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 It’s not surprising that this sonnet ended up being withdrawn when that happened, naming him 6 times as it does!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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A letter about the Helen sonnets

A little of Ronsard’s prose for a change – and ‘natural’ prose rather than literary prose. I mentioned recently that a lot of the Helen sonnets had already appeared in print before the Helen books – sonnets 18-25 and 41 in book one, and sonnets 21-37 and 61-64 in book two (at least) had been printed in the ‘Amours diverses’. That’s about 30 from 140, just over 20% – though nearly a third of the sonnets in book two …

 

It seems that Hélène complained! (Perhaps that’s not a surprise.) Whether she was irritated simply that they were not new, or that they were not written expressly for her, or that they had been addressed to other ladies, we do not know. But she apparently asked for them to be removed and/or alternative poems added. Ronsard responds dismissively: his point, in a nutshell, is that a book of poems is literature first of all, not a historical record, and art not literal historical truth is what must shape the contents.

 

Monsieur mon antien amy, c’est, disoit Aristophane, un faix insuportable de servir un maistre qui radoute. Parodizant la dessus, c’est un grand malheur de servir une maistresse, qui n’a jugement ny raison en nostre poësie, qui ne sçait pas que les poëtes, principallement en petis et menus fatras come elegies, epigrames et sonnetz, ne gardent ny ordre ny temps, c’est affaire aux historiographes qui escrivent tout de fil en eguille. Je vous suplie, Monsieur, ne vouloir croire en cela Mademoiselle de Surgeres et n’ajouter ny diminuer rien de mes sonnetz, s’il vous plait. Si elle ne les trouve bons, qu’elle les laisse, je n’ay la teste rompue d’autre chose. On dit que le Roy vient à Blois et à Tours, et pour cela je m’enfuy à Paris et y seray en bref, car je hay la court comme la mort. Si elle veult faire quelque dessaing de marbre sur la fonteine, elle le pourra faire, mais ce sont délibérations de femmes, qui ne durent qu’un jour, qui de leurs natures sont si avares qu’elles ne voudroyent pas despendre un escu pour un beau fait. Faittes luy voir cette lettre si vous le trouvez bon. Je vous baize les mains de toute affection. De vostre Croixval, ce cinquiesme de juillet. Vostre humble et antien amy à vous servir.

 

— Sir, my old friend : it is, said Aristophanes, an unbearable thing to serve a master who fears [everything]. Pastiching the above, it is a great misfortune to serve a mistress who has neither judgement nor understanding of our poetry, who does not realise that poets, principally in small, unimportant stuff like elegies, epigrams and sonnets, have no regard for order or time: that’s a matter for writers of history, who write everything as if threaded with a needle. I beg you, Sir, not to believe Madame de Surgeres in that matter, and not to add or take away anything from my sonnets, please. If she does not find them good, then let her ignore them, it’s no skin off my nose. They say the King is coming to Blois and Tours, and for that reason I am running off to Paris and will be there very shortly, for I hate the court like death itself. If she wants to create some design in marble for the fountain, she may do so, but these are the plans of women which last but a day, who by their nature are so miserly that they don’t want to spend a penny on some good deed. Let her see this letter if you think that’s a good idea. I kiss your hands in all affection. From your Croixval, the fifth of July. Your humble old friend, at your service.

 

 

 

 

I do like seeing how Ronsard wrote when he was, simply, writing. This is not for publication or print, just a letter to a friend. The letter was found and first printed in 1923 by Nolhac, as one of “Deux lettres retrouvées de Ronsard”, ‘Two re-discovered letter of Ronsard’.

 

The connections in the thought jump around rather more – though we occasionally see that in the sonnets! – and so it’s not entirely obvious whether the second half of the letter is further insulting Hélène, or whether his barbs are aimed at someone else. (Grammatically, but not logically, the ‘she’ could even be the royal court (“la court”, which he hates in the previous sentence). It is nevertheless surprising to see quite so dismissive and insulting a tone in Ronsard’s references to Hélène, after reading all those love poems: a salutary reminder that the poems are, indeed, literature and we should not read too much biography into them.

 

The reference to hating court life also needs to be taken in context – though knowing the date of the letter would help in that regard. It is certainly late, as most of Ronsard’s Croixval letters seem to date from 1582-1584, in the few years before his death. But Gadoffre dates this one 1577, without explanation. It could be from just before publication of the Helen sonnets in 1578, but perhaps is more likely to be at a time when a new edition is being prepared. Whether in the 1570s or the 1580s, Ronsard was by then old, ill, and out of favour at court, hence perhaps the bitterness. 

 

Knowing who the letter is addressed to might also be relevant. It’s addressed Sainte-Marthe is probably Scévole de Sainte-Marthe, the poet (born 1536) not the historian & philosopher, born 1571 and of course far too young to be a correspondent of Ronsard’s). The letter seems to imply that Sainte-Marthe may have been preparing an edition, hence able to add or delete poems. Unfortunately there is no evidence, as far as I know, that he was: it was Gabriel Buon who published the collected works in 1584 and subsequently (as well as the 1578 set), and they contain no commentary on the Helen sonnets like that of Muret on Cassandre which might evidence the input of Sainte-Marthe. So, in the end, this doesn’t help to date the letter to the first or a subsequent edition.

 

(Incidentally, why ‘your Croixval’? Croixval is near Ronsard’s favourite Gastine forest, and the Loir valley. His links with the priory at Croix-Val or Croixval date to 1566 when he acquired it, after his brother inherited the family home at La Poissonnière. He spent much of the years 1578-1583 in retirement there. The building still stands: images are here. All this links Croixval to Ronsard; but not to Sainte-Marthe. I have not seen the original letter, but I would postulate that this is a mis-reading of a ‘v’ for an ‘n’, and that Ronsard wrote “nostre Croixval”, ‘my Croixval’.)

 

Finally, just to note that reference to his sonnets etc as ‘small, unimportant stuff’. Self-deprecation is something Ronsard does well; and he uses it here (of course) as part of his weaponry in the attack on Hélène. He doesn’t really think they’re unimportant; but she appears to, even while being upset that some of them are recycled…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:60

A Phebus, Patoillet, tu es du tout semblable

De face et de cheveux et d’art et de sçavoir :

A tous deux dans le cœur Amour a fait avoir

Pour une belle Dame une playe incurable.

 

Ny herbe ny onguent contre Amour n’est valable :

« Car rien ne peut forcer de Venus le pouvoir :

Seulement tu peux bien par tes vers recevoir

A ta playe amoureuse un secours allegeable.

 

En chantant, Patoillet, on charme le soucy :

Le Cyclope Ætnean se guarissoit ainsi,

Chantant sur son flageol sa belle Galatée.

 

La peine descouverte adoucit nostre ardeur :

« Ainsi moindre devient la plaisante langueur

« Qui vient de trop aimer quand elle est bien chantée.

 

 

 

                                                                            Patoillet, you are just like Phoebus

                                                                            In face and hair and art and knowledge ;

                                                                            Love has given both of you in your heart

                                                                            An incurable wound for a fair lady.

