Tag Archives: Henri II

Amours 1.229

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J‘alloy roulant ces larmes de mes yeux,
Or’ plein de doute ore plein d’esperance,
Lors que Henry loing des bornes de France
Vengeoit l’honneur de ses premiers ayeux :
 
Lors qu’il trenchoit d’un bras victorieux
Au bord du Rhin l’Espagnole vaillance,
Ja se traçant de l’aigu de sa lance
Un beau sentier pour s’en aller aux cieux.
 
Vous sainct troupeau, mon soustien et ma gloire,
Dont le beau vol m’a l’esprit enlevé,
Si autrefois m’avez permis de boire
 
Les eaux qui ont Hesiode abreuvé,
Soit pour jamais ce souspir engravé
Au plus sainct lieu du temple de Memoire.
 
 
 
 
                                                                            I have been continually pouring these tears from my eyes,
                                                                            Now full of doubt, now of hope,
                                                                            While Henri, far from the bounds of France,
                                                                            Has avenged the honour of his first ancestors ;
 
                                                                            While he has broken with his victorious arm
                                                                            Spain’s valour, on the banks of the Rhine,
                                                                            Marking out with the point of his lance
                                                                            A fair path to raise himself to the heavens.
 
                                                                            Oh holy troop, my support and my glory,
                                                                            Whose lovely flight has lifted my spirits,
                                                                            If previously you have allowed me to drink
 
                                                                            The waters which generously you gave Hesiod,
                                                                            May this my plaint be for ever engraved
                                                                            In the holiest place in Memory’s temple. 
 
 
Simplicity, as Ronsard closes his first book of sonnets. And also a glance at the ‘real world’ around him: for this was not a time of peace and love in European politics! The Italian wars were a major feature of Henri II’s reign, all the way through the 1550s, and early victories led ultimately to the embarrassing Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis… The Spanish on the Rhine are, incidentally, the Habsburgs – for that family controlled Austro-Germanic Europe as well as Iberian Europe.
 
So, Ronsard acknowledges that love poetry may not seem the right thing at this time, while gently swinging the balance back towards the pre-eminence of poetry at the end. (Hesiod claimed inspiration from drinking at the fountain of the ‘holy troop’ of Muses on Mt Helicon.)
 
Blanchemain’s version shows considerable variation in the sestet: the opening octet was not changed.
 
 
Vous sainct troupeau qui desus Pinde errez,
Et qui de grâce ouvrez et desserrez
Vos doctes eaux à ceux qui les vont boire
 
Si quelquefois vous m’avez abreuvé,
Soit pour jamais ce souspir engravé
Au plus sainct lieu du temple de Memoire
 
 
                                                                                        Oh holy troop who wander upon Pindus
                                                                                       And who by grace open and release
                                                                                       Your learned waters to those who come to drink them,
 
                                                                                       If sometimes you have given me to drink
                                                                                       May this my plaint be for ever engraved
                                                                                       In the holiest place in Memory’s temple.
 
 
 
  Note how in this earlier version Ronsard does not refer back to Hesiod, but simply offers his own name as proof enough of the Muses’ generosity! There remains one other variant of the later version at the top of the page: in line 12, where yet another great poet enters: “L’eau dont amour a Petrarque abreuvé…” (‘The waters which love generously gave to Petrarch…’)
 
 
 
 
 
 

Élégie à Cassandre (Am. 1.227b)

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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.
 
 
The conclusion of the first book of Amours brings with it some weightier material to give it a firm feeling of ending – rather like Beethoven’s 5th, which iterates and reiterates the thumping C-major chords to emphasise that this really is the end of the piece, Ronsard feels (rightly) that he cannot simply end the long run of sonnets without something more definitely marking a conclusion. Perhaps there is, nonetheless, a sense of loss as Ronsard explains how he must stop writing love poetry to focus, by royal command, on his epic Franciad.
 
The Elegy to Cassandre is an elegy in the classical sense – a description of its form, rather than its mood (as we use it today to mean ‘something noble but sad, in remembrance’). Accordingly, it is full of classical (and neo-classical) references:
 – Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, and Catullus are all Latin love-poets; and we might detect a glancing reference to one of Horace’s odes in the lines about ‘hanging his lyre on a hook’;
 – Petrarch is of course the shining example of (relatively) modern love-poetry, Tuscany his home;
 – Erato is the muse of lyric poetry;
 – in the Iliad Achilles sings of the slave-girl Briseis whom he loves (and who plays a pivotal role in the development of the action); his other (male) love is Patroclus, the son of Menoetius;
 – Charon is of course the boatman who ferries the dead across the river Styx.
 
Muret suggests that, in the last ‘stanza’, Ronsard is using the word “ayeul” (ancestor, grandfather) to refer to Francus, the mythical ancestor of the kings of France – and thus to the Franciad, the commission for which has drawn Ronsard forcibly away from writing love-poems.  (The ‘great king’ at the time of the publication of the Amours in the 1550s was Henri II; his direct ancestors were noble rather than royal, his father having come to the throne by virtue of his marriage to Louis XII’s daughter.)
 
 
The earlier Blanchemain version has only minor differences:
 – in stanza 3, the list of Roman poets is “Tibulle, / Gallus, Ovide, et Properce et Catulle,” – Cornelius Gallus was a lyric poet contemporary with the others;
 – in stanza 5, the line is “En nostre langue, et leur Muse merite” (‘and their Muse deserves’ instead of ‘their love’);
– towards the end, “Mon Roy n’a pas d’une tigre sauvage …” (a savage tiger’s milk rather than a savage beast’s).
 
 
 
 
 
 

Sonnets diverses 1 – to King Henri II

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Au Roy Henry II de ce nom    (To King Henry, second of that name)

 

Je vous donne le Ciel pour vos estrenes, SIRE.
Je ferois à la France, et à vous un grand tort,
A vous, sain et dispos, jeune, gaillard et fort ;
A la France qui seul pour son Roy vous desire ;
 
De vous donner la Mer : que vous vaudroit l’Empire
Des vagues et des vents ? De vous donner le sort
Qui survint à Pluton, que vous vaudroit le port
De l’Enfer odieux, des trois Mondes le pire ?
 
