Amours retranchées 5

De toy, Paschal, il me plaist que j’escrive

Qui de bien loin le peuple abandonnant,

Vas des Romains les tresors moissonnant,

Le long des bors où la Garonne arrive.

 

Haut d’une langue éternellement vive,

Son cher Paschal Tholose aille sonnant,

Paschal, Paschal, Garonne resonnant,

Rien que Paschal ne responde sa rive.

 

Si ton Durban, l’honneur de nostre temps,

Lit quelquefois ces vers par passe-temps,

Di-luy, Paschal (ainsi l’aspre secousse

 

Qui m’a fait cheoir, ne te puisse émouvoir)

Ce pauvre Amant estoit digne d’avoir

Une Maistresse, ou moins belle, ou plus douce.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Of you, Paschal, it pleases me to write

                                                                            You who far off, abandoning the common throng,

                                                                            Go harvesting the treasures of the Romans

                                                                            Along the banks where the Garonne runs.

 

                                                                            Loudly in a language eternally alive

                                                                            Toulouse goes on praising its dear Paschal;

                                                                            The Garonne replying ‘Paschal, Paschal’,

                                                                            Its banks echoing nothing but Paschal.

 

                                                                            If your Durban, the pride of our times,

                                                                            Sometimes reads these verses at leisure,

                                                                            Tell him, Paschal (for the harsh shock

 

                                                                            Which has made me fall cannot thus move you)

                                                                            That this poor lover was worthy of having

                                                                            A mistress either less beautiful or more gentle.

 

 

 

 

 

We’ve met Paschal before and seen how Ronsard became less enchanted with him too. It’s not surprising that this sonnet ended up being withdrawn when that happened, naming him 6 times as it does! (And that’s even more obvious if you typeset the name in capitals each time, as is done by Marty-Laveaux, following some of the early sixteenth-century editions… But the story of how Paschal rose and fell is interesting, not principally to see Ronsard being duped by someone who didn’t have the same talent as he did, but rather for showing how it could have happened. It’s all about what was important at the time, and how values have changed; what is valued now, is not what was valued then.

 

But first the contemporary notes  on the sonnet written by Muret:

 

Line 1: ‘He addresses this sonnet to Pierre Paschal, a gentleman native to Languedoc, a man who, beyond an understanding of the sciences worthy of a fine mind (in which he has few equals) is endowed with such eloquence in Latin that even the Venetian Senate was astonished several times by it.’

 

Line 3: commenting on an earlier version of this line, which begins “Vas du Arpin…” (‘Go harvesting the treasures of the man from Arpinum’ – Cicero’s birthplace), Muret paraphrases “Go carefully gleaning the riches of Ciceronian eloquence”, and adds ‘he says that, because Paschal is one of those best-versed in Cicero who are alive today’

 

Line 4: ‘River which passes through Toulouse, where Paschal has his residence’

 

Line 9: ‘Michel-Pierre de Mauléon, protonotary of Durban, councillor in the Toulouse parliament, a very excellent fellow. Between him and Paschal is so great a friendship that effaces all those which are recommended by ancient authors.’  

 

 

So, now to the story of Paschal’s rise and fall.

 

It’s easy to forget – in an age when the ‘vulgar tongue’ has triumphed – that the Renaissance was not the re-birth of art, or of vernacular poetry, but pre-eminently was the re-birth of classical Latin & Greek literary style. All (or almost all) languages have a day-to-day form, and a higher style used in poetry and literature; and sometimes the gap between them is bigger, sometimes smaller. During the centuries since the fall of Rome, when Latin had remained the language of the church and of communication, the gap had become quite small – as it is today in English. But in the 1300s and 1400s, Italians rediscovered what the Golden Latin (& Silver Latin) poets and writers had done, and realised that the literary style could be much more refined than it was. And it was Latin, in particular, where their efforts were focused. Languages like French and Italian were, literally, secondary – and scholars even doubted whether anything good could be written in them. Ronsard and his peers were taking a risk by ‘renewing’ the French language as a language capable of birthing poetry of a quality comparable with the Greek and Roman ‘classics’.

 

Petrarch in Italy, and now Ronsard in France, were determined to show that the local language could be used as stylishly as Latin; but they lived within a humanist world which still valued Latin higher. When you see one or more dedicatory poems in Latin at the beginning of one of Ronsard’s collections, it’s not an affectation: it is a statement that what follows is literature worthy of the name, and the Latin is there to prove it.

 

It’s also important to realise that good style was valued enormously highly. In Florence, in the 1400s, reputations were made and lost on the turn of a (Latin) phrase. So Paschal’s Italian training in good classical Roman style was a strong weapon in his armoury. It’s worth noting that Paschal had published only the short book in 1548 (beautifully presented, of course – see it online here) containing his prosecution speech at a murder trial in Venice, and some Latin letters describing his Italian impressions, which would be his calling-card on being introduced to the poets; indeed, he would publish little else. That his reputation, on this basis, should equal Ronsard’s, looks crazy to us at this distance, but gives some idea of the importance the Renaissance attached to style rather than substance: what mattered was writing well, not necessarily the originality or substantive content of what you wrote. And Paschal did, indeed, write Latin well.

 

Paschal’s career was traced at length by Pierre de Nolhac a century back – well worth a read. His rise really begins when he came back from Italy in 1553, fluent in the ‘Ciceronian’ style of oratorical Latin which was favoured by the Italian stylists, and was introduced to some of the Pleiade poets: Ronsard, along with Olivier de Magny, was his first and strongest supporter. For what it’s worth, Baif’s first published piece of poetry was a dedicatory sonnet in another little booklet publishing a French translation of that Venetian speech of Paschal’s.

 

The promise of writing eulogies of France’s greatest poets in Latin had a strong appeal to all of them, even though they were wedded to the renewal of the French language, for they ‘knew’ instinctively that histories and eulogies written in Latin were longer-lasting and more significant than the equivalent in French. Publication in Latin would ensure that their reputation was Europe-wide, for a Latin eulogy would reach educated people across the whole of Europe. And Henri II ‘knew’ that it was more important that the history of his reign was undertaken by someone who could write high-quality Latin, than by someone who could handle sources etc with a historian’s insight.

 

Which is why Paschal rose so quickly to the position of Historiographer of France, in 1554. He was – or presented himself as – the pre-eminent Italian-trained Ciceronian writer in France. Not until Muret went to Rome would he have a direct rival. But his fine Latin did not make him a good historian. Although Ronsard and others ridiculed him for not having managed to write any of his history, three volumes of drafts survive in manuscript, and show that he was good at writing speeches etc, but not at military history or the undercurrents of politics. So his history skimped on what we think of as ‘history’, and majored on long speeches and extended praises of the main characters. And when Henri II died in 1559, he fell from favour and was replaced, returned to the south, and died soon afterwards (in 1565, aged only 45) leaving his history unfinished.

 

By 1554, then, Paschal was an important personage, and with the prospect of being immortalised in Latin, it was important that the poets continued to praise him. As late as 1558 Bellay placed him alongside Ronsard, he the master of prose, Ronsard the master of poetry; and in the mid-1550s Ronsard amended one of his 1550 odes so that it now said ‘Paschal will at some point make me immortal by his eloquence … It’s you who will make me eternal!’. To us, both the statement, and the breath-taking sycophantism of it, look unbelievable. And indeed back in 1555 Etienne Pasquier had already warned Ronsard that he was over-estimating and over-praising Paschal. (Further south, in Paschal’s home, people were less convinced by him: as early as 1551 a humanist poet and professor of law, Etienne Forcadel, had written: ‘Hear what his gilded eloquence actually says: that speech, however sweet, is empty’. So Ronsard’s line 5, about Toulouse praising Paschal, is not entirely true!)

 

(Incidentally, Paschal’s dear friend Durban was, as Muret’s note explains, a member of the Mauléon family. Paschal’s printed speech from Venice was as prosecutor in a trial for the murder of a Mauléon; though it’s not clear if the family chose him for his known eloquence in Ciceronian-style prosecutions, or because of some prior connection in Toulouse. Ronsard, in his 1559 invective, later reproached Durban for having ‘imposed’ the mediocre Paschal on him and for over-praising him among the poets. In fact, of course, Ronsard did quite a lot of that himself!)

 

Ronsard was not alone in preparing biographical material in French which Paschal could convert into a more significant publication, in Latin. But Paschal failed to deliver on his ‘hall of fame’ – though there is evidence that, again, he made some progress towards it: interestingly, there is a piece on Mellin de Saint-Gelais which survives – so perhaps his popularity with Ronsard’s set was affected by his taking a different view of just who was important to mention in this ‘hall of fame’!

 

But then the Pleiade poets began to see through the ‘emperor’s clothes’ and realise that his talents were, in fact, limited. It is interesting that this happened in 1559, when the King his supporter died and he did not gain the new King’s support. Could Ronsard and his friends have been playing safe up to that point? But when the gloves came off they really did get vituperative. Adrien Tournebu published a vicious Latin satire, and Baif published a French translation; Ronsard wrote, but only circulated in manuscript, a vicious anti-eulogy of him – in Latin. In Latin, because that was Paschal’s home turf, and because it carried more weight. Incidentally, although Ronsard’s Latin is fine and even stylish, it’s not in the same league as Paschal’s. Each had their specialism, and each was excellent within it. Is it coincidental that Ronsard also prepared a first collected edition of his works very shortly afterwards in 1560, and removed Paschal’s name from all the poems and dedications he had given him? (He wanted to re-dedicate his Hymne de la Mort to Bellay – but Bellay refused ‘someone else’s leftovers’.)

 

It was about the same time that Ronsard wrote, in his Elegie to Jérôme L’Huillier, of the way others, more adept than him but less deserving, won honours from kings while he struggled to make ends meet.