 

                                                                            No herb or unguent has any worth against Love,

                                                                            “For nothing can force Venus’s power”.

                                                                            Only you can obtain through your verse

                                                                            Some aid to lighten your lover’s wound.

 

                                                                            By singing, Patoillet, we can charm care :

                                                                            The cyclops of Etna cured himself that way

                                                                            Singing with his flute about his fair Galatea.

 

                                                                            Pain revealed reduces our passion:

                                                                            “And so becomes less the pleasant pining

                                                                            Which comes from loving too much, when it is well-sung.”

 

 

 

I’m not sure I can think of another poem we’ve looked at in which he compares one of his (male) friends to a god! His mistresses, yes, it’s virtually a given in love poetry; but to compare his friend to Apollo, not just for his situation but for his appearance and his art? Impressive. So who was this Patoillet? Belleau’s commentary tells us:  “Jean Patoillet, one of our best and loyalest friends, (was) a man of great judgement, great reading, and best-versed in the knowledge of languages, history and other good learning.” To this we can add that he was a native of Dijon, eldest of seven children, never married (though left one illegitimate child, later legitimated by royal order), and died in 1585. He was a protonotary apostolic (a very high papal official), and as a local notable was also the dedicatee of a contemporary history of Dijon. His epitaph recorded that he could recite from memory large chunks of the major classical authors; and he was supposed to have worked on a History though nothing seems to have survived. In other words, a good solid Renaissance man!

 

Ironically, however, the poem was originally addressed to someone else: Jacques Grévin, playwright and poet, and a member of Ronsard’s circle until they fell out. Like so many others, he wrote a book of sonnets (L’Olimpe, addressed to his fiancée, though they subsequently parted), and it was as an introductory sonnet for that volume that the first version (below) of this poem appeared. Grévin is better remembered for his plays, however; his first major success, on Julius Caesar, was imitated from a Latin play by Muret, showing once again how much this circle of poets borrowed and adapted from each other.

 

Younger, a poet, and more showy than Patoillet, the opening comparison with Apollo fits Grévin rather better! So why did his name disappear? Although Belleau simply says that Ronsard was ‘angry’ with him, in fact they fell out over religion, taking different sides in the struggles between the Catholics and Huguenots (Protestants) in the Wars of Religion.

 

The classical reference, to Polyphemus the cyclops and Galatea, is perhaps best known to us these days through Handel’s “Acis and Galatea”. Polyphemus is Aetnean (‘of Etna’) because he and the Cyclopes lived on Sicily, at least according to Callimachus and Virgil, in whose poetry they appear as Vulcan’s assistants under Mt Etna (from where the myth has them throwing the giant rocks lifted by volcanic eruptions). As an aside, it’s worth noting that Theocritus, Callimachus and Propertius all tell the story of Polyphemus and Galatea; it’s not until Ovid that Acis is introduced, and through his version and Handel’s adaptation that has therefore become the variant most well-known today.

 

The early version of the sonnet has a few minor text variants beyond the change of name:

 

 

A Phebus, mon Grevin, tu es du tout semblable

De face et de cheveux et d’art et de sçavoir :

A tous deux dans le cœur Amour a fait avoir

Pour une belle Dame une playe incurable.

 

Ny herbe ny onguent ne t’est point secourable,

Car rien ne peut forcer de Venus le pouvoir :

Seulement tu peux bien par tes vers recevoir

A ta playe amoureuse un secours profitable.

 

En chantant, mon Grevin, on charme le soucy :

Le Cyclope Ætnean se guarissoit ainsi,

Chantant sur son flageol sa belle Galatée.

 

La peine descouverte allege nostre cœur:

Ainsi moindre devient la plaisante langueur

Qui vient de trop aimer quand elle est bien chantée.

 

 

 

                                                                            My Grévin, you are just like Phoebus

                                                                            In face and hair and art and knowledge ;

                                                                            Love has given both of you in your heart

                                                                            An incurable wound for a fair lady.

 

                                                                            No herb or unguent is any help to you,

                                                                            “For nothing can force Venus’s power”.

                                                                            Only you can obtain through your verse

                                                                            Some gainful aid for your lover’s wound.

 

                                                                            By singing, my Grévin, we can charm care :

                                                                            The cyclops of Etna cured himself that way

                                                                            Singing with his flute about his fair Galatea.

 

                                                                            Pain revealed lightens our heart:

                                                                            “And so becomes less the pleasant pining

                                                                            Which comes from loving too much, when it is well-sung.”

 

 

 

 

 

Élégie à Muret (Amours 1:227c)

 