La France vous suffit, vous estes estrené :
Vos fils puisnez sont Ducs, Roy vostre fils aisné :
Et vos filles bien tost vous feront le grand-père
 
D’enfans, qui porteront le Sceptre en divers lieux,
Ainsi doresnavant vous serez dit le Père
Des Rois dont la grandeur vaut bien celle des Dieux
 
 
 
 
                                                                            If I give you the heavens as your new-year’s gift, Sire,
                                                                            I would do France and you a great wrong:
                                                                            You, as you are healthy and fit, young, merry and strong;
                                                                            France, as it wants you alone for its King.
 
                                                                            If I gave you the sea, what use to you would be the rule
                                                                            Of its waves and winds? If I gave you the lot
                                                                            Which fell to Pluto, what use to you would be the harbour
                                                                            Of hateful Hell, the worst of the three worlds?
 
                                                                            France is enough for you; there, that is your gift:
                                                                            Your younger children are Dukes, your eldest a King;
                                                                            And your daughters will soon make you the grandfather
 
                                                                            Of children who will bear the Sceptre in various places;
                                                                            And hereafter you will be called the Father
                                                                            Of Kings, whose greatness is like that of the gods.

 

 

A couple of notes:  Pluto was alloted Hades, while Jupiter got the heavens and Neptune the seas to rule.  Ronsard alludes to all three in the opening stanzas. In line 10, the ‘eldest child’ is Francis, later Francis II of France briefly, who at the time was King Consort of Scotland through his marriage to Mary, Queen of Scots (there is a beautiful double-portrait in Catherine de Medici’s book of hours.) . His death at the end of 1560 left her (briefly Queen Consort of France) a widow still in her teens, and free to pursue the chaotic course of her Scottish career with Darnley and Bothwell.
 
There is one small but significant difference in Blanchemain’s version, at the very beginning:  “De vous donner le ciel …”. He obviously changed it to avoid beginning the 2 quatrains with the same words. But the change was not a great one otherwise: while the original opening (“De vous donner le ciel …”) clearly means ‘If I gave you the heavens…’, I have been a little naughty in translating the revised version (“Je vous donne…”) the same way. In fact, it seems to me that grammatically the new version should be saying something like:  ‘I give you the heavens, Sire. I would be doing you & France wrong to give you the sea.’ But that upsets the balance of the quatrains as well as making lines 5-6 mostly repetition. So I think we have to read Ronsard’s new version as saying ‘I give you the heavens. (But no – ) I would be doing you & France a great wrong…”
 
I have put this in the Sonnets diverses – which is where Blanchemain prints it – though Marty-Laveaux includes it among the various “sonnets retranchées” in his final volume.

 

 

 
 
 
 
 

Ode 3:13 – to Joachim du Bellay

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Nous avons quelque fois grand faute
Soit de biens, soit de faveur haute,
Comme l’affaire nous conduit,
Mais tousjours tandis que nous sommes
Ou morts, ou mis au rang des hommes,
Nous avons besoing de bon bruit.
 
Car la louange emmiellée
Au sucre des Muses mellée
Nous perçe l’aureille en riant
Je di louange qui ne cede
A l’or que Pactole possede
Ny aux perles de l’Orient.
 
La vertu qui n’a cognoissance
Combien la Muse a de puissance
Languit en tenebreux sejour
Et en vain elle est soupirante
Que sa clarté n’est apparante
Pour se monstrer au raiz du jour.
 
France sous Henry fleurist comme
Sous August’ fleurist Romme,
Elle n’est plaine seulement
D’hommes qui animent le cuïvre,
Ny de peintres qui en font vivre
Deux ensamble eternellement ;
 
Mais grosse de sçavoir enfante
Des filz dont el’ est triumphante,
Qui son nom rendent honoré :
L’un chantre d’amour la decore
L’autre Mars, et l’autre encore,
De Phoebus au beau crin doré.
 
Entre lesquelz le ciel ordonne
Que le premier lieu l’on te donne,
Si tu monstres au jour tes vers
Entés dans le tronc d’une Olive,
Qui hausse sa perrucque vive
Jusque à l’esgal des lauriers vers.
We have sometimes a great lack
Either of goods or of high favour,
As matters lead us,
But always while we are
Either dead or placed among the ranks of men,
We have need of good report.
 
For honeyed praise
Mixed with the sugar of the Muses
Pierces our ears amidst laughter;
 I sing a praise which does not give place
To the gold which Pactolus owns
Nor to the pearls of the Orient.
 
Virtue, which takes no note
How powerful is the Muse,
Pines in a shadowy place
And in vain it sighs
That its brightness is not bright enough
To show itself in the light of day.
 
France under Henry flourishes as
Rome flourished under Augustus;
It is not full only
Of men who bring life to brass,
Nor of painters who make the two of them
Together live eternally;
 
But pregnant with knowledge it gives birth
To sons in whom she is triumphant,
Who make her name honoured;
One ornaments her as a singer of love,
Another of war, another still
Of Phoebus with his fair golden hair.
 
Among these, heaven ordains
That we give you the first place,
If you show the daylight your verse
Grafted on the trunk of an Olive,
Which raises its living crown
Up to level with the green laurels.

 

 Today, a lovely & beautifully-built ode to his friend du Bellay, praising his ‘Olive’ (the first book of sonnets in French). Along the way Ronsard manages to get in a brief but telling patriotic gesture of praise to Henri II’s France, another Rome in the golden age of Augustus. As each stanza moves us one step closer to the goal, in a very carefully-calculated but artful way, there is a definite sense of climax.
 
 
 
 
 

Discours – à Pierre L’Escot

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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’).
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Elegy XVI (Ronsard’s autobiography) – epic 200th post :-)

Standard

This is my 200th post (though not yet the 200th poem), so I wanted to do something special. In the end it has snowballed a bit and this post is going to be monstrously long…!!  Hope you enjoy it anyway.