 

As usual though, Ronsard’s anger was short-lived. His poem beginning “Je meurs Paschal” dates from about 1564, when Paschal had retired to the south; and Ronsard also mentioned him favourably in some of his anti-Calvinist poetry. By this time, though, Paschal was dead, so Ronsard’s cooling anger may have had as much to do with that early death and the sadness of potential unfulfilled, as with any genuine reconciliation.

 

A minor detail of Ronsard history to close: in 1554 it was Paschal who, in Toulouse, persuaded the jury of the ‘Jeux Floraux’ to award the prize to Ronsard, and it was Paschal who accepted the award on his behalf. The silver flower never reached Ronsard, but the next year the committee had a silver statuette of Minerva made instead and sent that. Ronsard presented it to the King!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2 — dedicatory sonnet

[A] ROBERT GARNIER, Prince des poëtes tragicques.

 

SONNET

 

Tu gravois dans le ciel les victoires de France,

Et de nos roys sceptrez ta lyre se paissoit,

Quand ce monarque Amour, qu’elle ne cognoissoit,

Eut vouloir de luy faire entonner sa puissance.

 

Bruslant de ce desir, une fleche il eslance

Que ta jeune poitrine imprudente reçoit ;

Puis, comme le travail en flattant te deçoit,

Tu te plais à chanter le cruel qui t’offence.

 

Son nom, qui ne rouloit sur le parler françois,

Maintenant plus enflé par ta gaillarde voix

Remplit l’air estranger de sa fameuse gloire ;

 

Si que luy, amorcé de ce premier honneur,

Frappe tous ceux qu’il voit dedans Pegase boire,

Pour trouver (mais en vain) encor un tel sonneur.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            [To] Robert Garnier, prince of tragic poets:

 

 

                                                                            You wrote in the heavens the victories of France,

                                                                            And your lyre was nourished by our sceptred kings,

                                                                            When that monarch Love, which it did not recognise,

                                                                            Chose to make it thunder of his power.

 

                                                                            Burning with this desire, he shot an arrow

                                                                            Which struck your careless youthful breast ;

                                                                            Then, as the work flattered to deceive you,

                                                                            You pleased yourself in singing of the cruel one who struck you.

 

                                                                            His name, which was not spoken in the French tongue,

                                                                            Now made greater by your cheerful voice

                                                                            Fills foreign air with his renowned glory;

 

                                                                            So much that he, beginning with this first trophy,

                                                                            Shoots all those whom he sees drinking from the Pegasis,

                                                                            To find (but yet in vain) another such singer.

 

 

 

Marty-Laveaux doesn’t print this dedicatory sonnnet to Garnier in his book; so this is Blanchemain’s version. We’ve met Garnier before: Ronsard wrote a series of sonnets to go at the front of Garnier’s own works as they were published; here is one dedicating Amours 2 to him. Garnier responded after Ronsard’s death with a magnificent elegy.

 

Ronsard shows how he takes ideas that many another poet has played with, and re-knits them into a work that is entirely new and fresh – while still managing to flatter and extol the dedicatee! Though Garnier is best known as a tragic poet (as Ronsard’s dedication reminds us), his first published work was the “Plaintes amoureuses” of 1565 – three years before his first tragedy, and written while he was still a 21-year-old law student. (The book has now been lost.) In fact, apart from his “Hymne de la Monarchye” (and his “Elegy to Ronsard”) poetry by Garnier outside his tragedies is still hard to find.

 

(In fact, even though the latter part of the Elegy has been anthologised over the centuries, and can be found on the web, I’ve been unable to find the original Elegy – as published immediately after Ronsard’s death along with a flood of other poetry in honour of the great man – re-printed in full since the sixteenth century. I feel another post coming on…)

 

So, in extraordinarily disingenuous fashion, given that du Bellay’s “L’Olive” appeared in 1549 and he himself had written 220 love sonnets in his 1st book of Amours in the early 1550s, Ronsard credits Garnier with introducing love-poetry into France … !  (Let us ignore, for the moment, the love poems not in sonnet form of all the preceding generations of poets, from Saint-Gelais to Marot to Villon to Christine de Pisan to Machaut …. !)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Le Voyage de Tours: ou, Les amoureux

The next 120 lines of the Voyage …

Six ans sont ja passez, toutefois dans l’oreille J’entens encor’ le son de ta voix nompareille, Qui me gaigna le coeur, et me souvient encor De ta vermeille bouche et de tes cheveux d’or, De ta main, de tes yeux, et si le temps qui passe A depuis desrobé quelque peu de leur grace, Helas je ne suis moins de leurs graces ravy Que je fus sur le Clain, le jour que je te vy Surpasser en beauté toutes les pastourelles, Que les jeunes pasteurs estimoient les plus belles. Car je n’ay pas esgard à cela que tu es, Mais à ce que tu fus, tant les amoureux traits Te graverent en moy, voire de telle sorte Que telle que tu fus telle au sang je te porte.   Dés l’heure que le cœur de l’œil tu me perças, Pour en sçavoir la fin je fis tourner le Sas Par une Janeton, qui au bourg de Crotelles Soit du bien, soit du mal, disoit toutes nouvelles.   Apres qu’elle eut trois fois craché dedans son sein, Trois fois esternué, elle prist du levain, Le retaste en ses doigts, et en fist une image Qui te sembloit de port de taille et de visage : Puis tournoyant trois fois, et trois fois marmonnant, De sa gertiere alla tout mon col entournant, Et me dit, Je ne tiens si fort de ma gertiere Ton col, que ta vie est de malheur heritiere, Captive de Francine, et seulement la mort Desnou’ra le lien qui te serre si fort : Et n’espere jamais de vouloir entreprendre D’eschauffer un glaçon qui te doit mettre en cendre.   Las! je ne la creu pas, et pour vouloir adonc En estre plus certain, je fis couper le jonc La veille de sainct Jean : mais je vy sur la place Le mien, signe d’ Amour, croistre plus d’une brasse, Le tien demeurer court, signe que tu n’avois Soucy de ma langueur, et que tu ne m’aimois, Et que ton amitié qui n’est point asseurée, Ainsi que le jonc court, est courte demeurée.   Je mis pour t’essayer encores davant-hier Dans le creux de ma main des fueilles de coudrier : Mais en tappant dessus, nul son ne me rendirent, Et flaques sans sonner sur la main me fanirent, Vray signe que je suis en ton amour moqué, Puis qu’en frapant dessus elles n’ont point craqué : Pour monstrer par effet que ton cœur ne craquette Ainsi que fait le mien d’une flame segrette.   O ma belle Francine, ô ma fiere, et pourquoy En dansant, de tes mains ne me prens-tu le doy ? Pourquoy lasse du bal entre ces fleurs couchée, N’ay-je sur ton giron ou la teste panchée, Ou mes yeux sur les tiens, ou ma bouche dessus Tes deux tetins de neige et d’yvoire conceus ? Te semblay-je trop vieil ? encor la barbe tendre Ne fait que commencer sur ma jouë à s’estendre, Et ta bouche qui passe en beauté le coural, S’elle veut me baiser, ne se fera point mal : Mais ainsi qu’un Lezard se cache sous l’herbette, Sous ma blonde toison cacheras ta languette : Puis en la retirant, tu tireras à toy Mon cœur, pour te baiser, qui sortira de moy.   Helas prens donc mon cœur, avecques ceste paire De ramiers que je t’offre, ils sont venus de l’aire De ce gentil ramier dont je t’avois parlé : Margot m’en a tenu plus d’une heure acollé, Les pensant emporter pour les mettre en sa cage. Mais ce n’est pas pour elle : et demain davantage Je t’en rapporteray, avecques un pinson Qui desja sçait par coeur une belle chanson, Que je fis l’autre jour dessous une aubespine, Dont le commencement est Thoinet et Francine. Hà, cruelle, demeure, et tes yeux amoureux Ne destourne de moy : hà je suis malheureux ! Car je cognois mon mal, et si cognois encore La puissance d’ Amour, qui le sang me devore. Sa puissance est cruelle, et n’a point d’autre jeu, Sinon de rebrusler nos cœurs à petit feu, Ou de les englacer, comme ayant pris son estre D’une glace ou d’un feu ou d’un rocher champestre. Ha ! que ne suis-je abeille, ou papillon, j’irois Maugré toy te baiser, et puis je m’assirois Sur tes tetins, afin de succer de ma bouche Ceste humeur qui te fait contre moy si farouche.   O belle au doux regard, Francine au beau sourcy, Baise-moy je te prie, et m’embrasses ainsy Qu’un arbre est embrassé d’une vigne bien forte. « Souvent un vain baiser quelque plaisir apporte. » Je meurs ! tu me feras despecer ce bouquet, Que j’ay cueilly pour joy, de Thym et de Muguet, Et de la rouge-fleur qu’on nomme Cassandrette, Et de la blanche-fleur qu’on appelle Olivette, A qui Bellot donna et la vie et le nom, Et de celle qui prend de ton nom son surnom.   Las ! où fuis tu de moy ? hà ma fiere ennemie, Je m’en vois despouiller jaquette et souquenie, Et m’en courray tout nud au haut de ce rocher, Où tu vois ce garçon à la ligne pescher, Afin de me lancer à corps perdu dans Loire, Pour laver mon soucy, ou afin de tant boire D’escumes et de flots, que la flamme d’aimer, Par l’eau contraire au feu se puisse consumer.   Ainsi disoit Thoinet, qui se pasma sur l’herbe, Presque transi de voir sa dame si superbe, Qui rioit de son mal, sans daigner seulement D’un seul petit clin d’œil appaiser son tourment.   J’ouvrois desja la lévre apres Thoinet pour dire De combien Marion m’estoit encores pire, Quand j’avise sa mere en haste gagner l’eau, Et sa fille emmener avec elle au bateau, Qui se joüant sur l’onde attendoit ceste charge, Lié contre le tronc d’un saule au feste large.   Ja les rames tiroient le bateau bien pansu, Et la voile en enflant son grand reply bossu Emportoit le plaisir qui mon cœur tient en peine, Quand je m’assis au bord de la premiere arene : Et voyant le bateau qui s’enfuyoit de moy, Parlant à Marion je chantay ce convoy:

