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. |
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’).
Oeuvres de Ronsard 