In his Elegies, Ronsard included a poem – addressed to his old friend Remy Belleau – which provides his family background and details of his early life – sometimes uncorroborated details we only learn here but often events we can triangulate against other records. So, here is his Elegy XVI (or in Blanchemain’s numbering Elegy XX), with translations, annotations and added biographical detail…   🙂

It is worth noting before we start, though, that this poem was published in the Bocage in 1554 addressed to his friend Pierre de Pascal [Paschal] “du bas païs de Languedoc” (‘from the low country of Languedoc’), not to Remy Belleau!  In that version Durbam/Durban [Michel-Pierre de Mauléon, protonotary of Durban], not Baïf, is the 3rd in their group in the final line…

1 – the poem

As usual, in Marty-Laveaux’s edition (Ronsard’s latest thoughts) first:

Je veux, mon cher Belleau, que tu n’ignores point
D’où, ne qui est celuy, que les Muses ont joint
D’un nœud si ferme à toy, afin que des années,
A nos neveux futurs, les courses retournées
Ne celent que Belleau et Ronsard n’estoient qu’un,
Et que tous deux avoient un mesme cœur commun.
 
 
 
Or quant à mon ancestre, il a tiré sa race
D’où le glacé Danube est voisin de la Thrace :
Plus bas que la Hongrie, en une froide part,
Est un Seigneur nommé le Marquis de Ronsart,
Riche d’or et de gens, de villes et de terre.
Un de ses fils puisnez ardant de voir la guerre,
Un camp d’autres puisnez assembla hazardeux,
Et quittant son pays, faict Capitaine d’eux
Traversa la Hongroie et la basse Allemaigne.
Traversa la Bourgongne et la grasse Champaigne,
Et hardy vint servir Philippes de Valois,
Qui pour lors avoit guerre encontre les Anglois.
 
Il s’employa si bien au service de France,
Que le Roy luy donna des biens à suffisance
Sur les rives du Loir : puis du tout oubliant
Freres, pere et pays, François se mariant
Engendra les ayeux dont est sorty le pere
Par qui premier je vy ceste belle lumiere.
 
 
Mon pere fut tousjours en son vivant icy
Maistre-d’hostel du Roy, et le suivit aussi
Tant qu’il fut prisonnier pour son pere en Espaigne :
Faut-il pas qu’un servant son Seigneur accompaigne
Fidele à sa fortune, et qu’en adversité
Luy soit autant loyal qu’en la felicité ?

Du costé maternel j’ay tiré mon lignage
De ceux de la Trimouille, et de ceux du Bouchage,
Et de ceux des Roüaux, et de ceux des Chaudriers
Qui furent en leurs temps si vertueux guerriers,
Que leur noble vertu que Mars rend eternelle
Reprint sur les Anglois les murs de la Rochelle,
Où l’un fut si vaillant qu’encores aujourd’huy
Une rue à son los porte le nom de luy.
 
Mais s’il te plaist avoir autant de cognoissance
(Comme de mes ayeux) du jour de ma naissance,
Mon Belleau, sans mentir je diray verité
Et de l’an et du jour de ma nativité.
 
 
L’an que le Roy François fut pris devant Pavie,
Le jour d’un Samedy, Dieu me presta la vie
L’onzieme de Septembre, et presque je me vy
Tout aussi tost que né, de la Parque ravy.
 
 
Je ne fus le premier des enfants de mon pere,
Cinq davant ma naissance en enfanta ma mere :
Deux sont morts au berceau, aux trois vivans en rien
Semblable je ne suis ny de mœurs ny de bien.
 
Si tost que j’eu neuf ans, au college on me meine :
Je mis tant seulement un demy an de peine
D’apprendre les leçons du regent de Vailly,
Puis sans rien profiter du college sailly.
Je vins en Avignon, où la puissante armée
Du Roy François estoit fierement animée
Contre Charles d’Autriche, et là je fus donné
Page au Duc d’Orleans : apres je fus mené
Suivant le Roi d’Escosse en l’Escossoise terre,
Où trente mois je fus, et six en Angleterre.
 
 
A mon retour ce Duc pour page me reprint :
Long temps à l’Escurie en repos ne me tint
Qu’il me renvoyast en Flandres et Zelande,
Et depuis en Escosse, où la tempeste grande
Avecques Lassigni, cuida faire toucher
Poussée aux bords Anglois la nef contre un rocher.
 
Plus de trois jours entiers dura ceste tempeste,
D’eau, de gresle et d’esclairs nous menassant la teste :
A la fin arrivez sans nul danger au port,
La nef en cent morceaux se rompt contre le bord,
Nous laissant sur la rade, et point n’y eut de perte
Sinon elle qui fut des flots salez couverte,
Et le bagage espars que le vent secoüoit,
Et qui servoit flottant aux ondes de jouet.
 
 
D’Escosse retourné, je fus mis hors de page,
Et à peine seize ans avoient borné mon âge,
Que l’an cinq cens quarante avec Baïf je vins
En la haute Allemaigne, où la langue j’apprins.
 
Mais làs ! à mon retour une aspre maladie
Par ne sçay quel destin me vint boucher l’ouie,
Et dure m’accabla d’assommement si lourd,
Qu’encores aujourd’huy j’en reste demy-sourd.
L’an d’apres en Avril, Amour me fist surprendre,
Suivant la Cour à Blois, des beaux yeux de Cassandre
Soit le nom faux ou vray, jamais le temps veinqueur
N’effacera ce nom du marbre de mon cœur.
 
 
 
 
Convoiteux de sçavoir, disciple je vins estre
De d’Aurat à Paris, qui cinq ans fut mon maistre
En Grec et en Latin : chez luy premierement
Nostre ferme amitié print son commencement,
Laquelle dans mon ame à tout jamais, et celle
De nostre amy Baïf sera perpetuelle.
 
I’d like, my dear Belleau, for you not to be in any way uninformed
About where he’s from, and who he is, this man whom the Muses have bound
With so firm a knot to you, such that the years’
Course turning will not hide from our future descendants
That Belleau and Ronsard were but one person,
The two joined by one shared heart.
 
So, as for my first ancestor, he came from roots
Where the freezing Danube runs beside Thrace;
Lower down than Hungary, in a cold region,
There was a Lord named Marquis of Ronsart,
Rich in gold and retainers, in towns and lands.
One of his younger sons, eager to see war,
Assembled a band of other daring younger sons
And, leaving his country, as their Captain
Crossed Hungary and lower Germany,
Crossed Burgundy and rich Champagne,
And boldly came to serve Philip of Valois
Who for some time had been at war with the English.
 