Non Muret, non ce n’est pas du jourd’huy, Que l’Archerot qui cause nostre ennuy, Cause l’erreur qui retrompe les hommes : Non Muret, non, les premiers nous ne sommes, A qui son arc d’un petit trait veinqueur, Si grande playe a caché sous le cœur : Tous animaux, ou soient ceux des campagnes, Soient ceux des bois, ou soient ceux des montagnes Sentent sa force, et son feu doux-amer Brusle sous l’eau les Monstres de la mer.   Hé ! qu’est-il rien que ce garçon ne brûle ? Ce porte-ciel, ce tu’-geant Hercule Le sentit bien : je dy ce fort Thebain Qui le sangler estrangla de sa main, Qui tua Nesse, et qui de sa massue Morts abbatit les enfans de la Nue : Qui de son arc toute Lerne estonna, Qui des enfers le chien emprisonna, Qui sur le bord de l’eau Thermodontee Prit le baudrier de la vierge dontee : Qui tua l’Ourque, et qui par plusieurs fois Se remocqua des feintes d’Achelois : Qui fit mourir la pucelle de Phorce, Qui le Lion desmachoira par force, Qui dans ses bras Anthee acravanta, Qui deux piliers pour ses marques planta.   Bref, cest Herôs correcteur de la terre, Ce cœur sans peur, ce foudre de la guerre, Sentit ce Dieu, et l’amoureuse ardeur Le matta plus que son Roy commandeur. Non pas espris comme on nous voit esprendre, Toy de ta Janne ou moy de ma Cassandre : Mais de tel Tan amour l’aiguillonnoit, Que tout son cœur sans raison bouiilonnoit Au souffre ardent qui luy cuisoit les veines : Du feu d’amour elles fumoient si pleines, Si pleins ses os, ses muscles et ses ners, Que dans Hercul’ qui purgea l’univers, Ne resta rien sinon une amour fole, Que Iuy versoient les deux beaux yeux d’Iole.   Tousjours d’Iole il aimoit les beaux yeux, Fust que le char qui donne jour aux cieux Sortist de l’eau, ou fust que devalee Tournast sa rouë en la plaine salee, De tous humains accoisant les travaux, Mais non d’Hercul’ les miserables maux.   Tant seulement il n’avoit de sa dame Les yeux fichez au plus profond de l’ame : Mais son parler, sa grace, et sa douceur Tousjours colez s’attachoient à son cœur.   D’autre que d’elle en son ame ne pense : Tousjours absente il la voit en presence. Et de fortune, Alcid’, si tu la vois, Dans ton gosier begue reste ta voix, Glacé de peur voyant la face aimee : Ore une fiévre amoureuse allumee Ronge ton ame, et ores un glaçon Te fait trembler d’amoureuse frisson.   Bas à tes pieds ta meurdriere massue Gist sans honneur, et bas la peau velue, Qui sur ton doz roide se herissoit, Quand ta grand’main les Monstres punissoit.   Plus ton sourcil contre eux ne se renfrongne : O vertu vaine, ô bastarde vergongne, O vilain blasme, Hercule estant donté (Apres avoir le monde surmonté) Non d’Eurysthée, ou de Junon cruelle, Mais de la main d’une simple pucelle.   Voyez pour Dieu, quelle force a l’Amour, Quand une fois elle a gaigné la tour De la raison, ne nous laissant partie Qui ne soit toute en fureur convertie.   Ce n’est pas tout : seulement pour aimer, Il n’oublia la façon de s’armer, Ou d’empoigner sa masse hazardeuse, Ou d’achever quelque emprinse douteuse : Mais lent et vain anonchalant son cœur, Qui des Tyrans l’avoit rendu veinqueur, Terreur du monde (ô plus lasche diffame) Il s’habilla des habits d’une femme, Et d’un Heros devenu damoiseau, Guidoit l’esguille, et tournoit le fuseau, Et vers le soir, comme une chambriere, Rendoit sa tasche à sa douce joliere, Qui le tenoit en ses fers plus serré Qu’un prisonnier dans les ceps enferré.   Grande Junon, tu es assez vengee De voir sa vie en paresse changee, De voir ainsi devenu filandier Ce grand Alcid’ des Monstres le meurdrier, Sans adjouster à ton ire indomtee Les mandemens de son frere Eurysthee.   Que veux-tu plus ? Iôle le contraint D’estre une femme : il la doute, il la craint. Il craint ses mains plus qu’un valet esclave Ne craint les coups de quelque maistre brave.   Et ce-pendant qu’il ne fait que penser A s’atiffer, à s’oindre, à s’agencer, A dorloter sa barbe bien rongnee, A mignoter sa teste bien pignée, Impuniment les Monstres ont loisir D’assujettir la terre à leur plaisir, Sans plus cuider qu’Hercule soit au monde : Aussi n’est-il : car la poison profonde, Qui dans son cœur s’alloit trop derivant, L’avoit tué dedans un corps vivant.   Nous doncq, Muret, à qui la mesme rage Peu cautement affole le courage, S’il est possible, evitons le lien Que nous ourdist l’enfant Cytherien : Et rabaisson la chair qui nous domine, Dessous le joug de la raison divine, Raison qui deust au vray bien nous guider, Et de nos sens maistresse presider.   Mais si l’amour de son traict indomtable A desja fait nostre playe incurable, Tant que le mal peu subject au conseil De la raison desdaigne l’appareil, Vaincuz par luy, faisons place à l’envie, Et sur Alcid’ desguisons nostre vie : En ce-pendant que les rides ne font Cresper encor l’aire de nostre front, Et que la neige en vieillesse venue Encor ne fait nostre teste chenue, Qu’un jour ne coule entre nous pour neant Sans suivre Amour : il n’est pas mal-seant, Mais grand honneur au simple populaire, Des grands seigneurs imiter l’exemplaire.

No Muret, no : it is not in our days That the little Archer who causes our pain Has created the delusion which still fools men ; No Muret, no : we are not the first In whom his bow with its little conquering dart Has concealed so great a wound beneath the heart : All creatures, whether those of the fields Or of the woods, or of the mountains Feel his power, and his bitter-sweet fire Burns the monsters of the sea below the waters.   Ah, is there none this child does not burn ? Hercules, sky-bearer and giant-slayer, Felt him strongly ; I tell you, that strong Theban Who strangled the boar with his hands, Who killed Nessus, and with his club Struck dead the children of the Cloud; Who with his bow amazed all of Lerna, Who imprisoned the dog from Hell, Who on the banks of the Thermodontian waters Seized the belt of the defeated maiden ; Who killed the sea-monster, and time and again Mockingly overcame the tricks of Achelous; Who put to death the maid of Phorcis, Who ripped the jaws off the Lion with his strength, Who crushed in his arms Antaeus, Who planted two pillars as his mark.   In short, this hero, amender of the world, This heart without fear, this thunderclap of war, Felt that God, and love’s passion Flattened him more than his King and commander. Not in love as people see we are, You with your Janne and me with my Cassandre, Rather Love pricked him with such a blow That his whole heart boiled, his reason failed, At the ardent suffering which burned his veins ; They steamed, so full of the fire of love, His bones, muscles and nerves so full too That in Hercules, who had cleaned up the world, Remained nothing but the crazed love Which the two fair eyes of Iole had poured into him.   Still he loved the fair eyes of Iole Whether the chariot which gives day to the heavens Left the seas, or whether rushing down It turned its wheels back to the salty plain Giving rest to the labours of all men But not to the wretched troubles of Hercules.   He did not have only his lady’s Gaze fixed in the deeps of his soul; But her speech, her grace, her sweetness Were always attached, stuck to his heart.   He thought of no other than her in his soul; Always when she was away he saw her present. And if you saw her by chance, Alcides, Your voice remained dumb in your throat Frozen with fear at seeing the beloved face; Now love’s fever, aflame, Clawed your soul; and now an icicle Made you tremble with a shiver of love.   Down at your feet your murderous club Stands without honour, and the shaggy skin Which bristled stiffly on your back When your mighty hand punished monsters.   Your brow no longer frowns upon them: O empty virtue, o impure shame, O sordid blame, Hercules being overcome (After overcoming the world) Not by Eurystheus or cruel Juno, But by the hand of just a maiden.   See, by heaven, what power Love has When she has once won the tower Of reason, not leaving us any part Which cannot be changed entirely into madness.   That’s not all: simply from love He did not forget how to arm himself Or to grip his dangerous club in his fist Or to achieve some uncertain task; But slowly and vainly making listless his heart Which had made him conqueror of tyrants, The terror of the world – so unmanly a tale – Dressed himself in the garments of a woman And, from hero become a maid, Plied his needle and twisted the spindle And towards evening, like a chambermaid, Handed his work to his pretty jailer Who held him tighter in her chains Than a prisoner chained in the stocks.   Great Juno, you have taken revenge enough In seeing his life changed to laziness, In seeing thus the great Alcides Become weaver, after being murderer of monsters, Without adding on to your unconquered anger The commands of his brother Eurystheus.   What more do you want? Iole forced him To be a woman; he doubted her, he feared her, He feared her hands more than a slave-servant Fears the blows of his good master.   And while he thought of nothing but Dressing up, anointing and arranging himself, Of pampering his nicely-trimmed beard, Of cosseting his well-oiled hair, Those monsters had leisure with immunity To subject the earth at their pleasure, No longer believing that Hercules was alive; Nor was he, for the deep poison Which coursed in his heart, overflowing, Had killed him though his body still lived.   So we, Muret, in whom the same madness So casually makes courage foolish, If possible let us avoid the bonds Which the child of Cythera prepares for us: And let’s put the flesh which masters us Beneath the yoke of divine reason, Reason which ought indeed to guide us And rule as mistress of our senses.   But love with his unbeatable wound Has already made our wound incurable, Since the illness, hardly subject to Reason’s Counsel, scorns the medicine: So, conquered by him, let’s make room for desire And on Alcides’ example model our lives: As long as wrinkles no longer make Our brows look furrowed, And the snow which comes with age Has not yet made hoary our hair, Let’s aim that no day should pass for nothing Without following love: it is not improper But a great honour for us simple folk To copy the example of great lords.