Six years have already passed, and still in my ears I hear the sound of your matchless voice Which won my heart, and reminds me still Of your crimson lips and golden hair, Of your hand, your eyes, and if passing time Has stolen away some part of their grace, Ah, I am no less in love with their gracefulness, Than I was on the Clain, the day I saw you Surpass in beauty all the [ poems/shepherdesses ] Which the young shepherds thought most beautiful. For I pay no regard to what you are, But to what you were, so deeply are your lovely features Graven in me, in such a way That that which you were, is what I carry in my blood.   Since the moment when you pierced my heart with your eye To figure out the end of it, I had the riddle considered By an old dame at the town of Crotelles, who Might tell the whole story, whether good or bad.   After she’d hawked three times in her breast, Three times spat, she took some dough, Shaped it in her fingers and made from it an image Which resembled you in its manner and looks, Turning three times and thrice murmuring Twining all around my neck with her garter She said to me: “I do not hold your neck with my garter As firmly as your life is the inheritor of ill-luck, Francine’s prisoner, and only death Will loose the bond which holds you so tight: Never hope you’ll be able to undertake To make that icicle warm, which should turn you to cinders.”   Alas, I didn’t believe her, and so wishing To be more certain of it, I tried cutting of straws On the eve of St John’s day ; but right then I saw Mine, the sign of Love, grow more than arm’s length While yours stayed short – a sign that you had No care for my pain, and that you didn’t love me, And that your love which is not at all fixed, Like the short straw, has remained short.   Again the day before yesterday, to try you again, I put In the hollow of my hand some hazel-leaves ; But tapping on them, no sound did they give me, And flopping soundlessly on my hand they withered, A true sign that I am mocked in your love Since in tapping on them they crackled not a bit: Showing by this means that your heart does not crackle As mine does with a secret flame.   O my fair Francine, my proud lass, why As you dance, do you not take my hand in yours? Why, tired from the dance, lying in these flowers, Do I not have either my head laid in your lap, Or my eyes on yours, or my lips upon Your two breasts born of snow and ivory? Do I look to you too old? My young beard has still Only begun to spread across my cheek, And your lips which surpass the coral’s beauty Would suffer, if they chose to kiss me, no harm: But just like a lizard hides itself beneath the grass You will hide your tongue beneath my blond hair; Then, withdrawing it, you will take to yourself My heart, which will leave me to kiss you.   Ah, take then my heart along with this pair Of wood-pigeons which I offer you; they came from a nest In that noble tree of which I’ve spoken to you; Margot hung around my neck for them for more than an hour, Thinking to take them to put in her cage. But they aren’t for her: and tomorrow I will bring back more for you, with a finch Which already has learned by heart a fair song Which I made the other day under a pine-tree, Whose beginning is “Tony and Francine”. Oh cruel one, stay, and turn not your loving Eyes from me: ah, I am unhappy For I recognise my illness, even recognise The power of Love who devours my blood. His power is cruel and has no other pleasure Than burning our hearts with his little fire Or icing them over, as if taking his essence From ice or fire or some rock in the countryside. Ah, if I were a bee or a butterfly, I would try Despite you to kiss you, and then would sit On your breasts, to suck out with my mouth That humour which makes you so savage towards me.   O fair lady with the sweet glance, Francine with the fair brow, Kiss me I pray, and embrace me as A tree is embraced by some strong vine. “A meaningless kiss often brings pleasure.” I’m dying! you’ll make me shred this bouquet Which I picked for you, of thyme and lily-of-the-valley And that red flower we call ‘little Cassandre’, And the white flower we call ‘little Olive’ To which Bellot gave both life and name, And that one which takes its name from yours.   Oh, where are you running? My proud enemy, I see myself stripped of jacket and smock, I’ll run naked to the top of that rock Where you see that boy fishing with his line So I can throw my lost body into the Loire To wash away my pain, or to drink so much Of the foam and waves that the flame of loving May, with water opposed to fire, be consumed.   So said Tony, as he fainted on the grass Almost overcome at seeing his lady so proud Laughing at his pain, without deigning even With just one wink of the eye to soften his torment.   I was just opening my lips after Tony to say How much worse Marion was to me, When I spotted her mother hastily getting into the water And taking away her daughter with her in a boat Which, bobbing on the waves, was waiting for this task Tied to the trunk of a wide-crowned willow.   The oars were already drawing the wide-bellied boat, And the sail, filling his great rounded folds Was carrying off the pleasure which keeps my heart in pain, As I sat down on the bank at the edge of the sand: And seeing the boat running away from me I sang this farewell-song to Marion:

 

Half-a-dozen lines in, Ronsard puns gently on “pastourelles”: the most beautiful of ‘shepherdesses’ of course, but in a poem, why should the lady not surpass all poetry in beauty too – or at least all pastoral poetry?

 

Once again Remy Belleau’s commentary offers helpful notes.  Crotelles is  a village near to Poictiers “where they make a thousand noble things, like painted distaffs, boxes & other similar things”.  In the section towards the end of Thoinet’s complaint, various flowers are listed, several (re-)named after various poetic loves: Belleau says “our author, to give his first mistress [Cassandre] immortal praise, named with her name a beautiful red flower which is generally called “bell-flower”. Du Bellay did something similar, naming a white flower which is usually called “Our Lady’s flower” [a white violet] and which blooms in February, an « olivette » from the name of his beloved Olive. He says he has thus named with Francine’s name a beautiful flower which is now called « francinette », previously called by its Greek name anemone or ground-cherry.”

 

Belleau also informs us that the second half of the complaint, beginning “O ma belle Francine, ô ma fiere”, is imitated from Theocritus eclogue 3′ – though we now call them the Idylls of Theocritus.

 

Finally, ‘the eve of St John’s day’ is Midsummer Day, June 24th.

 

There are as usual several changes in this part of the poem, as Ronsard tidied up and improved his poem. I must say, though, that in at least one case I am astonished at the choice of replacement line: where first her eyes take their freezing or burning effect ‘from ice or fire that we will never comprehend’, the revised version has their freezing and burning coming ‘from ice or fire or some rock in the countryside‘?!?!  I’m also amused by how Ronsard’s later more prudish self removes the line about Thoinet having his hand under Francine’s skirt!

 

Six ans sont ja passez, et si dedans l’oreille J’entens encor’ le son de ta voix nompareille, Qui me gaigna le coeur, et me souvient encor De ta vermeille bouche et de tes cheveux d’or, De ta main, de tes yeux, et si le temps qui passe A depuis desrobé quelque peu de leur grace, Si est-ce que de toi je ne suis moins ravy Que je fus sur le Clain, le jour que je te vy Surpasser en beauté toutes les pastourelles, Que les jeunes pasteurs estimoient les plus belles. Car je n’ay pas esgard à cela que tu es, Mais à ce que tu fus, tant les amoureux traits Te graverent en moy, voire de telle sorte Que telle que tu fus telle au cœur je te porte.   Dés l’heure que le cœur des yeux tu me perças, Pour en sçavoir la fin je fis tourner le Sas Par une Janeton, qui au bourg de Crotelles Soit du bien, soit du mal, disoit toutes nouvelles.   Apres qu’elle eut trois fois craché dedans son sein, Trois fois esternué, elle prist du levain, Le retaste en ses doigts, et en fist une image Qui te sembloit de port de taille et de visage : Puis tournoyant trois fois, et trois fois marmonnant, De sa gertiere alla tout mon col entournant, Et me dit, Je ne tiens si fort de ma gertiere Ton col, que ta vie est tenu prisonniere Par les mains de Francine, et seulement la mort Desnou’ra le lien qui te serre si fort : Et n’espere jamais de vouloir entreprendre D’eschauffer un glaçon qui te doit mettre en cendre.   Las! je ne la creu pas, et pour vouloir adonc En estre plus certain, je fis couper le jonc La veille de sainct Jean : mais je vy sur la place Le mien, signe d’ Amour, croistre plus d’une brasse, Le tien demeurer court, signe que tu n’avois Soucy de ma langueur, et que tu ne m’aimois, Et que ton amitié qui n’est point asseurée, Ainsi que le jonc court, est courte demeurée.   Je mis pour t’essayer encores davant-hier Dans le creux de ma main des fueilles de coudrier : Mais en tappant dessus, nul son ne me rendirent, Et, flasques, sans sonner sur la main me fanirent, Vray signe que je suis en ton amour moqué, Puis qu’en frapant dessus elles n’ont point craqué : Pour monstrer par effet que ton cœur ne craquette Ainsi que fait le mien d’une flame segrette.   O ma belle Francine, ô ma fiere, et pourquoy En dansant, de tes mains ne me prens-tu le doy ? Pourquoy lasse du bal entre ces fleurs couchée, N’ay-je sur ton giron ou la teste panchée, Ou la main sous ta cotte, ou la levre dessus Ton tetin, par lequel ton prisonnier je fus ? Te semble-je trop vieil ? encor la barbe tendre Ne fait que commencer sur ma jouë à s’estendre, Et ta bouche qui passe en beauté le coural, S’elle veut me baiser, ne se fera point mal : Mais ainsi qu’un Lezard se cache sous l’herbette, Sous ma blonde toison cacheras ta languette : Puis en la retirant, tu tireras à toy Mon cœur, pour te baiser, qui sortira de moy.   Helas prens donc mon cœur, avecques ceste paire De ramiers que je t’offre, ils sont venus de l’aire De ce gentil ramier dont je t’avois parlé : Margot m’en a tenu plus d’une heure acollé, Les pensant emporter pour les mettre en sa cage. Mais ce n’est pas pour elle : et demain davantage Je t’en rapporteray, avecques un pinson Qui desja sçait par cœur une belle chanson, Que je fis l’autre jour dessous une aubespine, Dont le commencement est Thoinet et Francine. Hà, cruelle, demeure, et tes yeux amoureux Ne destourne de moy : hà je suis malheureux ! Car je cognois mon mal, et si ai cognoissance D’Amour et de sa mere, et quelle est leur puissance. Leur puissance est cruelle, et n’ont point d’autre jeu, Sinon que de brusler nos cœurs à petit feu, Ou de les englacer, comme ayant pris leur estre D’une glace ou d’un feu qu’on ne sauroit cognoistre. Ha ! que ne suis-je abeille, ou papillon, j’irois Maugré toy te baiser, et puis je m’assirois Sur tes tetins, afin de succer de ma bouche Ceste humeur qui te fait contre moy si farouche.   O belle au doux regard, Francine au beau sourcy, Baise-moy je te prie, et m’embrasses ainsy Qu’un arbre est embrassé d’une vigne bien forte. « Souvent un vain baiser quelque plaisir apporte. » Je meurs ! tu me feras despecer ce bouquet, Que j’ay cueilly pour joy, de Thym et de Muguet, Et de la rouge-fleur qu’on nomme Cassandrette, Et de la blanche-fleur qu’on appelle Olivette, A qui Bellot donna et la vie et le nom, Et de celle qui prend de ton nom son surnom.   Las ! où fuis tu de moy ? hà ma fiere ennemie, Je m’en vais despouiller jaquette et souquenie, Et m’en courray tout nud au haut de ce rocher, Où tu vois ce garçon à la ligne pescher, Afin de me lancer à corps perdu dans Loire, Pour laver mon soucy, ou afin de tant boire D’escumes et de flots, que la flamme d’aimer, Par l’eau contraire au feu se puisse consumer.   Ainsi disoit Thoinet, qui se pasma sur l’herbe, Presque transi de voir sa dame si superbe, Qui rioit de son mal, sans daigner seulement D’un seul petit clin d’œil appaiser son tourment.   J’ouvrois desja la lévre apres Thoinet pour dire De combien Marion m’estoit encores pire, Quand j’avise sa mere en haste gagner l’eau, Et sa fille emmener avec elle au bateau, Qui se joüant sur l’onde attendoit ceste charge, Lié contre le tronc d’un saule au feste large.   Ja les rames tiroient le bateau bien pansu, Et la voile en enflant son grand reply bossu Emportoit le plaisir qui mon cœur tient en peine, Quand je m’assis au bord de la premiere arene : Et voyant le bateau qui s’enfuyoit de moy, Parlant à Marion je chantay ce convoy:

Six years have already passed, and still within my ears I hear the sound of your matchless voice Which won my heart, and reminds me still Of your crimson lips and golden hair, Of your hand, your eyes, and if passing time Has stolen away some part of their grace, Still am I no less in love with you, Than I was on the Clain, the day I saw you Surpass in beauty all the [ poems/shepherdesses ] Which the young shepherds thought most beautiful. For I pay no regard to what you are, But to what you were, so deeply are your lovely features Graven in me, in such a way That that which you were, is what I carry in my heart.   Since the moment when you pierced my heart with your eyes To figure out the end of it, I had the riddle considered By an old dame at the town of Crotelles, who Might tell the whole story, whether good or bad.   After she’d hawked three times in her breast, Three times spat, she took some dough, Shaped it in her fingers and made from it an image Which resembled you in its manner and looks, Turning three times and thrice murmuring Twining all around my neck with her garter She said to me: “I do not hold your neck with my garter As firmly as your life is held prisoner By the hands of Francine, and only death Will loose the bond which holds you so tight: Never hope you’ll be able to undertake To make that icicle warm, which should turn you to cinders.   Alas, I didn’t believe her, and so wishing To be more certain of it, I tried cutting of straws On the eve of St John’s day ; but right then I saw Mine, the sign of Love, grow more than arm’s length While yours stayed short – a sign that you had No care for my pain, and that you didn’t love me, And that your love which is not at all fixed, Like the short straw, has remained short.   Again the day before yesterday, to try you again, I put In the hollow of my hand some hazel-leaves ; But tapping on them, no sound did they give me, And flopping soundlessly on my hand they withered, A true sign that I am mocked in your love Since in tapping on them they crackled not a bit: Showing by this means that your heart does not crackle As mine does with a secret flame.   O my fair Francine, my proud lass, why As you dance, do you not take my hand in yours? Why, tired from the dance, lying in these flowers, Do I not have either my head laid in your lap, Or my hand beneath your skirt, or my lips upon Your breast, which made me your prisoner? Do I look to you too old? My young beard has still Only begun to spread across my cheek, And your lips which surpass the coral’s beauty Would suffer, if they chose to kiss me, no harm: But just like a lizard hides itself beneath the grass You will hide your tongue beneath my blond hair; Then, withdrawing it, you will take to yourself My heart, which will leave me to kiss you.   Ah, take then my heart along with this pair Of wood-pigeons which I offer you; they came from a nest In that noble tree of which I’ve spoken to you; Margot hung around my neck for them for more than an hour, Thinking to take them to put in her cage. But they aren’t for her: and tomorrow I will bring back more for you, with a finch Which already has learned by heart a fair song Which I made the other day under a pine-tree, Whose beginning is “Tony and Francine”. Oh cruel one, stay, and turn not your loving Eyes from me: ah, I am unhappy For I recognise my illness, even have understanding Of Love and his mother, and what their power is. Their power is cruel, and they have no other pleasure Except to burn our hearts with their little fire Or to ice them over, as if taking their essence From ice or fire that we will never comprehend. Ah, if I were a bee or a butterfly, I would try Despite you to kiss you, and then would sit On your breasts, to suck out with my mouth That humour which makes you so savage towards me.   O fair lady with the sweet glance, Francine with the fair brow, Kiss me I pray, and embrace me as A tree is embraced by some strong vine. “A meaningless kiss often brings pleasure.” I’m dying! you’ll make me shred this bouquet Which I picked for you, of thyme and lily-of-the-valley And that red flower we call ‘little Cassandre’, And the white flower we call ‘little Olive’ To which Bellot gave both life and name, And that one which takes its name from yours.   Oh, where are you running? My proud enemy, I’m going to strip myself of jacket and smock, I’ll run naked to the top of that rock Where you see that boy fishing with his line So I can throw my lost body into the Loire To wash away my pain, or to drink so much Of the foam and waves that the flame of loving May, with water opposed to fire, be consumed.   So said Tony, as he fainted on the grass Almost overcome at seeing his lady so proud Laughing at his pain, without deigning even With just one wink of the eye to soften his torment.   I was just opening my lips after Tony to say How much worse Marion was to me, When I spotted her mother hastily getting into the water And taking away her daughter with her in a Which, bobbing on the waves, was waiting for this task Tied to the trunk of a wide-crowned willow.   The oars were already drawing the wide-bellied boat, And the sail, filling his great rounded folds Was carrying off the pleasure which keeps my heart in pain, As I sat down on the bank at the edge of the sand: And seeing the boat running away from me I sang this farewell-song to Marion:

 

 

For the enthusiast, here is the Theocritus poem Ronsard adapted: you’ll certainly recognise some considerable overlaps. The translation is by Charles Stuart Calverley (1908).