He acted so well in the service of France
That the King gave him plentiful holdings
On the banks of the Loir; then forgetting all about
Brothers, father and homeland, as a Frenchman he married
And bore the ancestors from whom descended the father
Through whom I first saw this fair light.
 
My father was always while living here
In charge of the King’s household, and he followed him
Even when he was a prisoner in Spain for his father;
Shouldn’t a servant accompany his Lord,
Loyal to his fate, and in bad times
Be as loyal to him as in good?
 
On my mother’s side, I take my lineage
From the people of Trimouille, of Bouchage,
Of Rouaux, and of Chaudriers;
They were in their time such brave warriors
That their noble bravery (may Mars make it everlasting)
Re-took from the English the walls of La Rochelle,
Where one of them was so valiant that even today
In his honour a street bears his name.
 
But if it would please you to have as much information
About the date of my birth, as about my ancestors,
Dear Belleau, then without falsifying anything I shall tell you the true
Date, both the year and the day, of my birth.
 
The year in which King Francis was taken before Pavia,
On a Saturday, God granted me life –
The 11th September it was – and I very nearly found myself
As soon as born, torn away by Fate.
 
I was not the first of my father’s children,
My mother had produced five children before my birth:
Two died in the cradle, and to the three living am I
In no way similar in either way of life or wealth.
 
As soon as I was nine, they sent me to college,
But I spent only half a year troubling
To learn the lessons of the master, de Vailly.
Then I left having gained nothing from college.
I came to Avignon, where the powerful army
Of King Francis was proudly in action
Against Charles of Austria; and there I was granted
The role of page to the Duke of Orleans; afterwards I was sent
In the King of Scotland’s entourage to Scotland
Where I spent 30 months, and six in England.
 
On my return the Duke took me back as page,
But I did not stay quietly in the Royal Mews for long
Before he sent me to Flanders and Zeeland
And then to Scotland, where a great storm
Tried to drive the ship, along with Lassigni,
Onto the rocks, after blowing it to the coast of England.
 
More than three whole days the storm lasted,
Menacing our lives with water, hail and lightning;
In the end, as we arrived with no danger at port,
The ship broke into a hundred pieces on the coast
Leaving us in the harbour with no losses
Except the ship herself, sunk in the salty waves,
And our widely-scattered baggage blown about by the wind
Which used it as a plaything as it floated on the waves.
 
Returned from Scotland I lost my job as page
And had barely reached the age of sixteen
When in 1540 I went with Baïf
To Upper Germany, where I learned the language.
 
But alas, on my return a terrible illness
For some end unknown came and stopped up my hearing,
And hit me hard with a blow so heavy
That still today I remain half-deaf as a result.
The year after, in April, love took me unawares
As I followed the Court to Blois, through the fair eyes of Cassandre.
Whether that name is her true one or not, never will conquering time
Wipe that name from the marble [memorial] in my heart.
 
Eager to learn, I came to be the disciple
Of d’Aurat in Paris, and he was for five years my teacher
In Greek and Latin; it was at his home that first
Our firm friendship began
And it shall for all time in my soul, along with that
For our friend Baïf, be everlasting.
 
 

Inevitably, there are varants in Blanchemain’s edition (Ronsard’s first version):  for simplicity here is the whole poem with changes marked in red:

ELEGIE XX
A REMY BELLEAU
Excellent Poëte françois
 
Je veux, mon cher Belleau, que tu n’ignores point
D’où, ne qui est celuy, que les Muses ont joint
D’un nœud si ferme à toy, afin que des années,
A nos neveux futurs, les courses retournées
Ne celent que Belleau et Ronsard n’estoient qu’un,
Et que tous deux avoient un mesme cœur commun.
 
 
 
Or quant à mon ancestre, il a tiré sa race
D’où le glacé Danube est voisin de la Thrace :
Plus bas que la Hongrie, en une froide part,
Est un Seigneur nommé le Marquis de Ronsart,
Riche d’or et de gens, de villes et de terre.
Un de ses fils puisnez ardant de voir la guerre,
Un camp d’autres puisnez assembla hazardeux,
Et quittant son pays, faict Capitaine d’eux
Traversa la Hongrie et la basse Allemaigne.
Traversa la Bourgongne et toute la Champaigne,
Et soudard vint servir Philippes de Valois,
Qui pour lors avoit guerre encontre les Anglois.
 
Il s’employa si bien au service de France,
Que le Roy luy donna des biens à suffisance
Sur les rives du Loir : puis du tout oubliant
Freres, pere et pays, François se mariant
Engendra les ayeux dont est sorty le pere
Par qui premier je vy ceste belle lumiere.
 
 
Mon pere de Henry gouverna la maison,
Fils du grand Roy François, quand il fut en prison
Servant de seur hostage à son pere en Espagne:
Faut-il pas qu’un servant son Seigneur accompaigne
Fidele à sa fortune, et qu’en adversité
Luy soit autant loyal qu’en la felicité ?
 
 
Du costé maternel j’ay tiré mon lignage
De ceux de la Trimouille, et de ceux du Bouchage,
Et de ceux des Roüaux, et de ceux des Chaudriers
Qui furent en leurs temps si vertueux guerriers,
Que leur noble prouesse, au fait des armes belle
Reprint sur les Anglois les murs de la Rochelle,
Où l’un fut si vaillant qu’encores aujourd’huy
Une rue à son los porte le nom de luy.
 
Mais s’il te plaist avoir autant de cognoissance
(Comme de mes ayeux) du jour de ma naissance,
Mon Belleau, sans mentir je diray verité
Et de l’an et du jour de ma nativité.
 
 
L’an que le Roy François fut pris devant Pavie,
Le jour d’un Samedy, Dieu me presta la vie
L’onziesme de Septembre, et presque je me vy
Tout aussi tost que né, de la Parque ravy.
 
 
Je ne fus le premier des enfants de mon père,
Cinq avant moy longtemps en enfanta ma mere :
Deux sont morts au berceau, aux trois vivans en rien
Semblable je ne suis ny de mœurs ny de bien.
 