 

Ronsard rounds off his first book with poems to several friends; the last of them I’ve got to, but not the last int he book, is this one to Marc-Antoine Muret. It is of course Muret who provided the first commentary on book 1 – he is quite restrained in his comments about this poem’s dedication! Despite its learned references (below), this is a true ode to love in keeping with the book it rounds off. And as usual Ronsard is careful to be consistent : here it is Cupid, the ‘child of the Cytherian’ Venus, who is the villain both at the beginning and at the end of the poem.

 

Ronsard appeals to classical exempla, as so often: in this case, he focuses on Hercules, the hero whose great deeds are complemented, if not overshadowed, by the furious moments of madness associated with his various loves. First come the heroic deeds:

 – Hercules is introduced as “sky-bearer and giant-slayer” (both references return later): among his 12 Labours, he had to retrieve the Golden aApples of the Hesperides, which he did by holding up the sky while Atlas fetched the apples (see also the ‘variant’ Blanchemain prints further down the poem in the earlier version below); he also killed the three-headed Geryon in order to bring back his cattle, but I think ‘giant-slayer’ refers instead to his defeat of Antaeus, who was undefeatable so long as he was in contact with the earth and whom Hercules therefore had to lift off the ground to beat;

 – then we have a number of the other Labours:  the Erymanthean boar, the ‘children of the cloud’ which I assume to mean the Stymphalian birds, the Lernaean Hydra, the three-headed hell-dog Cerberus, the magical belt of Hippolyta (queen of the Amazons, who were supposed to live by the river Terme – the ‘Thermodontian waters’), the ‘maid of Phorcis’ (apparently a reference to the dragon guarding the golden apples of the Hesperides, Ladon, which was Phorcys’s child but which is usually male), and the Nemean lion;

 – intermixed with this list are Nessus the centaur, killed by Hercules after he stole away Deianeira, Hercules’ wife; the sea-monster which was threatening Hesione, the daughter of Laomedon of Troy (Laomedon had persuaded Apollo and Poseidon to build Troy’s walls, but then refused their reward; Poseidon sent the sea-monster to take revenge; Hercules later abducted Hesione when Laomedon also refused him his promised reward!); Achelous, whom Hercules defeated to claim Deianeira as his wife; and last Antaeus again, and the Pillars of Hercules.

 

Then we move on to the lover’s madness: Ronsard focuses on his love for Iole (though, as we have seen, he had other wives too!), which was more powerful than the commands of King Eurystheus (the ‘king and commander’ for whom Hercules undertook the Labours, and also his cousin – not ‘brother’ as Ronsard terms him). Juno appears, because in her jealousy she had driven Hercules (or ‘Alcides’) mad so that he killed his earlier wife Megara: it was to atone for this that he was tasked with the Twelve Labours. Ronsard however melds the story of Iole with that of Omphale, for it was her he served (as yet another penance) dressed as woman, while she wore his lion-skin.

 

 

========

 

As usual the earlier version, printed by Blanchemain, has plenty of minor variants; but there’s nothing substantial. So, as usual, the best way to show them is to re-print the full text, rather than scatter dozens of line references here. They are mostly ‘corrections’ for euphony – e.g. in the 3rd stanza where “ce heros” is replaced by “cest heros” (which runs on more easily) – though “Sentit ce dieu” (in place of “Sentit Amour” – removing the ‘t’ sound) raplces it with a rather insistent ‘s’ repetition instead.

 

