Who holds Cyprus in her hands to ordain this law.

 

                                                                            Having suffered the ills which I receive

                                                                            He will die of weakness and his proud mistress,

                                                                            Seeing him dead, will leap with happiness

                                                                            Mocking the dead man’s tomb and his faithfulness.

 

                                                                            So go on, lovers, do service to your ladies,

                                                                            Offer them your souls and bodies as a gift,

                                                                            You will receive a sweet payment :

 

                                                                            “I believe God made them to destroy man,

                                                                            He made them, Pardaillan, for our misfortune, like

                                                                            Tigers, lions, serpents and wolves.”

 

 

Ronsard in frustrated mood again, finding yet another way of complaining about a lover’s ills – and particularly, of course, about how he (Ronsard) is the most ill-served of all!  (The goddess of Cyprus is Venus.)

 

The Pardaillan family was an ancient one even in Ronsard’s time; though its most famous representative was still to make his mark – Antoine-Arnaud de Pardaillan de Gondrin, who commanded the king’s armies in Picardy, Savoy and Spain at the end of the century and raised the family to the marquisate, was son of Hector de Pardaillan, who is Ronsard’s addressee.

 

Blanchemain’s earlier version is considerably different in detail, though none of Ronsard’s later amendments really change the content. Note however how line 8’s older version switches the ‘faithfulness’/’loyalty’ under consideration – hers not his; and how in line 11, by adjusting the spelling of the future tense “recev(e)rez”, Ronsard re-balances the motion of the entire line!

 

 

Quiconque voudra suivre Amour ainsi que moy,

Celuy se delibere en penible tristesse

Mourir ainsy que moy : il pleut à la déesse

Qui tient Cypre en ses mains, d’ordonner telle loy.

 

Apres avoir souffert maint deuil et maint emoy,

Il lui faudra mourir, et sa fiere maistresse,

Le voyant au tombeau, sautera de liesse,

Sur le corps trespassé pour luy garder sa foy.

 

Allez donc maintenant faire service aux dames,

Offrez-leur pour present et vos corps et vos ames,

Et vous en recevrez un salaire bien doux !

 

Je croy que Dieu les feit à fin de nuire à l’homme :

Il les feit, Pardaillan, pour nostre malheur comme

Les tigers, les lions, les serpens et les lous.

 

 

 

                                                                            Whoever would like to follow Love as I do,

                                                                            Let him plan to die like I do,

                                                                            In vexed sadness ; for it pleases the goddess

                                                                            Who holds Cyprus in her hands to ordain this law.

 

                                                                            Having suffered much grief and much distress

                                                                            He will have to die, and his proud mistress,

                                                                            Seeing him in the tomb, will leap with happiness

                                                                            On the corpse which died to preserve her loyalty.

 

                                                                            So go on now, do service to your ladies,

                                                                            Offer them your souls and bodies as a gift,

                                                                            And you will receive a sweet payment :

 

                                                                            I believe God made them to destroy man,

                                                                            He made them, Pardaillan, for our misfortune, like

                                                                            Tigers, lions, serpents and wolves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 131

A toy chaque an j’ordonne un sacrifice,

Fidele coin, où tremblant et poureux,

Je descouvry le travail langoureox

Que j’endoroy, Dame, en votre service.

 

Un coin meilleur plus seur et plus propice

A declarer un torment amoureux,

N’est point en Cypre, ou dans les plus heureux

Vergers de Gnide, Amathonte ou d’Eryce.

 

Eussé-je l’or d’un Prince ambitieux,

Coin, tu serois un temple precieux

Enrichy d’or et de despense grande :

 

Où les amans par un vœu solennel

Joutant lutant autour de ton autel,

S’immoleroient eux-mesmes pour offrande.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            For you I command an annual sacrifice,

                                                                            Trusty spot, where trembling and poor

                                                                            I discovered the listless labour

                                                                            Which I endure, my Lady, in your service.

 

                                                                            A better spot, more certain and more favourable

                                                                            For declaring a lover’s torment,

                                                                            There is not – in Cyprus, or in the happiest

                                                                            Orchards of Cnidus, Amathus or Eryx.

 

                                                                            Had I the gold of an ambitious Prince,

                                                                            Little spot, you would become a precious temple

                                                                            Enriched with gold and great expense,

 

                                                                            Where lovers with a solemn vow,

                                                                            Jousting and fighting around your altar,

                                                                            Would sacrifice themselves as an offering.