Si tost que j’eu neuf ans, au college on me meine :
Je mis tant seulement un demy an de peine
D’apprendre les leçons du regent de Vailly,
Puis sans rien profiter du college sailly,
Je vins en Avignon, où la puissante armée
Du Roy François estoit fierement animée
Contre Charles d’Austriche, et là je fus donné
Page au Duc d’Orleans : apres je fus mené
Suivant le Roy d’Escosse en l’Escossoise terre,
Où trente mois je fus, et six en Angleterre.
 
 
A mon retour ce Duc pour Pape me reprint :
Et guere à l’Escurie en repos ne me tint
Qu’il me renvoyast en Flandres et Zelande,
Et encore en Escosse, où la tempeste grande
Avecques Lassigni, cuida faire toucher
Poussée aux bords Anglois ma nef contre un rocher.
 
 
 
Plus de trois jours entiers dura ceste tempeste,
D’eau, de gresle et d’esclairs nous menassant la teste :
A la fin arrivez sans nul danger au port,
La nef en cent morceaux se rompt contre le bord,
Nous laissant sur la rade, et point n’y eut de perte
Sinon elle qui fut des flots salez couverte,
Et le bagage espars que le vent secoüoit,
Et qui servoit flottant aux ondes de jouet.
 
 
D’Escosse retourné, je fus mis hors de page,
Et à peine seize ans avoient borné mon âge,
Que l’an cinq cens quarante avec Baïf je vins
En la haute Allemaigne, où la langue j’apprins.
 
Mais làs ! à mon retour une aspre maladie
Par ne sçay quel destin me vint boucher l’ouie,
Et dure m’accabla d’assommement si lourd,
Qu’encores aujourd’huy j’en reste demy-sourd.
L’an d’apres en Avril, Amour me fist surprendre,
Suivant la Cour à Blois, des beaux yeux de Cassandre
Soit le nom faux ou vray, jamais le temps veinqueur
N’ostera ce beau nom du marbre de mon cœur.
 
 
 
 
 
Incontinent apres disciple je vins estre
A Paris, de Daurat qui cinq ans fut mon maistre
En Grec et en Latin : chez luy premierement
Nostre ferme amitié print son commencement,
Laquelle dans mon ame à tout jamais, et celle
De nostre amy Baïf sera perpetuelle.
 
ELEGY 20
TO REMY BELLEAU
Excellent poet of France
 
I’d like, my dear Belleau, for you not to be in any way uninformed
About where he’s from, and who he is, this man whom the Muses have bound
With so firm a knot to you, such that the years’
Course turning will not hide from our future descendants
That Belleau and Ronsard were but one person,
The two joined by one shared heart.
 
So, as for my first ancestor, he came from roots
Where the freezing Danube runs beside Thrace;
Lower down than Hungary, in a cold region,
There was a Lord named Marquis of Ronsart,
Rich in gold and retainers, in towns and lands.
One of his younger sons, eager to see war,
Assembled a band of other daring younger sons
And, leaving his country, as their Captain
Crossed Hungary and lower Germany,
Crossed Burgundy and all of Champagne,
And came as a mercenary to serve Philip of Valois
Who for some time had been at war with the English.
 
He acted so well in the service of France
That the King gave him plentiful holdings
On the banks of the Loir; then forgetting all about
Brothers, father and homeland, as a Frenchman he married
And bore the ancestors from whom descended the father
Through whom I first saw this fair light.
 
My father managed the household of Henry,
Son of the great King Francis, serving his lord
When he was in prison as a hostage for his father in Spain;
Shouldn’t a servant accompany his Lord,
Loyal to his fate, and in bad times
Be as loyal to him as in good?
 
On my mother’s side, I take my lineage
From the people of Trimouille, of Bouchage,
Of Rouaux, and of Chaudriers;
They were in their time such brave warriors
That their noble prowess, fair in deeds of arms,
Re-took from the English the walls of La Rochelle,
Where one of them was so valiant that even today
In his honour a street bears his name.
 
But if it would please you to have as much information
About the date of my birth, as about my ancestors,
Dear Belleau, then without falsifying anything I shall tell you the true
Date, both the year and the day, of my birth.
 
The year in which King Francis was taken before Pavia,
On a Saturday, God granted me life –
The 11th September it was – and I very nearly found myself
As soon as born, torn away by Fate.
 
I was not the first of my father’s children,
My mother had produced five long before me;
Two died in the cradle, and to the three living am I
In no way similar in either way of life or wealth.
 
As soon as I was nine, they sent me to college,
But I spent only half a year troubling
To learn the lessons of the master, de Vailly.
Then I left having gained nothing from college.
I came to Avignon, where the powerful army
Of King Francis was proudly in action
Against Charles of Austria; and there I was granted
The role of page to the Duke of Orleans; afterwards I was sent
In the King of Scotland’s entourage to Scotland
Where I spent 30 months, and six in England.
 
On my return the Duke took me back [on the Pope’s behalf??]
   [surely a misprint for ‘page’?!]
But barely had I stopped quietly in the Royal Mews
Before he sent me to Flanders and Zeeland
And again to Scotland, where a great storm
Tried to drive my ship, along with Lassigni,
Onto the rocks, after blowing it to the coast of England.
 
More than three whole days the storm lasted,
Menacing our lives with water, hail and lightning;
In the end, as we arrived with no danger at port,
The ship broke into a hundred pieces on the coast
Leaving us in the harbour with no losses
Except the ship herself, sunk in the salty waves,
And our widely-scattered baggage blown about by the wind
Which used it as a plaything as it floated on the waves.
 
Returned from Scotland I lost my job as page
And had barely reached the age of sixteen
When in 1540 I went with Baïf
To Upper Germany, where I learned the language.
 
But alas, on my return a terrible illness
For some end unknown came and stopped up my hearing,
And hit me hard with a blow so heavy
That still today I remain half-deaf as a result.
The year after, in April, love took me unawares
As I followed the Court to Blois, through the fair eyes of Cassandre.
Whether that name is her true one or not, never will conquering time
Remove that fair name from the marble [memorial] in my heart.
 