Non Muret, non ce n’est pas du jourd’huy, Que l’Archerot qui cause nostre ennuy, Cause l’erreur qui retrompe les hommes : Non Muret, non, les premiers nous ne sommes, A qui son arc d’un petit trait veinqueur, Si grande playe a caché sous le cœur : Tous animaux, ou soient ceux des campagnes, Soient ceux des bois, ou soient ceux des montagnes Sentent sa force, et son feu doux-amer Brusle sous l’eau les Monstres de la mer.   Hé ! qu’est-il rien que ce garçon ne brûle ? Ce porte-ciel, ce tu’-geant Hercule Le sentit bien : je dy ce fort Thebain Qui le sanglier estrangla de sa main, Qui tua Nesse, et qui de sa massue Morts abbatit les enfans de la Nue : Qui de son arc toute Lerne estonna, Qui des enfers le chien emprisonna, Qui sur le bord de l’eau Thermodontee Print le baudrier de la vierge dontee : Qui tua l’Ourque, et qui par plusieurs fois Se remocqua des feintes d’Achelois : Qui fit mourir la pucelle de Phorce, Qui le Lion desmachoira par force, Qui dans ses bras Anthee acravanta, Et qui deux mons pour ses marques planta.   Bref, ce héros correcteur de la terre, Ce cœur sans peur, ce foudre de la guerre, Sentit Amour, et l’amoureuse ardeur Le matta plus que son Roy commandeur. Non pas espris comme on nous voit esprendre, Toy de ta Janne ou moy de ma Cassandre : Mais de tel Tan amour l’aiguillonnoit, Que tout son cœur sans raison bouiilonnoit Au souffre ardent qui luy cuisoit les veines : Du feu d’amour elles fumoient si pleines, Si pleins ses os, ses muscles et ses ners, Que dans Hercul’ qui dompta l’univers, Ne resta rien sinon une amour fole, Que Iuy versoient les deux beaux yeux d’Iole.   Tousjours d’Iole il aimoit les beaux yeux, Fust que le char qui donne jour aux cieux Sortist de l’eau, ou fust que devalee Tournast sa rouë en la plaine salee, De tous humains accoisant les travaux, Mais non d’Hercul’ les miserables maux.   Tant seulement il n’avoit de sa dame Les yeux fichez au plus profond de l’ame : Mais son parler, sa grace, et sa douceur Tousjours colez s’attachoient à son cœur.   D’autre que d’elle en son cœur il ne pense : Tousjours absente il la voit en presence. Et de fortune, Alcid’, si tu la vois, Dans ton gosier begue reste ta voix, Glacé de peur voyant la face aimee : Ore une fiévre ardamment allumee Ronge ton ame, et ores un glaçon Te fait trembler d’amoureuse frisson.   Bas à tes pieds ta meurdriere massue Gist sans honneur, et bas la peau velue, Qui sur ton doz roide se herissoit, Quand ta grand’main les Monstres punissoit.   Plus ton sourcil contre eux ne se renfrongne : O vertu vaine, ô honteuse vergongne, O deshonneur, Hercule estant donté (Apres avoir le monde surmonté)     [var :      Après avoir le ciel courbe porté.] Non d’Eurysthée, ou de Junon cruelle, Mais de la main d’une simple pucelle.   Voyez pour Dieu, quelle force a l’Amour, Quand une fois elle a gaigné la tour De la raison, ne nous laissant partie Qui ne soit toute en fureur convertie.   Ce n’est pas tout : seulement pour aimer, Il n’oublia la façon de s’armer, Ou d’empoigner sa masse hazardeuse, Ou d’achever quelque emprise douteuse : Mais lent et vain abatardant son cœur, Et son esprit, qui l’avoit fait vainqueur De tout le monde (ô plus lasche diffame) Il s’habilla des habits d’une femme, Et d’un Heros devenu damoiseau, Guidoit l’aiguille ou tournoit le fuseau, Et vers le soir, comme une chambriere, Rendoit sa tasche à sa douce geolière, Qui le tenoit en ses lacs plus serré Qu’un prisonnier dans les ceps enferré.   Vraiment, Junon, tu es assez vengee De voir ainsi sa vie estre changée, De voir ainsi devenu filandier Ce grand Alcid’ des Monstres le meurdrier, Sans adjouster à ton ire indomtee Les mandemens de son frere Eurysthee.   Que veux-tu plus ? Iôle le contraint D’estre une femme : il la doute, il la craint. Il craint ses mains plus qu’un valet esclave Ne craint les coups de quelque maistre brave.   Et ce-pendant qu’il ne fait que penser A s’atiffer, à s’oindre, à s’agencer, A dorloter sa barbe bien rongnee, A mignoter sa teste bien pignee, Impuniment les Monstres ont plaisir D’assujettir la terre à leur loisir, Sans plus cuider qu’Hercule soit au monde : Aussi n’est-il : car la poison profonde, Qui dans son cœur s’alloit trop derivant, L’avoit tué dedans un corps vivant.   Nous doncq, Muret, à qui la mesme rage Peu cautement affole le courage, S’il est possible, evitons le lien Que nous ourdist l’enfant Cytherien : Et rabaisson la chair qui nous domine, Dessous le joug de la raison divine, Raison qui deust au vray bien nous guider, Et de nos sens maistresse presider.   Mais si l’Amour, las ! las ! trop misérable ! A desja fait nostre playe incurable, Tant que le mal peu subject au conseil De la raison desdaigne l’appareil, Vaincuz par luy, faisons place à l’envie, Et sur Alcid’ desguisons nostre vie : En ce-pendant que les rides ne font Cresper encor le champ de nostre front, Et que la neige avant l’age venue Ne fait encor nostre teste chenue, Qu’un jour ne coule entre nous pour neant Sans suivre Amour : car il n’est mal-seant, Pour quelquefois, au simple populaire, Des grands seigneurs imiter l’exemplaire.

No Muret, no : it is not in our days That the little Archer who causes our pain Has created the delusion which still fools men ; No Muret, no : we are not the first In whom his bow with its little conquering dart Has concealed so great a wound beneath the heart : All creatures, whether those of the fields Or of the woods, or of the mountains Feel his power, and his bitter-sweet fire Burns the monsters of the sea below the waters.   Ah, is there none this child does not burn ? Hercules, sky-bearer and giant-slayer, Felt him strongly ; I tell you, that strong Theban Who strangled the boar with his hands, Who killed Nessus, and with his club Struck dead the children of the Cloud; Who with his bow amazed all of Lerna, Who imprisoned the dog from Hell, Who on the banks of the Thermodontian waters Seized the belt of the defeated maiden ; Who killed the sea-monster, and time and again Mockingly overcame the tricks of Achelous; Who put to death the maid of Phorcis, Who ripped the jaws off the Lion with his strength, Who crushed in his arms Antaeus, And who planted two mounds as his mark.   In short, this hero, amender of the world, This heart without fear, this thunderclap of war, Felt Love, and love’s passion Flattened him more than his King and commander. Not in love as people see we are, You with your Janne and me with my Cassandre, Rather Love pricked him with such a blow That his whole heart boiled, his reason failed, At the ardent suffering which burned his veins ; They steamed, so full of the fire of love, His bones, muscles and nerves so full too That in Hercules, who conquered everything, Remained nothing but the crazed love Which the two fair eyes of Iole had poured into him.   Still he loved the fair eyes of Iole Whether the chariot which gives day to the heavens Left the seas, or whether rushing down It turned its wheels back to the salty plain Giving rest to the labours of all men But not to the wretched troubles of Hercules.   He did not have only his lady’s Gaze fixed in the deeps of his soul; But her speech, her grace, her sweetness Were always attached, stuck to his heart.   He thought of no other than her in his heart; Always when she was away he saw her present. And if you saw her by chance, Alcides, Your voice remained dumb in your throat Frozen with fear at seeing the beloved face; Now a fever, fiercely flaming, Clawed your soul; and now an icicle Made you tremble with a shiver of love.   Down at your feet your murderous club Stands without honour, and the shaggy skin Which bristled stiffly on your back When your mighty hand punished monsters.   Your brow no longer frowns upon them: O empty virtue, o shameful immodesty, O dishonour, Hercules being overcome (After overcoming the world)     [var:       After bearing the curved skies] Not by Eurystheus or cruel Juno, But by the hand of just a maiden.   See, by heaven, what power Love has When she has once won the tower Of reason, not leaving us any part Which cannot be changed entirely into madness.   That’s not all: simply from love He did not forget how to arm himself Or to grip his dangerous club in his fist Or to achieve some uncertain task; But slowly and vainly bastardising his heart And spirit, which had made him a conqueror Of all the world – so unmanly a tale – Dressed himself in the garments of a woman And, from hero become a maid, Plied his needle or twisted the spindle And towards evening, like a chambermaid, Handed his work to his pretty jailer Who held him tighter in her snares Than a prisoner chained in the stocks.   Truly, Juno, you have taken revenge enough In seeing his life so changed, In seeing thus the great Alcides Become weaver, after being murderer of monsters, Without adding on to your unconquered anger The commands of his brother Eurystheus.   What more do you want? Iole forced him To be a woman; he doubted her, he feared her, He feared her hands more than a slave-servant Fears the blows of his good master.   And while he thought of nothing but Dressing up, anointing and arranging himself, Of pampering his nicely-trimmed beard, Of cosseting his well-oiled hair, Those monsters had pleasure with immunity To subject the earth at their leisure, No longer believing that Hercules was alive; Nor was he, for the deep poison Which coursed in his heart, overflowing, Had killed him though his body still lived.   So we, Muret, in whom the same madness So casually makes courage foolish, If possible let us avoid the bonds Which the child of Cythera prepares for us: And let’s put the flesh which masters us Beneath the yoke of divine reason, Reason which ought indeed to guide us And rule as mistress of our senses.   But love – alas, alas, how wretched! – Has already made our wound incurable, Since the illness, hardly subject to Reason’s Counsel, scorns the medicine: So, conquered by him, let’s make room for desire And on Alcides’ example model our lives: As long as wrinkles no longer make The plains of our forehea furrowed, And the snow arriving before its time Has not yet made hoary our hair, Let’s aim that no day should pass for nothing Without following love: for it is not improper For us simple folk sometimes To copy the example of great lords.