 

 

 

 Is there a little slip in Ronsard’s clasical learning here?  In lines 7-8, Cnidus was a wealthy city on the Ionian coast (SW Turkey) – though it was wealthy through trade rather than agriculture; Amathus was an ancient royal city of Cyprus, rich in grain; and Eryx (now Erice) is in Sicily, an island which was traditionally a grain-basket for the Mediterranean. So the reference to “vergers”, taken broadly as agriculture rather than specifically ‘orchards’, is generally fine. But why “Cyprus, or … Amathus”? if Amathus is (by extension) used to represent Cyprus??

 

While I am nit-picking I should admit that I have struggled to find “poureux” in any dictionary, old or new. I think it means ‘poor’ but I can’t prove it…

 

Today is also one of those days when you (almost) get two poems for the price of one: at least, the second half is substantially different. Blanchemain offers a couple of variants in line 5 – “Un coin vraiment plus seur ne plus propice” (‘A spot truly more certain and more favourable’) – and then the following sestet.  The first tercet is clearly weaker; the second providing, instead of a medieval image, a classical one (dedicating an offering by hanging it in the temple, reminding me again of Horace’s ode 1:5 – see here).

 

 

 

Eussé-je l’or d’un prince ambitieux,

Tu toucherois, nouveau temple, les cieux,

Elabouré d’une merveille grande ;

 

Et là, dressant à ma nymphe un autel,

Sur les piliers de son nom immortel

J’appenderois mon ame pour offrande.

 

 

 

 

                                                                           Had I the gold of an ambitious Prince,

                                                                           You would reach the heavens, a new temple,

                                                                           Built by a great marvel;

 

                                                                           And there, setting an altar to my nymph,

                                                                           On the columns of her immortal name

                                                                           I would hang my soul as an offering.

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 116

Ceste beauté de mes yeux adoree,

Qui me fait vivre entre mille trespas,

Couploit mes chiens, et poursuivoit mes pas,

Ainsi qu’Adon, Cyprine la doree :

 

Quand une ronce en vain enamouree,

Ainsi que moy, du vermeil de ses bras,

En les baisant luy fit couler à bas

Une liqueur de pourpre coloree.

 

La terre adonc, qui soigneuse receut

Ce sang divin, fertilement conceut

Pareille au sang une rouge fleurette.

 

Et tout ainsi que d’Helene nâquit

La fleur qui d’elle un beau surnom aquit,

Du nom Cassandre elle eut nom Cassandrette.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            That beauty adored by my eyes,

                                                                            Who makes me live among a thousand deaths,

                                                                            Put my dogs on a lead and followed my path,

                                                                            As golden Cyprine [Venus] did Adonis;

 

                                                                            When a bramble, vainly enamoured

                                                                            Like me, from the pink of her arms

                                                                            As it kissed them made flow down

                                                                            A precious liquid, purple in colour.

 

                                                                            The earth indeed which with concern received

                                                                            This divine blood in fertility conceived

                                                                            A little flower, red like the blood.

 

                                                                            And just as from Helen was born

                                                                            The flower which from her acquired its fair name,

                                                                            From Cassandre’s name this one is called Cassandrette [little Cassandre].

 

 

 

 A classical frame for a familiar trope – but does’t Ronsard do it well?!  Muret points out that “golden” is an epithet often applied by Greek poets to beauties, another subtle classical allusion. Venus’s origins in Cyprus have come up before. One ancient myth had it that elecampane (a member of the daisy family) grew from Helen’s tears when Paris stole her away to Troy – the plant is also known as Helenium.

 

In Blanchemain’s version, line 10 appears as “Ce sang divin, tout sus l’heure conceut” (‘This divine blood at that very moment conceived’) which has the advantage of an urgency lacking in “fertilement” but does rather overload the line with ‘s’ sounds!  This version also offers a couple of changes in the first quatrain:

 

 

Celle qui est de mes yeux adorée,

Qui me fait vivre entre mille trespas,

Chassant un cerf, suivoit hier mes pas,

Ainsi qu’Adon Cyprine la dorée ;

 

 

 

                                                                            She who is adored by my eyes,

                                                                            Who makes me live among a thousand deaths,

                                                                            As I was hunting a deer yesterday followed my path,

                                                                            As golden Cyprine did Adonis;

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 41

Comme je regardois ces yeux, mais ceste fouldre,

Dont l’esclat amoureux ne part jamais en vain,

Sa blanche charitable et delicate main

Me parfuma le chef et la barbe de pouldre.