Κωμάσδω ποτὶ τὰν ᾿Αμαρυλλίδα, ταὶ δέ μοι αἶγες βόσκονται κατ᾽ ὄρος, καὶ ὁ Τίτυρος αὐτὰς ἐλαύνει. Τίτυρ᾽ ἐμὶν τὸ καλὸν πεφιλαμένε, βόσκε τὰς αἶγας, καὶ ποτὶ τὰν κράναν ἄγε Τίτυρε, καὶ τὸν ἐνόρχαν τὸν Λιβυκὸν κνάκωνα φυλάσσεο, μή τι κορύψῃ. ̂̓Ω χαρίεσσ᾽ ᾿Αμαρυλλί, τί μ᾽ οὐκέτι τοῦτο κατ᾽ ἄντρον παρκύπτοισα καλεῖς τὸν ἐρωτύλον; ἦ ῥά με μισεῖς; ἦ ῥά γέ τοι σιμὸς καταφαίνομαι ἐγγύθεν ἦμεν, νύμφα, καὶ προγένειος; ἀπάγξασθαί με ποησεῖς.   ἠνίδε τοι δέκα μᾶλα φέρω: τηνῶθε καθεῖλον, ὧ μ᾽ ἐκέλευ καθελεῖν τύ: καὶ αὔριον ἄλλά τοι οἰσῶ. θᾶσαι μὰν θυμαλγὲς ἐμὸν ἄχος: αἴθε γενοίμαν ἁ βομβεῦσα μέλισσα καὶ ἐς τεὸν ἄντρον ἱκοίμαν τὸν κισσὸν διαδὺς καὶ τὰν πτέριν, ᾇ τὺ πυκάσδῃ. νῦν ἔγνων τὸν ῎Ερωτα: βαρὺς θεός: ἦ ῥα λεαίνας μαζὸν ἐθήλαζε, δρυμῷ τέ νιν ἔτρεφε μάτηρ, ὅς με κατασμύχων καὶ ἐς ὀστίον ἄχρις ἰάπτει. ὦ τὸ καλὸν ποθορεῦσα, τὸ πᾶν λίθος: ὦ κυάνοφρυ νύμφα, πρόσπτυξαί με τὸν αἰπόλον, ὥς τυ φιλάσω. ἔστι καὶ ἐν κενεοῖσι φιλάμασιν ἁδέα τέρψις. τὸν στέφανον τῖλαί με κατ᾽ αὐτίκα λεπτὰ ποησεῖς, τόν τοι ἐγὼν ᾿Αμαρυλλὶ φίλα κισσοῖο φυλάσσω ἀμπλέξας καλύκεσσι καὶ εὐόδμοισι σελίνοις.– ῎Ωμοι ἐγώ, τί πάθω; τί ὁ δύσσοος; οὐχ ὑπακούεις;–   τὰν βαίταν ἀποδὺς ἐς κύματα τηνῶ ἁλεῦμαι, ὧπερ τὼς θύννως σκοπιάζεται ῎Ολπις ὁ γριπεύς: καἴκα δἠποθάνω, τό γε μὰν τεὸν ἁδὺ τέτυκται. ἔγνων πρᾶν, ὅκα μευ μεμναμένω, εἰ φιλέεις με, οὐδὲ τὸ τηλέφιλον ποτεμάξατο, τὸ πλατάγημα, ἀλλ᾽ αὔτως ἁπαλῷ ποτὶ πάχεος ἐξεμαράνθη. εἶπε καὶ ἀγροιῶτις ἀλαθέα κοσκινόμαντις, ἁ πρᾶν ποιολογεῦσα Παραιβάτις, οὕνεκ᾽ ἐγὼ μὲν τὶν ὅλος ἔγκειμαι, τὺ δέ μευ λόγον οὐδένα ποιῇ. ἦ μάν τοι λευκὰν διδυματόκον αἶγα φυλάσσω, τάν με καὶ ἁ Μέρμνωνος ἐριθακὶς ἁ μελανόχρως αἰτεῖ, καὶ δωσῶ οἱ, ἐπεὶ τύ μοι ἐνδιαθρύπτῃ. ῞Αλλεται ὀφθαλμός μευ ὁ δεξιός: ἦ ῥά γ᾽ ἰδησῶ αὐτάν; ᾀσεῦμαι ποτὶ τὰν πίτυν ὧδ᾽ ἀποκλινθείς, καί κέ μ᾽ ἴσως ποτίδοι, ἐπεὶ οὐκ ἀδαμαντίνα ἐστίν.   ῾Ιππομένης ὅκα δὴ τὰν παρθένον ἤθελε γᾶμαι, μᾶλ᾽ ἐν χερσὶν ἑλὼν δρόμον ἄνυεν: ἁ δ᾽ ᾿Αταλάντα ὡς ἴδεν, ὡς ἐμάνη, ὡς ἐς βαθὺν ἅλατ᾽ ἔρωτα. τὰν ἀγέλαν χὡ μάντις ἀπ᾽ ῎Οθρυος ἆγε Μελάμπους ἐς Πύλον: ἁ δὲ Βίαντος ἐν ἀγκοίναισιν ἐκλίνθη, μάτηρ ἁ χαρίεσσα περίφρονος ᾿Αλφεσιβοίης. τὰν δὲ καλὰν Κυθέρειαν ἐν ὤρεσι μᾶλα νομεύων οὐχ οὑτῶς ὥδωνις ἐπὶ πλέον ἄγαγε λύσσας, ὥστ᾽ οὐδὲ φθίμενόν νιν ἄτερ μαζοῖο τίθητι; ζαλωτὸς μὲν ἐμὶν ὁ τὸν ἄτροπον ὕπνον ἰαύων ᾿Ενδυμίων, ζαλῶ δὲ φίλα γύναι ᾿Ιασίωνα, ὃς τοσσῆν᾽ ἐκύρησεν, ὅσ᾽ οὐ πευσεῖσθε βέβαλοι. ᾿Αλγέω τὰν κεφαλάν, τὶν δ᾽ οὐ μέλει. οὐκέτ᾽ ἀείδω, κεισεῦμαι δὲ πεσών, καὶ τοὶ λύκοι ὧδέ μ᾽ ἔδονται. ὡς μέλι τοι γλυκὺ τοῦτο κατὰ βρόχθοιο γένοιτο.

I pipe to Amaryllis; while my goats, Tityrus their guardian, browse along the fell. O Tityrus, as I love thee, feed my goats: And lead them to the spring, and Tityrus, ’ware The lifted crest of yon gray Libyan ram.   Ah winsome Amaryllis! Why no more Greet’st thou thy darling, from the caverned rock Peeping all coyly? Think’st thou scorn of him? Hath a near view revealed him satyr-shaped Of chin and nostril? I shall hang me soon. See here ten apples: from thy favourite tree 1 plucked them: I shall bring ten more anon. Ah witness my heart-anguish! Oh were I A booming bee, to waft me to thy lair, Threading the fern and ivy in whose depths Thou nestlest! I have learned what Love is now: Fell god, he drank the lioness’s milk, In the wild woods his mother cradled him, Whose fire slow-burns me, smiting to the bone. O thou whose glance is beauty and whose heart All marble: O dark-eyebrowed maiden mine! Cling to thy goatherd, let him kiss thy lips, For there is sweetness in an empty kiss. Thou wilt not? Piecemeal I will rend the crown, The ivy-crown which, dear, I guard for thee, Inwov’n with scented parsley and with flowers: Oh I am desperate — what betides me, what? — Still art thou deaf? I’ll doff my coat of skins And leap into yon waves, where on the watch For mackerel Olpis sits: tho’ I ‘scape death, That I have all but died will pleasure thee. That learned I when (I murmuring “loves she me?”) The Love-in-absence, crushed, returned no sound, But shrank and shrivelled on my smooth young wrist. I learned it of the sieve-divining crone Who gleaned behind the reapers yesterday: “Thou’rt wrapt up all,” Agraia said, “in her; She makes of none account her worshipper.”   Lo! a white goat, and twins, I keep for thee: Mermnon’s lass covets them: dark she is of skin: But yet hers be they; thou but foolest me.   She cometh, by the quivering of mine eye. I’ll lean against the pine-tree here and sing. She may look round: she is not adamant.   [he sings] Hippomenes, when he a maid would wed, Took apples in his hand and on he sped. Famed Atalanta’s heart was won by this; She marked, and maddening sank in Love’s abyss.   Prom Othrys did the seer Melampus stray To Pylos with his herd: and lo there lay In a swain’s arms a maid of beauty rare; Alphesiboea, wise of heart, she bare.   Did not Adonis rouse to such excess Of frenzy her whose name is Loveliness, (He a mere lad whose wethers grazed the hill) That, dead, he’s pillowed on her bosom still?   Endymion sleeps the sleep that changeth not: And, maiden mine, I envy him his lot! Envy Iasion’s: his it was to gain Bliss that I dare not breathe in ears profane.   My head aches. What reck’st thou? I sing no more: E’en where I fell I’ll lie, until the wolves Rend me — may that be honey in thy mouth!

 

Odes 4:5

 

Guy, nos meilleurs ans coulent Comme les eaux qui roulent D’un cours sempiternel ; La mort pour sa sequelle Nous ameine avec elle Un exil éternel.   Nulle humaine priere Ne repousse en arriere Le bateau de Charon, Quand l’ame nue arrive Vagabonde en la rive De Styx et d’Acheron.   Toutes choses mondaines Qui vestent nerfs et veines La mort égale prend, Soient pauvres ou soient princes ; Car sur toutes provinces Sa main large s’estend.   La puissance tant forte Du grand Achille est morte, Et Thersite, odieux Aux Grecs, est mort encores ; Et Minos qui est ores Le conseiller des dieux.   Jupiter ne demande Que des bœufs pour offrande ; Mais son frere Pluton Nous demande, nous hommes, Qui la victime sommes De son enfer glouton.   Celuy dont le Pau baigne Le tombeau nous enseigne N’esperer rien de haut, Et celuy que Pegase (Qui fit soucer Parnase) Culbuta d’un grand saut.   Las ! on ne peut cognaistre Le destin qui doit naistre, Et l’homme en vain poursuit Conjecturer la chose Que Dieu sage tient close Sous une obscure nuit.   Je pensois que la trope Que guide Calliope, Troupe mon seul confort, Soustiendroit ma querelle, Et qu’indonté par elle Je donterois la mort.   Mais une fiévre grosse Creuse déjà ma fosse Pour me banir là bas, Et sa flame cruelle Se paist de ma mouelle, Miserable repas.   Que peu s’en faut, ma vie, Que tu ne m’es ravie Close sous le tombeau, Et que mort je ne voye Où Mercure convoye Le debile troupeau !   [Et ce Grec qui les peines Dont les guerres sont pleines Va là bas racontant, Poëte qu’une presse Des épaules espaisse Admire en l’écoutant.]   A bon droit Prométhée Pour sa fraude inventée Endure un tourment tel, Qu’un aigle sur la roche Luy ronge d’un bec croche Son poumon immortel.   Depuis qu’il eut robée La flame prohibée, Pour les dieux despiter, Les bandes incogneues Des fiévres sont venues Parmi nous habiter.   Et la mort despiteuse, Auparavant boiteuse, Fut légère d’aller ; D’ailes mal-ordonnées Aux hommes non données Dedale coupa l’air.   L’exécrable Pandore Fut forgée, et encore Astrée s’en-vola, Et la boîte féconde Peupla le pauvre monde De tant de maux qu’il a.   Ah ! le meschant courage Des hommes de nostre âge N’endure pas ses faits ; Que Jupiter estuye Sa foudre, qui s’ennuye Venger tant de mesfaits !