 

 

 

 

Élégie à Cassandre (Am. 1.227b)

 

Mon œil, mon cœur, ma Cassandre, ma vie, Hé! qu’à bon droit tu dois porter d’envie A ce grand Roy, qui ne veut plus souffrir Qu’à mes chansons ton nom se vienne offrir. C’est luy qui veut qu’en trompette j’echange Mon luth, afin d’entonner sa louange, Non de luy seul mais de tous ses ayeux Qui sont là hault assis au rang des Dieux.   Je le feray puis qu’il me le commande : Car d’un tel Roy la puissance est si grande, Que tant s’en faut qu’on la puisse eviter, Qu’un camp armé n’y pourroit resister.   Mais que me sert d’avoir tant leu Tibulle, Properce, Ovide, et le docte Catulle, Avoir tant veu Petrarque et tant noté, Si par un Roy le pouvoir m’est oté De les ensuyvre, et s’il faut que ma Iyre Pendue au croc ne m’ose plus rien dire ?   Doncques en vain je me paissois d’espoir De faire un jour à la Tuscane voir, Que nostre France, autant qu’elle, est heureuse A souspirer une pleinte amoureuse : Et pour monstrer qu’on la peut surpasser, J’avois desja commencé de trasser Mainte Elegie à la façon antique, Mainte belle Ode, et mainte Bucolique.   Car, à vray dire, encore mon esprit N’est satisfait de ceux qui ont escrit En nostre langue, et leur amour merite Ou du tout rien, ou faveur bien petite.   Non que je sois vanteur si glorieux D’oser passer les vers laborieux De tant d’amans qui se pleignent en France : Mais pour le moins j’avoy bien esperance, Que si mes vers ne marchoient les premiers, Qu’ils ne seroient sans honneur les derniers. Car Eraton qui les amours descœuvre, D’assez bon œil m’attiroit à son œuvre.   L’un trop enflé les chante grossement, L’un enervé les traine bassement, L’un nous depeint une Dame paillarde, L’un plus aux vers qu’aux sentences regarde, Et ne peut onq tant se sceut desguiser, Apprendre l’art de bien Petrarquiser.   Que pleures-tu, Cassandre, ma douce ame ? Encor Amour ne veut couper la trame Qu’en ta faveur je pendis au métier, Sans achever l’ouvrage tout entier.   Mon Roy n’a pas d’une beste sauvage Succé le laict, et son jeune courage, Ou je me trompe, a senti quelquefois Le trait d’Amour qui surmonte les Rois.   S’il l’a senti, ma coulpe est effacee, Et sa grandeur ne sera corroucee Qu’à mon retour des horribles combas, Hors de son croc mon Luth j’aveigne à-bas, Le pincetant, et qu’en lieu des alarmes Je chante Amour, tes beautez et mes larmes. « Car l’arc tendu trop violentement, « Ou s’alentit, ou se rompt vistement.   Ainsi Achille apres avoir par terre Tant fait mourir de soudars en la guerre, Son Luth doré prenoit entre ses mains Teintes encor de meurdres inhumains, Et vis à vis du fils de Menetie, Chantoit l’amour de Brisëis s’amie : Puis tout soudain les armes reprenoit, Et plus vaillant au combat retoumoit.   Ainsi, apres que l’ayeul de mon maistre Hors des combats retirera sa dextre, Se desarmant dedans sa tente à part, Dessus le Luth à l’heure ton Ronsard Te chantera : car il ne se peut faire Qu’autre beauté luy puisse jamais plaire, Ou soit qu’il vive, ou soit qu’outre le port, Leger fardeau, Charon le passe mort.

My eyes, my heart, my Cassandre, my life, Oh, how rightly you must be envious Of that great King who no longer wishes to suffer Your name to put itself forward in my songs. It is he who wishes that I should change my lute For a trumpet, to sing out his praises, And not only his own but those of his ancestors Who are seated above in the ranks of the gods.   I shall do it, as he commands it : For the power of such a King is so great That it is as hard to keep out of its way As for an armed force to resist it.   What use for me to have read so much of Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, and the learned Catullus ; To have looked over and noted so much of Petrarch, If by a King the power is taken from me Of following them, and if my lyre must Hang from a hook and dare no longer speak ?   I have therefore vainly fed the hope Of one day seeing Tuscany, When our France, as much as it, is happy To sigh a lover’s plaint ; And, to show [Italy] can be surpassed I had already begun to set down Many an Elegy in the antique fashion, Many a fine Ode, many a Pastoral.   For to speak the truth, my soul is still Not satisfied with those who have written In our language, and their love deserves Either nothing at all, or very little favour.   Not that I am so vainglorious a boaster As to venture to surpass the laborious poetry Of so many lovers who have made their plaints in France ; But at least I have a fair hope That, even if my verse does not go first, It will not be dishonourably last. For Erato, who discloses love-affairs, Drew me with a clear eye to her work.   One puffed-up poet sings grossly of love, Another nervous one drags on in too mean a style ; One depicts a Lady who is lewd, Another takes more care over his verse than his meaning And can never, however he tries to conceal it, Learn the art of Petrarch-ising well.   Why do you weep, Cassandre, my sweet soul ? Love does not yet seek to cut off the warp and weft Which I have hung on my loom for you, Without completing the whole of my work.   My King has not sucked the milk of some Savage beast, and his youthful courage too, Unless I am mistaken, has sometimes felt The wound of Love which can overcome Kings.   If he has felt it, my [ error ] is erased And his greatness will not be angered If, on my return from terrible battles, I take my lute down from its hook And pluck it, and instead of loud war I sing of Love, your beauty, and my tears. « For the bow which is drawn too tightly Either weakens [slows] or quickly breaks. »   Just so Achilles, after having across the world Put so many soldiers to death in war, Took his golden lute in his hands – Still stained with inhuman massacres – And sitting opposite the son of Menetius Sang of his love for Briseis, his beloved ; Then as suddenly took up arms again And returned, more courageous, to battle.   And so, after my master’s ancestor Withdraws his hand from battle, Disarming himself within his tent away from the field, Upon his lute just then your Ronsard will sing To you ; for it cannot be That another beauty could ever please him While he is alive or when, beyond this harbour, Charon carries his light burden, dead.

 

 

The conclusion of the first book of Amours brings with it some weightier material to give it a firm feeling of ending – rather like Beethoven’s 5th, which iterates and reiterates the thumping C-major chords to emphasise that this really is the end of the piece, Ronsard feels (rightly) that he cannot simply end the long run of sonnets without something more definitely marking a conclusion. Perhaps there is, nonetheless, a sense of loss as Ronsard explains how he must stop writing love poetry to focus, by royal command, on his epic Franciad.