 

Pouldre, l’honneur de Cypre, actuelle à resouldre

L’ulcere qui s’encharne au plus creux de mon sein,

Depuis telle faveur j’ay senty mon cœur sain,

Ma playe se reprendre, et mon mal se dissouldre.

 

Pouldre, Atomes sacrez qui sur moy voletoient,

Où toute Cypre, l’Inde et leurs parfums estoient,

Je vous sens dedans l’ame. O Pouldre souhaitee,

 

En parfumant mon chef vous avez combatu

Ma douleur et mon cœur : je faux, c’est la vertu

De ceste belle main qui vous avoit jettee.

 

 

 

                                                                              As I looked upon those eyes, or rather those lightning-bolts

                                                                              Whose explosion of love never flashes out in vain,

                                                                             Her graceful white and delicate hand

                                                                              Perfumed my hair and beard with powder.

 

                                                                             O Powder, the gift of Cyprus, immediately dissolving

                                                                              The ulcer which burrows into the deepest crevice of my breast,

                                                                              Since receiving this favour I have felt my heart whole,

                                                                              My wound recover, my ills dissolve.

 

                                                                              O Powder, holy grains which flutter upon me

                                                                              In which are all of Cyprus, the Indies and their perfumes,

                                                                              I feel you within my soul. O much-deired powder,

 

                                                                              In perfuming my head you have defeated

                                                                              My sadness and my heart; I’m wrong, it was the virtue

                                                                              Of that fair hand which shook you.

  

 

 

 Cyprus here is associated with Venus’s cult. One of Ronsard’s more artificial conceits; but a well-formed poem, and one which remained unchanged from Blanchemain (early) to Marty-Laveaux (late) editions;  though it appeared in the Amours diverses (1578) before being re-located to Helen!

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 12

Deux Venus en Avril (puissante Deité)
Nasquirent, l’une en Cypre, et l’autre en la Saintonge :
La Venus Cyprienne est des Grecs la mensonge,
La chaste Saintongeoise est une verité.

L’Avril se resjouist de telle nouveauté,
Et moy qui jour ny nuict d’autre Dame ne songe,
Qui le fil amoureux de mon destin allonge
Ou l’accourcist, ainsi qu’il plaist à sa beauté,

Je me sens bien-heureux d’estre nay de son âge.
Si tost que je la vy, je fus mis en servage
De ses yeux, que j’estime un sujet plus qu’humain,

Ma Raison sans combatre abandonna la place,
Et mon cœur se vit pris comme un poisson à l’hain :
Si j’ay failly, ma faute est bien digne de grace.

 

 

 

 

                                                                                Two Venuses (that powerful goddess) in April

                                                                                Were born, one in Cyprus, the other in Saintonge;

                                                                                The Cypriot Venus is just a tale of the Greeks,

                                                                                But the chaste lady of Saintonge is real.

 

                                                                                April rejoiced at this novelty

                                                                                And I who dream of no other lady day or night

                                                                                Whom the ties of love and fate drive away

                                                                                Or bring close to her as her beauty pleases,

 

                                                                                I feel myself happy to have been born in her time.

                                                                                As soon as I saw her, I was placed in the service

                                                                                Of her eyes, which I consider super-human;

 

                                                                                My reason gave way without a struggle

                                                                                And my heart recognised it was caught like a fish on a line.

                                                                                If I was in error, my error is surely worthy of forgiveness.

 

 

 

Blanchemain’s text varies in a couple of places: the opening line is one of them, where Blanchemain prints “Deux Venus en Avril de mesme deité…” (‘From the same godhead, two Venuses in April…’). Though Blanchemain opts for the same first line of the sestet (line 9) as Marty-Laveaux, he also offers an alternative in a footnote: “Je suis trois fois un Dieu, d’estre nay de son âge” (‘I am three times a god to have been born in her time.’) Though the ‘three gods’ picks up the ‘two Venuses’, it is a bit awkward & I can see why the other (later?) version is preferred.

 

There is one other minor difference between the two versions: in line 3 Blanchemain prints “le mensonge” while the evrsion above has “la mensonge” – curiously, as ‘mensonge’ is (normally) masculine.