Immediately afterwards, I came to be the disciple
Of Daurat in Paris, and he was for five years my teacher
In Greek and Latin; it was at his home that first
Our firm friendship began
And it shall for all time in my soul, along with that
For our friend Baïf, be everlasting.

(As noted in the text, I assume the printing of “Pape” instead of “page” is a typo. My approximation of what the Pope might be doing in there is really not a translation of what the French says in any case!)

2 – biographical notes

(i) Blanchemain

Blanchemain litters his text with footnotes: as he puts it “we have retained (‘conservé’) all the notes on this piece…” – though I am not sure which early edition he’s “conserved” them from. So here are the relevant lines from the translation of his edition (above), paired with his notes. My own additions or clarifications are in [brackets]:
So, as for my first ancestor, he came from roots
Where the freezing Danube runs beside Thrace;
Lower down than Hungary, in a cold region,
There was a Lord named Marquis of Ronsart,
Rich in gold and retainers, in towns and lands.
One of his younger sons, eager to see war,
Assembled a band of other daring younger sons
And, leaving his country, as their Captain
Crossed Hungary and lower Germany,
Crossed Burgundy and all of Champagne,
And came as a mercenary to serve Philip of Valois
Who for some time had been at war with the English.
He acted so well in the service of France
That the King gave him plentiful holdings
On the banks of the Loir;
This ancestor of our poet, who came from the lower Danube to offer his services to Philip of Valois, was called Marucini or Mârâcinâ like his father, who added to his name the title of Bano (Ban). Once settled in France he translated his paternal name and title literally, changing ‘bano’ into Marquis and Marucini (=Ronces – bramble; or Roncière – bramble-bush) into Ronsard. Source: Ubicini 1855, Romanian Popular Songs collected by Alecsandri [see further the notes below about Alecsandri’s contribution on this origins story].
My father managed the household of Henry,
Son of the great King Francis, serving his lord
When he was in prison as a hostage for his father in Spain;

Henry = Henry II, then Duke of Orleans. It was a great thing at that time to be in charge of the king’s household; for his responsibilities were given only to noble folk and there were no valets [grooms] who were not gentlemen.

King Francis I, who was captured before Pavia covered in dust and blood, returned to France [in exchange for] leaving his two sons, Francis the dauphin & Henry Duke of Orleans (later king) as hostages in Spain.

On my mother’s side, I take my lineage
From the people of Trimouille, of Bouchage,
Of Rouaux, and of Chaudriers;

Trimouille: the princess, mother of the Prince of Condé, bore this name.  Bouchage: of the house of Joyeuse, father of madame de Guise, mother of mlle. De Montpensier.  Rouaux: from which came that great warrior Joachim Roüaut [Rouault], marshal of France under Charles VII [actually, under Louis XI in 1461 rather than under Charles; Jeanne Chaudrier, Ronsard’s mother, was a descendant].  Chaudriers: an ancient house [going back to the Mayor of la Rochelle c1300;  Ronsard’s mother was also Dame du Bouchaige].

 … and I very nearly found myself
As soon as born, torn away by Fate.

The maid carrying him when they were taking him to baptism dropped him on a meadow, specified as the pré Bouju by Cohen(!).

Two died in the cradle, and to the three living am I
In no way similar in either way of life or wealth.

Descended from the eldest brother and still alive in 1623, his grandsons, were de la Poissonière & the knight Ronsard, and several girls descended from one or the other of the children.

 As soon as I was nine, they sent me to college,

He studied at the college in Navarre under a man called de Vailly, beneath whom also studied the Cardinal of Lorraine [a member of the influential Guise family].

 I came to Avignon, where the powerful army
Of King Francis was proudly in action
Against Charles of Austria; and there I was granted
The role of page to the Duke of Orleans; afterwards I was sent
In the King of Scotland’s entourage to Scotland
Where I spent 30 months, and six in England.

Charles = Charles V, [Holy Roman] Emperor and King of Spain, who attacked Provence and who boasted he’d hold Paris like Madrid.

Orleans = Henry II, being Dauphin on the death of his brother, poisoned at Tournon by the Count of Montecuculo [Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli, secretary to the Dauphin, was executed for his murder though it is likely the Dauphin died of tuberculosis].

Ronsard made the journey to Scotland in 1536, in the entourage of James V who had just married Madeleine, daughter of Francis I, in Paris. That king married secondly [Mary of Guise] the sister of M de Guise, Francis of Lorraine; from whence comes the blood-relationship between the Guise family & the king of England.

Before he sent me to Flanders and Zeeland
And again to Scotland, where a great storm
Tried to drive my ship, along with Lassigni,
Onto the rocks,

Flanders: the Duke of Orleans sent Ronsard, who was his page, to Flanders and Zeeland, with several letters of credit that he sent to his mistress, niece of the Emperor.

Lassigni: a French lord.

When in 1540 I went with Baïf
To Upper Germany,

This was Lazare Baïf, a gentleman of Anjou, related to those [gentlemen] de Laval [an important family, producing several marshals of France in mid-1400s] and de Guimené; the king’s ambassador in Germany as he had been in Venice; a very learned man, witness the books he wrote De re navali [About naval matters] and De re vestiaria [Concerning clothes]. He was father of Jean Antoine Baïf, excellent poet.

(ii) additional notes

“My father was always while living here
In charge of the King’s household “
“My father managed the household of Henry,
Son of the great King Francis, serving his lord
When he was in prison as a hostage for his father in Spain;”

Loys de Ronsard served Louis XII with distinction in the Italian wars between 1495 and 1515 – being present at the taking of Milan in 1499 and Genoa in 1507, the capture of Ludovico Sforza in 1500, and the battles of Agnadello (1509) and Marignano (1515). After the King’s death Loys became maître-d’hotel and then premier maître-d’hotel to King Francis I and remained in France, but following the disastrous battle of Pavia when the King was captured he spent the years 1526-30 in Spain with the hostages who had been swapped for the King’s freedom after Pavia: the dauphin Francis and his younger brother Henry, later Henry II. He brought back a fair bit of Renaissance sculpture from Italy to adorn his home (the Château de la Poissonière, near Vendôme, where his son Pierre was later born), among the earlier Frenchmen to appreciate the new art burgeoning in Italy.