 

The Elegy to Cassandre is an elegy in the classical sense – a description of its form, rather than its mood (as we use it today to mean ‘something noble but sad, in remembrance’). Accordingly, it is full of classical (and neo-classical) references:

 – Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, and Catullus are all Latin love-poets; and we might detect a glancing reference to one of Horace’s odes in the lines about ‘hanging his lyre on a hook’;

 – Petrarch is of course the shining example of (relatively) modern love-poetry, Tuscany his home;

 – Erato is the muse of lyric poetry;

 – in the Iliad Achilles sings of the slave-girl Briseis whom he loves (and who plays a pivotal role in the development of the action); his other (male) love is Patroclus, the son of Menoetius;

 – Charon is of course the boatman who ferries the dead across the river Styx.

 

Muret suggests that, in the last ‘stanza’, Ronsard is using the word “ayeul” (ancestor, grandfather) to refer to Francus, the mythical ancestor of the kings of France – and thus to the Franciad, the commission for which has drawn Ronsard forcibly away from writing love-poems.  (The ‘great king’ at the time of the publication of the Amours in the 1550s was Henri II; his direct ancestors were noble rather than royal, his father having come to the throne by virtue of his marriage to Louis XII’s daughter.)

 

 

The earlier Blanchemain version has only minor differences:

 – in stanza 3, the list of Roman poets is “Tibulle, / Gallus, Ovide, et Properce et Catulle,” – Cornelius Gallus was a lyric poet contemporary with the others;

 – in stanza 5, the line is “En nostre langue, et leur Muse merite” (‘and their Muse deserves’ instead of ‘their love’);

– towards the end, “Mon Roy n’a pas d’une tigre sauvage …” (a savage tiger’s milk rather than a savage beast’s).

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.203

Celuy qui fist le monde façonné

Sur le compas de son parfait exemple,

Le couronnant des voûtes de son temple,

M’a par destin ton esclave ordonné.

 

Comme l’esprit qui saintement est né

Pour voir son Dieu, quand sa face il contemple,

Plus heureux bien, recompense plus ample

Que de le voir, ne luy est point donné ;

 

Ainsi je pers ma peine coustumiere,

Quand à longs traits j’œillade la lumiere

De ton bel œil, chef-d’œuvre nompareil.

 

Voila pourquoy, quelque part qu’il sejourne,

Tousjours vers luy maugré moy je me tourne,

Comme un Souci aux rayons du Soleil.

 

 

 

                                                                            He who made the world fashioned

                                                                            On the measure of his perfect example,

                                                                            Crowning it with the vaults of his temple,

                                                                            Has ordained me by fate as your slave.

 

                                                                            Like a spirit which is born holy

                                                                            To see its God, when it contemplates His face

                                                                            Is given no greater good, no repayment

                                                                            More ample, than to see Him;

 

                                                                            Just so I lose my accustomed pain

                                                                            When in long draughts I drink in the light

                                                                            Of your fair eye, an unequalled masterpiece.

 

                                                                            That is why, wherever it is,

                                                                            I always despite myself turn towards it

                                                                            As a marigold turns to the rays of the sun.

 

 

 

 As Muret tells us, this poem is ‘almost a translation of Bembo’s sonnet‘ (below); and, this time, this is more literally true than elsewhere when Ronsard borrows ideas but offers a different poem.  Here Ronsard’s poem – while clearly a Ronsard poem, and with ‘in-fill’ which is his own – remains faithfully very close to the original.

 

Here’s Bembo – rime 38:

 

L’alta cagion, che da principio diede

A le cose create ordine e stato,

Dispose ch’io v’amassi e dielmi in fato,

Per far di sé col mondo exemplo e fede.

 

Che sì come virtù da lei procede,

Che ‘l tempra e regge, e come è sol beato

A cui per grazia il contemplarla è dato,

Et essa è d’ogni affanno ampia mercede,

 

Così ‘l sostegno mio da voi mi vene

Od in atti cortesi od in parole,

E sol felice son, quand’io vi miro.

 

Né maggior guiderdon de le mie pene

Posso aver di voi stessa, ond’io mi giro

Pur sempre a voi, come elitropio al sole.

 

 

                                                                            The high Cause, who from the beginning gave

                                                                            To created things their order and station,

                                                                            Arranged that I should love you and handed me to the fates

                                                                            To make of this an example of faithfulness for the world.

 

                                                                            That, as virtue flows from Him

                                                                            Who tempers and rules it, and as it is with the blessed sun,

                                                                            So by Him the gift of looking upon her is given by grace,

                                                                            And she is the ample reward for all labour;

 

                                                                            So, my support comes to me from you

                                                                            Whether in acts of courtesy or in words,

                                                                            And I am only happy when I gaze upon you.

 

                                                                            No greater reward for my troubles

                                                                            Could I have from you yourself, hence I turn myself

                                                                            Always and only toward you, as the heliotrope does the sun.

 

 

That did not stop Ronsard improving his version between editions! In Blanchemain’s edition, lines 6- 7 read “quand sa face il contemple, / De tous maux un salaire plus ample …” (‘when it contemplates His face, / For all its troubles no greater payment / Than to see Him is given to it.’)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.190

Tousjours l’erreur qui seduit les Menades,

Ne deçoit pas leurs cerveaux estonnez :

Tousjours au son des cornets entonnez

Les monts Troyens ne foulent de gambades.

 

Tousjours le Dieu des vineuses Thyades

N’affolle pas leurs cœurs espoinçonnez,

Et quelquefois leurs esprits forcenez

Cessent leur rage, et ne sont plus malades.

 

Le Corybante a quelquefois repos,

Et le Curet sous les armes dispos,

Ne sent tousjours le Tan de sa Deesse :

 

Mais la fureur de celle qui me joint,

En patience une heure ne me laisse,

Et de ses yeux tousjours le cœur me poind.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Not always does the error which led the Maenads astray

                                                                            Deceive their stunned brains;

                                                                            Not always to the sound of braying trumpets

                                                                            Do they throng the Trojan hills with their capers;

 

                                                                            Not always does the god of the wine-soaked Thyades

                                                                            Madden their excited hearts,

                                                                            And sometimes their frenzied minds

                                                                            Cease their madness, and are ill no more.

 

                                                                            The Corybant sometimes rests,

                                                                            And the Curete, under arms,

                                                                            Does not always feel the mark of her goddess;

 

                                                                            But the madness for her which encloses me

                                                                            Leaves me not an hour at peace,

                                                                            And with her eyes my heart always wounds me. 

 

 

Ronsard’s “tousjours” I have translated as ‘always’ – but there is a subsidiary meaning in the French which only gets eliminated towards the end, which is ‘still’ – ‘the Maenads are not still running around the hills of Troy, the Thyades are no longer maddened…’ But with the sestet it becomes clear that he is not contrasting ‘then’ and ‘now’, but ‘not always’ and ‘always’. (Incidentally, while “tousjours … ne” works in French, ‘always doesn’t’ seems to me to mean something slightly different from ‘doesn’t always’ in English!)