 

Saintonge is a province on the Atlantic coast just north of Gascony (and also bordered by Poitou & Limousin), in which lies the city of Surgères, Hélène’s home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 7

Amour abandonnant les vergers de Cytheres,
D’Amathonte et d’Eryce, en la France passa :
Et me monstrant son arc, comme Dieu, me tança,
Que j’oubliois, ingrat, ses loix et ses mysteres.

 

Il me frappa trois fois de ses ailes legeres :
Un traict le plus aigu dans les yeux m’eslança.
La playe vint au cœur, qui chaude me laissa
Une ardeur de chanter les honneurs de Surgeres.

 

Chante (me dist Amour) sa grace et sa beauté,
Sa bouche ses beaux yeux sa douceur sa bonté :
Je la garde pour toy le sujet de ta plume.

 

Un sujet si divin ma Muse ne poursuit.

Je te feray l’esprit meilleur que de coustume :

«  L’homme ne peut faillir, quand un Dieu le conduit.

 

 

 

                                                                                 The god of Love, abandoning the orchards of Cythera,

                                                                                 Amathus and Eryx, has moved to France

                                                                                 And showing me his bow like a god he scolded me

                                                                                 For ungratefully forgetting his laws and mysteries.

 

                                                                                 He struck me three times with his light wings;

                                                                                 The sharpest of his arrows he shot in my eyes.

                                                                                 The wound reached my heart, and that burning wound gave me

                                                                                 A burning desire to sing of the glory of Surgères.

 

                                                                                 “Sing,” said the god of Love to me “of her grace and beauty,

                                                                                 Her lips, her fair eyes, her sweetness, her goodness;

                                                                                 I am watching over her for you, to be the subject of your verse.”

 

                                                                                 So godlike a subject my Muse was not seeking!

                                                                                 “I shall make your spirit greater than it was;

                                                                                 Man cannot fail, when a god leads him.”

 

 

  

 

Ronsard sets out the inspiration for his new book of poems in a strongly classicising style, pointing to the direct inspiration – indeed, demands – of the god of love as his motivation. He also localises his Helen as the lady from Surgères – and indeed she remains the town’s principal claim to fame.

 

Blanchemain’s version is identical except that he (curiously) prints “Un ardeur” at the beginning of line 8 – I don’t recall seeing it as a masculine noun elsewhere, maybe this is a typo?

 

The opening classical allusions may need some explanation:  though all are sites associated with Venus as goddess of love.  The Palicastro (Old Town) on the island of Cythera has an archaic Greek temple to Venus (Aphrodite) ‘of the Heavens’;  Amathus on Cyprus was the second-largest cult site for Venus in the ancient world (after her birthplace, Paphos); and mount Eryx in Sicily (now Monte San Giuliano), which was in ancient times considered equal to Etna as one of Sicily’s greatest mountains, was topped by another temple of Venus.

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 24

Escumiere Venus, Royne en Cypre puissante,
Mere des doux amours, à qui tousjours se joint
Le plaisir et le jeu, qui tout animal point
A tousjours reparer sa race perissante :

 

Sans toy Nymphe aime-ris la vie est languissante,
Sans toy rien n’est de beau de vaillant ny de coint,
Sans toy la Volupté joyeuse ne vient point,
Et des Graces sans toy la grace est desplaisante.

 

Ores qu’en ce printemps on ne sçauroit rien voir,

Qui fiché dans le cœur ne sente ton pouvoir,

Sans plus une pucelle en sera-t’elle exente ?

 

Si tu ne veux du tout la traiter de rigueur,

Au moins que sa froideur en ce mois d’Avril sente

Quelque peu du brasier qui m’enflame le cœur.

 

 

                                                                                            Venus of the foam, powerful Queen in Cyprus,

                                                                                            Mother of sweet love, with whom always

                                                                                            Pleasure and fun are joined, which every beast relies on

                                                                                            To restore its dying breed forever:

 

                                                                                            Without you, Nymph who loves to smile, life is tedious,

                                                                                            Without you there is nothing fine, brave or pleasing,

                                                                                            Without you happy pleasure never arrives,

                                                                                            And without you the grace of the Graces itself is displeasing.

 

                                                                                            There is nothing in this springtime one would expect to see

                                                                                            Which does not feel, driven into its heart, your power;

                                                                                            Will even a maiden be exempt from it?

 

                                                                                            If you do not want at all to treat it harshly,

                                                                                            At least may its coldness in this month of April feel

                                                                                            Some part of the furnace which burns in my heart.