 “The year in which King Francis was taken before Pavia,
On a Saturday, God granted me life –
The 11th September it was”

Ronsard’s birthdate is a cause of endless confusion, argument and uncertainty. It amuses me that the biography on Wikipedia.fr states three different dates in three different places… We know where he was born (the Château de la Poissonière, near Vendôme), but not quite when. Ronsard says here he was born on Saturday 11th September 1524.  However, the 11th September was in fact a Sunday in 1524.  (And, because 1524 was a leap year, it was a Friday the year before; and thus 11th September was never a Saturday in the 1520s!)  Other dates suggested therefore include Saturday 10th; as well as Friday 2nd or even late at night on Saturday 10th as it was just turning into Sunday(!). Perhaps  from a mis-reading of the poem, a tradition grew up that he was born on the date of the Battle of Pavia, 25th February 1525, as well. [Note: this is still ‘in the same year’ as his birth because new year was at the beginning of March at this time.] The 2nd September 1525, and even 6th September 1522 – both of which are Saturdays – have also been suggested. The fact is, we will never know: but a date in early September 1524 seems likeliest.

 “I was not the first of my father’s children,
My mother had produced five long before me;
Two died in the cradle”

We know that Ronsard had a sister and two brothers: Louise (b. 1514), Claude (b. 1515) and Charles (b. 1519) who entered the church. He was the last born – and (as he says here) a ‘long time’, five years, after the other children. However, Chalandon writing in 1875 mentions also a fifth surviving child, another Loys, who became abbé at Tyron; I haven’t been able to track down anything more about this claim, which seems an extraordinary one – would Ronsard have forgotten or attempted to erase the existence of one of his brothers?

 “As soon as I was nine, they sent me to college,
But I spent only half a year troubling
To learn the lessons of the master, de Vailly”

Ronsard went to the Collège de Navarre (part of the university of Paris) in the autumn of 1533, perhaps in preparation for a career in the Catholic church to which, as a younger son, his father may have destined him.  He left quickly, though it is not clear why: perhaps because the teaching was bad, more probably because he didn’t like the idea of a church career and wanted to see some excitement with the Court and the army. Simonin’s 1990 biography also suggests he left college (or perhaps was removed by his family?) because of agitation there by the Protestant reformer Gérard Roussel. This was of course a period of immense tensions in France, as in the rest of Europe, between the established church and protestant reformers. While he was there, though, Ronsard apparently made the acquaintance of Charles de Guise, later Cardinal of Lorraine, and as a Guise a member of a powerful and influential family. Another, Mary of Guise, later married James V of Scotland and precipitated Ronsard’s return to France.

It is interesting to note that one of the great theologians of the time, Mathurin Cordier, had been master at the college a few years earlier, though he had moved on to another college by this time.

 “there I was granted
The role of page to the Duke of Orleans; afterwards I was sent
In the King of Scotland’s entourage to Scotland
Where I spent 30 months, and six in England”

Ronsard was appointed a page at Court in 1536, initially to the Dauphin but when he died soon afterwards he joined (as he says) the suite of Charles, Duke of Orleans.  When the King’s daughter, Madeleine (sister of Charles) was married to King James V of Scotland in January 1537, Ronsard was given to Madeleine by Charles and went to Scotland in her service. She died in June the same year, and was thus known as the ‘Summer Queen’ by the Scots. The boy Ronsard was then attached to the Court of King James. There is little corroborating detail for Ronsard’s claim to have spent 3 years abroad; some doubt the whole story. But it seems probable that he stayed in Scotland until 1538, when the king re-married; and thus it seems likely (to me at least) that his 3 years in England and Scotland includes time later when he travelled in the suite of Lassigny (below). It’s not clear why he spent 6 months in England; but there are later links with the Renaissance court there and it is possible the precocious teenage Ronsard was extending his knowledge of humanist poetry and poetic forms at Henry VIII’s court?

 “But barely had I stopped quietly in the Royal Mews
Before he sent me to Flanders and Zeeland
And again to Scotland where a great storm
Tried to drive my ship, along with Lassigni,
Onto the rocks, after blowing it to the coast of England”

Returning to France, Ronsard joined the other pages in the Écurie or Stable (we might perhaps say the Royal Mews), where all the pages were housed. Scholars tend to say he then joined the suite of Claude d’Humières, Seigneur de Lassigny, who was an equerry in charge of the pages (at an annual remuneration of 400 livres) and with him travelled in Flanders. Cohen states that they left on 24th December 1538. Then in 1539-40 Ronsard was again in England and Scotland. Notably, though, Ronsard only links Lassigny with the shipwreck in England. So perhaps (with Blanchemain, and following Ronsard’s lead) we might conclude that the missions to Flanders and Zeeland were in the service of the Duke of Orleans instead?  (Nothing beyond Ronsard’s own account seems to exist to add detail about the place of the shipwreck, nor his missions in Flanders and Scotland.)

“And had barely reached the age of sixteen
When in 1540 I went with Baïf
To Upper Germany, where I learned the language”

Again a page to the Duke of Orleans in 1539, Ronsard joined the embassy sent to Germany in 1540. This was led by Lazare de Baïf, whose son Jean-Antoine also accompanied him. It is possible that Ronsard was sent by the Duke to keep an eye on things; the embassy was designed to try to detach some of the German princes from Charles V’s side and perhaps bring them into alliance with France, and no doubt the Duke would have liked to have his own sources of information as well as the ‘official’ sources. (The embassy is sometimes referred to as going to the Diet of Speyer; the Diet was though convened by Charles V, so this mission might have been rather delicate – if the Diet had been in session in 1540, which it wasn’t. Cohen however says the embassy stayed in Haguenau, in the Alsace – nearby, and perhaps a more obvious target for French alliances.)

Cohen doubts that Ronsard bothered to learn German; it wasn’t a very useful language at the time!