Guy, our best years rush by Like streams flowing In their everlasting race ; Death, as the sequel, Brings us with it Eternal exile.   No human prayer Can push back Charon’s boat When the naked soul arrives A wanderer at the river Styx and Acheron.   All wordly things Equipped with nerves and veins Death takes equally, Be they poor men or princes ; For over all the empires Its wide hand extends.   The strength, though great, Of mighty Achilles is dead ; And Thersites, hated By the Greeks, is dead too ; And Minos too, who was once Advisor to the gods.   Jupiter requires only Cattle as an offering ; But his brother Pluto Requires us, us men, Who are the victims Of his greedy hell.   He, whose tomb the Pau [Po] Bathes, teaches us To hope for nothing from on high, And he too, whom Pegasus (Who disquieted Parnassus) Knocked down with his great leap.   Alas ! we cannot know The fate which must come to us, And man in vain seeks To conjecture what thing Our wise God keeps hidden Beneath dark night.   I thought that the troop Whom Calliope leads, The troop which is my sole comfort, Would support my complaint And that, untamed by them, I would tame death.   But a great fever Is already digging my grave To banish me down there, And its cruel flame Is feeding on my marrow, A wretched repast.   How little is needed, mt life, For you to be taken from me, Shut in beneath my tomb, And for me to see death Where Mercury brings The feeble troop !   [And that Greek who Continually recounts down there The pains with which war is filled, The poet whom a crowd Of wide shoulders Admires as they listen.]   Rightly does Prometheus For that trick he contrived Endure such torment, As, on his rock, an eagle With its crooked beak gnaws His immortal guts.   Since he stole away The forbidden fire To spite the gods, The unknown bonds Of fevers have come To live among us ;   And resentful death, Before that limping slowly, Has become light on his feet. With clumsy wings Not granted to man Daedalus cut through the air.   Cursed Pandora Was forged and, still A star, flew off While the fruitful box Peopled this poor world With all the evils it had.   Ah, the paltry courage Of the men of our age Cannot endure their deeds ; May Jupiter hold back His thunderbolts, bored with Avenging so many misdeeds !

 

This Ode is dedicated to Guy Pacate, prior of Sougé – a small village in the Loir region. Even today it consists of little more than one street and a church. Pacate had been one of the little group around Daurat in the 1540s, including Ronsard, du Bellay and Denisot, from which sprang the Pléiade. Among them he was apparently known for his learning and his gift for Latin poetry; though beyond their circle he seems obscure.  Perhaps it is relevant that, in the posthumous editions of Ronsard the dedication was to Jean Daurat himself, rather than this little-known satellite of his.

 

It’s certainly relevant that Pacate knew his classics: there is an array of classical references here rarely seen in such number in Ronsard’s poems! But at the same time Ronsard contrives an inward-looking reflection on death rather than a grand, public poem, suitable to the relative obscurity of the dedicatee.

 

Stanza 2 refers to the journey to the afterlife: souls would come down to the river Styx where they awaited Charon’s boat to ferry them over to Hades. (Mercury guided souls to the underworld – stanza 10.)

 

Stanza 4 contrasts Achilles with Thersites, the former the hero of the Iliad, the latter an annoying, cowardly tell-tale also on the Greek side; and adds Minos, once a king on earth, but tricked and killed in his bath by his daughters.

 

In stanza 6, Pau is famous as the birthplace of “noste Enric” (‘our Henry’), Henry IV of France; and earlier was the base of Gaston Fébus, whose Renaissance court paralleled that of Italian city-states. But this Pau is in fact the Po in north Italy, reputed to be where Phaethon fell when struck down by Jupiter’s thunderbolt. The second half of the stanza is about Perseus; other editions have “sourcer” rather than the (unique?) “soucer” which I have treated as if it were “soucier”: “Qui fit sourcer Parnase” would mean something like “who made a spring come from Parnassus”, the spring being the Hippocrene spring which was created when Pegasus stamped his foot, and which became sacred to the Muses.

 

The troop of Calliope in stanza 8 is the Muses – Calliope is the muse of epic poetry. In stanza 11, the poet is no doubt Homer; we have met Prometheus (stanzas 12-13), punished by the gods for bringing fire to man, regularly. In stanza 14 I have to admit the presence of Daedalus confuses me: there is no link to Pandora, nor did his flight lead to his own death. I assume that Ronsard is offering a simile – like Daedalus taking wing, death too became swifter.

 

Finally, in the penultimate stanza, Pandora is ‘forged’ because she the first woman, was made by Vulcan on Jupiter’s instructions. The story of the evils contained in Pandora’s box is well-known.

 

 

 

 

 

Chanson (Am. 1:227d)

D’un gosier masche-laurier      J’oy crier Dans Lycofron ma Cassandre, Qui prophetize aux Troyens      Les moyens Qui les reduiront en cendre.   Mais ces pauvres obstinez      Destinez Pour ne croire à leur Sibylle, Virent, bien que tard, apres      Les feux Grecs Forcener parmy leur ville.   Ayant la mort dans le sein,      De la main Plomboient leur poitrine nue, Et tordant leurs cheveux gris,      De longs cris Pleuroient qu’ils ne l’avoient creuëe.   Mais leurs cris n’eurent pouvoir      D’esmouvoir Les Grecs si chargez de proye, Qu’ils ne laisserent sinon      Que le nom De ce qui fut jadis Troye.   Ainsi pour ne croire pas,      Quand tu m’as Predit ma peine future : Et que je n’aurois en don,      Pour guerdon De t’aimer, que la mort dure :   Un grand brasier sans repos,      Et mes os, Et mes nerfs, et mon cœur brûle : Et pour t’amour j’ay receu      Plus de feu, Que ne fit Troye incredule.

With her laurel-chewing throat      I hear calling In Lycophron my Cassandra, Prophesying to the Trojans      The way They’ll be reduced to ashes.   But those poor obstinate men,      Destined Not to believe their Sybil, Saw afterwards, though too late,      Greek fire Raging through their town.   With death in their hearts,      With their hands They sheathed their naked breasts in lead And tearing their grey hairs      With long cries They wept that they had not believed her.   But their cries had no power      To move The Greeks, so laden with loot That they left nothing      But the name Of what once was Troy.   So, for not believing      When you told me Of my future pain, And that I should gain only,      As trophy For loving you, the gift of harsh death,   A great fire ceaselessly      Burns My bones and nerves and heart, And for your love I’ve had      More fire Than made Troy astonished.

 

I’m uncomfortable with the opening line: Ronsard’s “masche-laurier” is hard to capture I feel  (EDIT – see below & Patrice’s useful clarification in the comments). But it would be a pity not to attempt the poem: it’s a marvellous one, I think, with the balance between 4 stanzas of Troy and two of Cassandre (or 2+2+2 if you prefer) and the clear link between the ‘ancient’ Cassandra and the ‘modern’, and the literal burning and the metaphorical.  Most of this is a straightforward and familiar recital of the Trojan legend, but Muret helps us with the odd reference to Lycophron:  ‘Lycophron, a native of Chalcis, was one of the seven poets who flourished in the time of Ptolemy Philadelphus, king of Egypt, and who were called the Pleiade. This Lycophron wrote a poem called Cassandra, which alone has survived to this day, in which he depicts her predicting the evils which are to come to the town of Troy’.  Thus we see Ronsard managing to refer back to the original Pleaid of Alexandrian poets in the Hellenistic period of Greece, which gave its name to the ‘modern’ Pleiade of Ronsard, Baif and the others.

 

No variants to report from Blanchemain’s earlier version (!)

 

======

 

More on the opening line:  following Patrice’s hint, I have gone and looked up Lycophron. As often with Ronsard, the learned reference isn’t as difficult to locate as you might think: in fact, it’s in the 6th line of the 1500 line poem… The opening, in a Victorian translation I’ve borrowed from www.theoi.com, goes: “All will I tell truly that thou askest from the utter beginning, and if the tale be prolonged, forgive me, master. For not quietly as of old did the maiden loose the varied voice of her oracles, but poured forth a weird confused cry, and uttered wild words from her bay-chewing mouth, imitating the speech of the dark Sphinx.”  The Greek word is “Daphne-phagon” – laurel- or bay-eating – at the beginning of line 6 below

 

Further edit:  Ronsard also used this concept in Odes 1.11, strophe 5, where he writes of Phoebus (Apollo):

 

Lequel m’encharge de chanter

Son Du-Bellay, pour le vanter

Sur tous ses enfans qui ont bien

Masché du Laurier Delphien.

 

                                                           He who charged me to sing

                                                           Of his Du Bellay, to praise him

                                                           Above all those of his children who have

                                                           Well-chewed the Delphic laurel.

 

 

 

 

 

Ode 3:13 – to Joachim du Bellay

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.

 

 

 

 

 

Ode 5:3

The mention of Nicolas Denisot in a recent post sent me off looking for more information. I was fascinated to discover that Ronsard had been one of several Pleiade poets (others were du Bellay and Baif) who contributed poems to a book Denisot saw through the presses in 1551. It was of course early days for the Pleaide poets but it’s still an impressive list! And it secured Denisot’s reputation as a poet.

The book was the Tombeau de Marguerite de Valois Royne de Navarre; you can read it here. But this book was itself a translation (or rather a set of translations) by these French poets of the Hecatodistichon composed by Denisot’s erstwhile pupils in England. For he had spent two or three years there as their tutor before being recalled to France, and their poem in memory of Margaret of Navarre, who died late in 1549 shortly after Denisot’s return to France, no doubt reflected Denisot’s own style and preferences as much as their own. At any rate, Denisot enthusiastically saw the Hecatodistichon through the presses in 1550, and then prevailed on his humanist friends to pull together the Tombeau, whose subtitle is: “Composed first in Latin Distichs by three sisters and Princesses in England; then translated into Greek, Italian and French by several excellent poets of France.” Daurat provided the Greek translation; du Bellay, Denisot and Baif the French; and Jean Pierre de Mesme (who had previously translated Ariosto into French) provided the Italian.

The three princesses were the Seymour sisters – Anne, Margaret and Jane; it’s believed their father hoped to marry Jane to Edward VI, so the family certainly did move in the highest circles. Ronsard’s ode sets their work up as the dawn of culture in England, hitherto ‘barbarous’, and he indicates hopes for an Anglo-French literary rapprochement built on these foundations. Richelet adds notes on the ode (re-published in 1552 in Ronsard’s book 5) to the effect that the ode is “for three learned daughters of England, instructed and taught by Denisot, count of Alsinois”; “because at that time these three ladies had composed a book in Christian distichs, in Latin, terrifically well written, which were soon translated into Greek, Italian and French, and were dedicated to Mme Marguerite, only sister of king Henry II”.

 

Quand les filles d’Achelois, Les trois belles chanteresses, Qui des homme par leurs vois Estoient les enchanteresses, Virent jaunir la toison, Et les soldars de Jason Ramer la barque argienne Sur la mer Sicilienne,   Elles, d’ordre, flanc à flanc, Oisives au front des ondes, D’un peigne d’yvoire blanc Frisotoient leurs tresses blondes, Et mignotant de leurs yeux Les attraits delicieux, Aguignoient la nef passante D’une œillade languissante.   Puis souspirerent un chant De leurs gorges nompareilles, Par douce force alléchant Les plus gaillardes aureilles ; Afin que le son pipeur Fraudast le premier labeur Des chevaliers de la Grece Amorcés de leur caresse.   Ja ces demi-dieux estoient Prests de tomber en servage, Et jà domptés se jettoient Dans la prison du rivage, Sans Orphée, qui, soudain Prenant son luth en la main, Opposé vers elles, joue Loin des autres sur la proue,   Afin que le contre-son De sa repoussante lyre Perdist au vent la chanson Premier qu’entrer au navire, Et qu’il tirast des dangers Ces demi-dieux passagers Qui devoient par la Libye Porter leur mere affoiblie.   Mais si ce harpeur fameux Oyoit le luth des Serenes Qui sonne aux bords escumeux Des Albionnes arenes, Son luth payen il fendroit Et disciple se rendroit Dessous leur chanson chrestienne Dont la voix passe la sienne.   Car luy, enflé de vains mots, Devisoit à l’aventure Ou des membres du Chaos Ou du sein de la Nature ; Mais ces vierges chantent mieux Le vray manouvrier des cieux, Et sa demeure eternelle, Et ceux qui vivent en elle.   Las ! ce qu’on void de mondain Jamais ferme ne se fonde, Ains fuit et refuit soudain Comme le branle d’une onde Qui ne cesse de rouler, De s’avancer et couler, Tant que rampant il arrive D’un grand heurt contre la rive.   La science, auparavant Si long temps orientale, Peu à peu marchant avant, S’apparoist occidentale, Et sans jamais se borner N’a point cessé de tourner, Tant qu’elle soit parvenue A l’autre rive incogneue.   Là de son grave sourcy Vint affoler le courage De ces trois vierges icy, Les trois seules de nostre âge, Et si bien les sceut tenter, Qu’ores on les oit chanter Maint vers jumeau qui surmonte Les nostres, rouges de honte.   Par vous, vierges de renom, Vrais peintres de la mémoire, Des autres vierges le nom Sera clair en vostre gloire. Et puis que le ciel benin Au doux sexe feminin Fait naistre chose si rare D’un lieu jadis tant barbare,   Denisot se vante heuré D’avoir oublié sa terre, Et passager demeuré Trois ans en vostre Angleterre, Et d’avoir cogneu vos yeux, Où les amours gracieux Doucement leurs fleches dardent Contre ceux qui vous regardent.   Voire et d’avoir quelquefois Tant levé sa petitesse, Que sous l’outil de sa vois Il polit vostre jeunesse, Vous ouvrant les beaux secrets Des vieux Latins et les Grecs, Dont l’honneur se renouvelle Par vostre muse nouvelle.   Io, puis que les esprits D’Angleterre et de la France, Bandez d’un ligue, ont pris Le fer contre l’ignorance, Et que nos roys se sont faits D’ennemis amis parfaits, Tuans la guerre cruelle Par une paix mutuelle,   Advienne qu’une de vous, Nouant la mer passagere, Se joigne à quelqu’un de nous Par une nopce estrangere ; Lors vos escrits avancez Se verront recompensez D’une chanson mieux sonnée, Qui cri’ra vostre hymenée.

When the daughters of Achelous, The three fair singers Who were with their voices Enchantresses of men, Saw the fleece growing golden, And Jason’s soldiers Rowing the ship, the Argo, On the Sicilian sea,   Lined up side by side Lazily at the front of the waves, With combs of white ivory They were curling their blonde tresses And, hinting with their eyes At their delicious attractions, Making signs to the passing ship With a languishing look.   Then they sigh a song From their peerless throats, With its sweet force alluring The strongest ears; So that the snaring sound Draws the Greek knights From their primary task, Attracted by their caresses.   Now would those half-gods have been Ready to fall into slavery, Now overcome would they have thrown themselves Into the river’s prison, Unless Orpheus, suddenly Taking up his lute in his hand, Opposing the ladies had played Far from the others on the [ship’s] prow,   So that the counter-tune Of his lyre, repelling it, Lost in the wind the song Which first came aboard the ship, And drew away from danger Those half-god travellers Who needed to take Through Libya their enfeebled mother.   But if that famous harper Heard the lute of the Sirens Which plays on the foamy edges Of Albion’s sands, His pagan lute he would break And would become a disciple Of their Christian song Whose tones surpass his own.   For he, full of empty words, Invented at random Out of the limbs of Chaos Or the heart of Nature; But these maids sing better Of the true maker of the heavens And his eternal home And those who live in it.   Alas, what you see in the world Never rests firm on its foundations, But ebbs and flows suddenly Like the motion of the waves Which never stop rolling, Advancing and falling back, As long as they come crashing With a great shock against the shore.   Knowledge, hitherto For so long a thing of the East, Little by little moving forward Now appeared in the West, And without ever limiting itself Never stopped changing, So that it arrived At the other shore unknown.   There with its haughty gravity It arrived to bewilder the courage Of these three maids here, The only three of our age, And so well did it tempt them That soon you could hear them singing Many a paired verse which outdid Our own, which blush with shame.   Through you, maidens of renown, True painters of memory, The fame of other maidens Will be bright in your glory. And since benign heaven Made to be born so rare a thing In the sweet feminine sex, And in a place hitherto so barbarous,   Denisot boasts himself happy To have forgotten his own land And remained a traveller For three years in your England, And to have known your eyes From which gracious cupids Softly dart their arrows Against those who look on you.   Indeed sometimes [he boasts] of having So raised up his own littleness That with the tool of his own talent He polished up your youthfulness, Opening to you the fair secrets Of the ancient Latins and Greeks, Whose honour is renewed In your new muse.   Ah, since the spirits Of England and of France, Bound in a league, have taken up Arms against ignorance, And since our kings have become, Instead of enemies, perfect friends Killing cruel war Through a mutual peace,   May it come about that one of you, Swimming the passage of the sea, Might join herself with some one of us In a foreign marriage; Then your precocious writings Will see themselves rewarded With a song better played, Which will announce your wedding.

(Let me admit that the second line of that last stanza is a bit of a paraphrase! “Nouer” was an antique word even in Ronsard’s day, equivalent to “nager” (‘to swim’).)

The poem falls into three equal sections: the classical introduction, the generalities about the awakening of culture in England; and then the specific praise of the three ladies. In the classical opening, Achelous was the chief river-deity of classical myth and father of the Sirens.  The legend of Jason and the Argonauts, in search of the Golden Fleece, is well-known, though it’s usually the meeting of Odysseus and the Sirens we read; less well-known is that Orpheus was one of the Argonauts.

 

 

 

Sonnet 88

Pour celebrer des astres dévestus

L’heur qui s’escoule en celle qui me lime,

Et pour loüer son esprit qui n’estime

Que le parfait des plus rares vertus,

 

Et ses regars, ains traits d’amours pointus,

Que son bel œil au fond du cœur m’imprime,

Il me faudroit non l’ardeur de ma ryme,

Mais l’Enthousiasme aiguillon de Pontus.

 

Il me faudroit une lyre Angevine,

Et un Daurat Sereine Limousine,

Et un Belleau, qui vivant fut mon bien,

 

De mesmes mœurs d’estude et de jeunesse,

Qui maintenant des morts accroist la presse,

Ayant fini son soir avant le mien.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            To celebrate the fortune, stripped from the stars,

                                                                            Which flows in her who has snared me,

                                                                            And to praise her spirit, which values

                                                                            Only perfection among the rarest of virtues,

 

                                                                            And her glances, like sharp arrows of love

                                                                            Which her fair eye lodges deep in my heart,

                                                                            I would need not the warmth of my poetry

                                                                            But the Enthusiasm which spurs Pontus.

 

                                                                            I would need the lyre of Anjou,

                                                                            And a Daurat, the Siren of Limoges,

                                                                            And a Belleau, who was everything good to me while he lived,

 

                                                                            With the same habits of study and of youth,

                                                                            Who now augments the crowd of the dead,

                                                                            Having finished the evening [of his life] before mine.