“on my return a terrible illness
For some end unknown came and stopped up my hearing,
And hit me hard with a blow so heavy
That still today I remain half-deaf as a result”

Struck by illness (Cohen postulates a possible venereal origin!), Ronsard retired to Poissonière for a lengthy recovery. Half-deaf he decided to abandon a politico-military career and turned again to study, perhaps with a view to some sort of church career. He in fact took the tonsure in 1543; this did not make him a priest but it did make him eligible for a number of church posts from which he could have drawn (and later did draw) income. In the event, though, he remained in the service of Charles of Orleans and attached to the Court.

“The year after, in April, love took me unawares
As I followed the Court to Blois, through the fair eyes of Cassandre”

“The year after” – after what?  If it was the year after visiting Germany as Ronsard’s text implies that would be 1541 – which is too early.  So it’s likely to be a year after his illness and convalescence – implying a 2-3 period for these (see above). While Ronsard is certain he met Cassandre at Blois in April 1546, court records apparently show that the court did not go to Blois in 1546! There was however a ball held there in 1545, so it seems likely the two met in that year – and Ronsard’s memory was at fault…

 “Immediately afterwards, I came to be the disciple
Of d’Aurat in Paris”

So when did Ronsard move to Paris? Immediately after what?  (Or perhaps the later change to the text means it wasn’t ‘immediately after’?) Ronsard’s parents both died in 1544, and Lazare de Baïf apparently stepped in to offer the young man the chance to study in Paris, with the younger Baïf under Jean Dorat (D’Aurat). Initially the pair lived at the Baïf residence, as did Dorat who had been engaged to tutor Jean-Antoine; but Lazare died in 1547, and it is likely that at this point Dorat installed himself at the Collège de Coqueret where he became principal around this time. The ‘five years’ spent under Dorat would therefore include those initial years when they studied privately with him.

“… it was at his home that first
Our firm friendship began”

Although after Lazare de Baïf’s death Ronsard and the younger Baïf moved out and apparently joined Dorat, it is not clear that they attended his Collège. That is hardly “chez luy”.  Indeed Ronsard entered into a contract to rent no.2, rue de la Poterie, at Easter 1548 jointly with a minor cleric – interesting evidence also of a continued involvement in ecclesiastical circles.  Baïf and Ronsard were joined under Dorat’s tutelage by Belleau, and then by du Bellay, at this time – the core of the Pléiade. At least one source refers to the Pléiade arising from ‘teaching/learning [enseignement] at Chef Saint-Jean’ – Dorat’s own home. Perhaps then the group met informally at Dorat’s house rather than formally at the Collège. And it was from this context that du Bellay launched the Pléiade’s “manifesto” Défense et illustration de la langue française in 1549 and Ronsard exploded the bombshell of his first major collection, the Odes I-IV, in 1550.

3 – a Romanian (or Bulgarian) ancestor?

“So, as for my first ancestor, he came from roots
Where the freezing Danube runs beside Thrace;
Lower down than Hungary, in a cold region,
There was a Lord named Marquis of Ronsart,”

Did Mârâcinâ Ban exist, and was he Ronsard’s ancestor? The probable answer is no: this was quite possibly a family tradition which Ronsard reports – though it has also been suggested it might be pure imagination on his part!

The romantic tradition of Ronsard’s Romanian origins was not just popular in France. A French teacher and activist working in Romania during the 1830s -40s, Jean Vaillant, adopted Ronsard’s story in his 1844 book La Roumanie, using him as a symbol of the links between France and Romania.  Then the Romanian poet Vasile Alecsandri, writing in Paris after the failure of the 1848 Wallachian revolution, produced Banul Mărăcină in 1855 (though it was not published till 1861). This developed the bare bones of Ronsard’s story with circumstantial detail: Alecsandri made Mărăcină a boyar, lord of Ronsart, governor of Craiova (70 miles west of Bucharest, now Romania’s 6th largest city); and specified a troop of 50 younger sons coming to liberate France. It interests me that Blanchemain used Alecsandri’s “research” (indirectly) as a source for his footnote providing the story.

But romantic legends are not facts.

Further scholarly activity in France established that Ronsard’s grandfather was Olivier Ronsart or Roussart, who was an enfeoffed sergeant (sergent fieffé) in Gastine forest. Though some have said this title is, in modern terms, a gamekeeper it is worth noting that Loys de Ronsard carried the same title; I think it would therefore be better to see him as ‘warden of the forest’ or equivalent, a minor noble rather than a mere gamekeeper. He was a vassal of the Du Bellay family, ancestors of Joachim du Bellay.

Minor gentility does not of course invalidate a romantic Romanian origin, several generations further back. And scholars have identified a tradition which might be relevant: “a certain Baudoin Rossart came to France with John of Bohemia to fight the English at Crécy in 1346. King Philip of Valois apparently gave him as a sign of his recognition a domain in the Vendômois, where the brave gallant established himself.”  (Alliot & Baillou 1926, in a quatercentenary volume on Ronsard)  The same scholars also turned up an 11th century cartulary mentioning a ‘moulin Ronzart’ (Ronzart mill), however; which might suggest that the family had French origins several centuries older than the ‘Romanian link’.

And perhaps Romania is the wrong place to look anyway? At the end of the 19th century a Hungarian suggested that the lower Danubian area in question is Bulgaria – and even pointed to a town called Tarnovo which could (just) be translated as ‘Ronces’ (brambles). Today, there is a Musée Ronsard in Tarnovo…

Where does this leave us? For some scholars Olivier Ronsart’s ‘humble’ title of sergent fieffé means the Romanian/Bulgarian story cannot be true; others find no reason to argue against a possible East European root for the family. For myself, I rather like the Baudoin Rossart story but am not convinced.

In the end, does it matter? Ronsard came from minor noble stock; whether those minor nobles were home-grown, or came from dashing romantic Balkan stock racing across Europe in a crusade to ‘liberate France’, is really only a question of how colourful the story of his ancestry is!

My source for much of the detail in this section is:  N Popa  La Légende des Origines Roumaines de Ronsard in Lumières de la Pléiade (9ème Stage International d’Etudes Huamnistes, Tours 1965. Special thanks to nikolchina for providing a link to http://www.patev.net/origironsard.htm which – for French readers – provides substantially more detail on the controversy over Ronsard’s Bulgarian roots, and takes a slightly less ambivalent attitude to the possibility. It also has some helpful maps!