 

 

 After the certainty of his importance in the last poem, next is an equally-typical piece of Ronsard’s modesty, and admiration for his friends and fellow-poets of the Pleiade. Muret (whose notes are reprinted by Blanchemain tells) us that line 8 refers to ‘the poet Pontus de Tyard, Lord of Bissy’; that ‘Daurat is a very excellent poet in Greek and Latin, native of Limoges, the author’s instructor’; and that ‘Belleau was the close friend of our author, and was tutor of the late M. le duc d’Elboeuf, prince in the house of Lorraine’.  What he doesn’t tell us is that the ‘lyre of Anjou’ is Joachim du Bellay, who was born at Liré, in Anjou; but that is partly because in the version Blanchemain prints, du Bellay is more directly identified through reference to “L’Olive”, France’s first book of love sonnets. Jean Daurat (or Dorat, or D’Aurat) was the teacher and inspiration of many of the Pleaide poets; shwoing that this is a late version of the poem, Remy Belleau – close friend of Ronsard – died in 1577, before he was 50.

 

Not surprisingly, the early version in Blanchemain has some quite significant differences, particularly in the final tercet! His list of poets is also different.

 

 

 

Pour celebrer des astres dévestus

L’heur escoulé dans celle qui me lime,

Et pour loüer son esprit qui n’estime

Que le divin des divines vertus,

 

Et ses regars, ains traits d’Amour pointus,

Que son bel œil au fond du cœur m’imprime,

Il me faudroit non l’ardeur de ma ryme,

Mais la fureur du Masconnois Pontus.

 

Il me faudroit cette chanson divine

Qui transforma sur la rive angevine

L’Olive pale en un teint plus naïf.

 

Et me faudroit un Des-Autels encore,

Et celui-là qui sa Meline adore

En vers dorés, le bien disant Baïf.

 

 

                                                                            To celebrate the fortune, stripped from the stars,

                                                                            Flowing in her who has snared me,

                                                                            And to praise her spirit, which values

                                                                            Only the divine among divine virtues,

 

                                                                            And her glances, like sharp arrows of Love

                                                                            Which her fair eye lodges deep in my heart,

                                                                            I would need not the warmth of my poetry

                                                                            But the passion of Pontus, the man from Mâcon.

 

                                                                            I would need that divine poetry

                                                                            Which transformed, on the river at Anjou,

                                                                            The pale Olive to a more artless complexion.

 

                                                                            And I’d need a Des Autels as well,

                                                                            And that one who is loved by his Meline

                                                                            In golden verses, the fine-speaking Baïf.

 

 

This time we have a different list, of poets who were bigger names in the 1550-60s, rather than in the 1580s and later.  As well as Pontus and du Bellay, here we have Guillaume Desautels and Jean Antoine de Baif, who wrote ‘to Meline’. We’ve met the Baif family before – Ronsard went on an embassy to Germany with the father in his youth – but Des Autels is new to us here. He was distantly related to Pontus de Tyard, and like him linked to the prominent Guise family. More a political than poetical figure, Des Autrels was nonetheless cultured and learned (a Latin and Greek connoisseur as well as a writer in French and Latin); he championed Old French style and orthography and may thus have found himself slightly at odds with Ronsard’s exuberant coinage of new words, but the two were nonetheless close friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 72

Amour, que n’ay-je en escrivant, la grace

Divine autant que j’ay la volonté ?

Par mes escrits tu serois surmonté,

Vieil enchanteur des vieux rochers de Thrace.

 

Plus haut encor que Pindare et qu’Horace,

J’appenderois à ta divinité

Un livre faict de telle gravité,

Que du Bellay luy quitteroit la place.

 

Si vive encor Laure par l’Univers

Ne fuit volant dessus les Thusques vers,

Que nostre siecle heureusement estime,

 

Comme ton nom, honneur des vers François,

Victorieux des peuples et des Roys,

S’en-voleroit sus l’aisle de ma ryme.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Love, why have I not, as I write, divine

                                                                            Favour that matches my eagerness?

                                                                            You would be overcome by my writing,

                                                                            Ancient enchanter of the ancient rocks of Thrace!

 

                                                                            Higher still than Pindar and Horace,

                                                                            I would add to your divinity in

                                                                            A book written with such gravity

                                                                            That du Bellay would make way for it!

 

                                                                            Laura does not fly so fleetly through

                                                                            The world within those Tuscan verses

                                                                            Which our age happily esteems,

 

                                                                            As your name, the honour of French verse,

                                                                            Victorious over peoples and kings,

                                                                            Would fly on the the wings of my poetry.

 

 

Ronsard is in emulatory mode here: a poem written to make the point that he sees himself as the successor of the great love poets of the past, and as great as or greater than those of his own day. So he calls up the names of Horace, Rome’s greatest lyric poet; Pindar, the greatest of the Greeks (according to Quintilian at least – “of the nine lyric poets, Pindar is by far the greatest”); and by implication Petrarch, the greatest of the Italians (Laura being his muse, Tuscany being his home) and Orpheus himself, the greatest of all poets (the Thracian ‘enchanter’). With them, who else to be Ronsard’s challenger as the greatest poet of the day than Joachim du Bellay, his close friend, whose “L’Olive”, the first French set of love sonnets, was Ronsard’s immediate inspiration?

 

So beautifully crafted as a poem of emulation with the other great love poets: how strange then that its first version was instead addressed to his Lady! The poem itself is largely unchanged, and still makes the same competitive point; but the address distracts attention from that purpose – though it does place the poem in the context of the book of love poems to Cassandre, in a way that the later variant does not!

 

Blanchemain’s version begins:

 

Que n’ay-je, Dame, en escrivant, …

 

                                                                           Why have I not, my Lady, as I write, …

 

He also has one other minor change in line 7, where the book is “enflé de telle gravité” (‘puffed up with such gravity’). That version, at least to me, sits more happily in the context of ‘higher’ – int he later version raising divinity higher by attaching a great weight seems rather an odd image, here at least we might have an image of a lighter-than-air balloon carrying the weight 🙂

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 57

Divin Bellay, dont les nombreuses lois

Par un ardeur du peuple separée,

Ont revestu l’enfant de Cytherée

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

 

Si le doux feu dont jeune tu ardois,

Enflambe encor ta poitrine sacrée,

Si ton oreille encore se recrée,

D’ouir les plaints des amoureuses vois :

 

Oy ton Ronsard qui sanglote et lamente,

Pâle de peur, pendu sur la tourmente,

Croizant en vain ses mains devers les Cieux,

 

En fraile nef, sans mast, voile ne rame,

Et loin du havre où pour astre Madame

Me conduisoit du Fare de ses yeux.

 

 

 

                                                                           Divine Bellay, whom numerous statutes

                                                                           For your ardour distinct from the norm

                                                                           Have invested as the son of Venus

                                                                           With bows, torches, arrows and quiver;

 

                                                                           If the soft fire with which you burned when young

                                                                           Still flames within your holy breast,

                                                                           If your ear still enjoys

                                                                           Hearing the woes of lovers’ tongues;

 

                                                                           Then hear your Ronsard, who sobs and weeps,

                                                                           Pale with fear, suspended in torment,

                                                                           Holding his hands up in vain to Heaven,

 

                                                                           In a frail ship without mast, sail or oar,

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

                                                                           Leads me with the beacon of her eyes.

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

Divin Ronsard, qui de l’arc à sept cordes

Tiras premier au but de la Memoire

Les traits ailez de la françoise gloire,

Que sur ton luth hautement tu accordes.

 

Fameux harpeur et prince de nos odes,

Laisse ton Loir, hautain de ta victoire,

Et vien sonner au rivage de Loire

De tes chansons les plus nouvelles modes.

 

Enfonce l’arc du vieil Thebain archer,

Où nul que toi ne sceut onc encocher

Des doctes sœurs les sagettes divines.

 

Porte pour moy parmy le ciel des Gaules

Le sainct honneur des nymphes angevines,

Trop pesant faix pour mes foibles espaules.

 

 

 

                                                                           Divine Ronsard, who with the seven-stringed bow

                                                                           First shot at the target of Memory

                                                                           The winged arrows of French glory

                                                                           Which you tune precisely  on your lute;

 

                                                                           Famous harper and prince of our [French] odes,

                                                                           Leave your Loir, proud in your victory,

                                                                           And come to sing on the banks of the Loire

                                                                           The newest strains of your songs.

 

                                                                           Bend the bow of the old Theban archer,

                                                                           On which none but you have ever been able to notch

                                                                           The divine arrows of the learned Sisters.

 

                                                                           Bear for me among the Gallic heavens

                                                                           The holy honour of the nymphs of Anjou,

                                                                           Too weighty a deed for my feeble shoulders.

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Divin Bellay, dont les nombreuses lois

Par une ardeur du peuple separée,

Ont revestu l’enfant de Cytherée

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

 

Si le doux feu dont jeune tu ardois,

Enflambe encor ta poitrine sacrée,

Si ton oreille encore se recrée,

D’ouir les plaints des amoureuses vois :

 

Oy ton Ronsard qui sanglote et lamente,

Pâle, agité des flots de la tourmente,

Croizant en vain ses mains devers les Cieux,

 

En fraile nef, et sans voile et sans rame,

Et loin du bord où pour astre sa dame

Le conduisoit du Fare de ses yeux.

 

 

 

 

                                                                           Divine Bellay, whom numerous statutes

                                                                           For your ardour distinct from the norm

                                                                           Have invested as the son of Venus

                                                                           With bow, torch, arrows and quiver;

 

                                                                           If the soft fire with which you burned when young

                                                                           Still flames within your holy breast,

                                                                           If your ear still enjoys

                                                                           Hearing the woes of lovers’ tongues;

 

                                                                           Then hear your Ronsard, who sobs and weeps,

                                                                           Pale and tossed by waves of torment,

                                                                           Holding his hands up in vain to Heaven,

 

                                                                           In a frail ship, without either sail or oar,

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

                                                                           Leads him with the beacon of her eyes.

 

 

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