 

What of all these names? The Maenads are famous from Euripides’ play of the same name: followers of Dionysus/Bacchus, as were the ‘wine-soaked Thyades’. Maenads (=’maddened ones’) certainly came from or worshipped in the hills, but not specifically Trojan hills. Both were known for the frenzy of their celebrations, ecstatic dancing leading to trance and the loss of inhibition – often leading to violent excess. Corybants were followers of Cybele (another Asian goddess – the Greeks always viewed Asia with suspicion), and Curetes of Rhea – who is often in turn associated with Cybele. They too were known for their ecstatic rites, or as Muret footnotes it ‘when they sacrificed they were seized by a madness which made them run, shout & jump as if out of their minds’.

 

Minor variants in Blanchemain: here’s the whole poem again to avoid a string of picky amendments. Note how in lines 2 and 7 this earlier version had in-line alliteration which Ronsard later chose to make much more subtle by simply switching the words.

 

 

Tousjours l’erreur qui seduit les Ménades

Ne deçoit pas leurs esprits estonnez ;

Toujours au son des cornets entonnez

Les monts troyens ne foulent de gambades.

 

Tousjours le Dieu des vineuses Thyades

N’affolle pas leurs cœurs espoinçonnez,

Et quelquefois leurs cerveaux forcenez

Cessent leur rage, et ne sont plus malades.

 

Le Corybante a quelquefois repos,

Et le Curet, sous les armes dispos,

Sent par saisons le tan de sa déesse ;

 

Mais la fureur de celle qui me joint

En patience une heure ne me laisse,

Et de ses yeux tousjours le cœur me point.

 

 

                                                                            Not always does the error which led the Maenads astray

                                                                            Deceive their stunned minds;

                                                                            Not always to the sound of braying trumpets

                                                                            Do they throng the Trojan hills with their capers;

 

                                                                            Not always does the god of the wine-soaked Thyades

                                                                            Madden their excited hearts,

                                                                            And sometimes their frenzied brains

                                                                            Cease their madness, and are ill no more.

 

                                                                            The Corybant sometimes rests,

                                                                            And the Curete, under arms,

                                                                            From time to time feels the mark of her goddess;

 

                                                                            But the madness for her which encloses me

                                                                            Leaves me not an hour at peace,

                                                                            And with her eyes my heart always wounds me.

 

 

 Blanchemain also offers us a variant of the final tercet:

 

Mais la beauté qui me pousse en erreur

En patience une heure ne me laisse :

« Le sang qui boust est toujours en fureur. »

 

                                                                            But the beauty which drives me to errors

                                                                            Leaves me not an hour at peace:

                                                                            “The blood which boils is always maddened.” 

 

 

 

Amours 1.183

Au fond d’un val esmaillé tout au rond

De mille fleurs, de loin j’avisay celle,

Dont la beauté dedans mon cœur se cele,

Et les douleurs m’apparoissent au front :

 

De bois touffus voyant le lieu profond,

J’armay mon cœur d’asseurance nouvelle,

Pour luy chanter les maux que j’ay pour elle,

Et les tourmens que ses beaux yeux me font.

 

En cent façons desja ma foible langue

Estudioit sa premiere harangue,

Pour soulager de mes peines le faix :

 

Quand un Centaure envieux de ma vie,

L’ayant en croppe, au galop l’a ravie,

Me laissant seul et mes cris imparfais.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            At the bottom of a vale dotted all round

                                                                            With a thousand flowers, from far off I saw her,

                                                                            The one whose beauty conceals itself in my heart

                                                                            While sadness appears on my brow:

 

                                                                            Seeing the spot deep in bushy woods

                                                                            I armed my heart with new confidence

                                                                            To sing her the ills I suffer for her

                                                                            And the torments her fair eyes give me.

 

                                                                            In a hundred ways already my feeble tongue

                                                                            Was trying out its first lecture

                                                                            To soften the burden of my troubles,

 

                                                                            When a Centaur, jealous of my life,

                                                                            Took her off at the gallop, sitting on his back,

                                                                            And left me alone and my cries unfinished.

 

 

 

A tragi-comic mood from Ronsard today: he builds up the expectation as he summons his courage to sing of love, or at least announce himself to his lady – who is then swept away by another, leaving our poet rather comically stranded. And it’s a mythological ‘other’, as well, consistent with the heightened tone of the poem b ut not perhaps with everyday reality. Is Ronsard relating a mini-myth, or telling us a poetic version of a true story? He leaves us in doubt. Muret didn’t seem to see the joke, or at least wanted to rationalise it, and explained that the ‘centaur’ in the final tercet is what Ronsard calls ‘the one who carries off his lady on his crupper’, i.e. just an ordinary rival on horseback, rather than a mythological one. I prefer Ronsard’s amused ambiguity to Muret’s prosaic rationalising…

 

Blanchemain offers a number of minor variants, mostly showing that in the later version above Ronsard was doing the usual things: replacing exclamations etc which are only there for metrical reasons, and so improving the poetry; or looking for different vocabulary; or (perhaps) looking for a more learned effect. I’d put the change in line 1 in that category: the later “Au fond,…” has the ‘merit’ of providing an internal rhyme (with “rond” at the end of the line) and alliteration with the “fleurs” at the beginning of line 2; but I have to say I prefer “Au coeur”…!

 

 

Au cœur d’un val esmaillé tout au rond

De mille fleurs, de loin j’avisay celle

Dont la beauté dedans mon cœur se cele,

Et les douleurs m’apparoissent au front.

 

Des bois touffus voyant le lieu profond,

J’armay mon cœur d’asseurance nouvelle

Pour luy chanter les maux que j’ay pour elle

Et les tourmens que ses beaux yeux me font.

 

En cent façons desja, desja ma langue

Avant-pensoit l’amoureuse harangue,

Jà soulageant de mes peines le faix,

 

Quand un Centaure, envieux de ma vie,

L’ayant en croppe, au galop l’a ravie,

Me laissant seul et mes cris imparfaits.

 

 

                                                                            At the heart of a vale dotted all round

                                                                            With a thousand flowers, from far off I saw her,

                                                                            The one whose beauty conceals itself in my heart

                                                                            While sadness appears on my brow:

 

                                                                            Seeing the spot deep in the bushy woods

                                                                            I armed my heart with new confidence

                                                                            To sing her the ills I suffer for her

                                                                            And the torments her fair eyes give me.

 

                                                                            In a hundred ways already now my tongue

                                                                            Was planning out its lecture of love,

                                                                            Already softening the burden of my troubles,

 

                                                                            When a Centaur, jealous of my life,

                                                                            Took her off at the gallop, sitting on his back,

                                                                            And left me alone and my cries unfinished.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.196

Au plus profond de ma poitrine morte

Il m’est advis qu’une main je reçoy,

Qui me pillant entraine avecque soy

Mon cœur captif, que maistresse elle emporte.

 

Coustume inique, et de mauvaise sorte,

Malencontreuse et miserable loy,

Tu m’as tué, tant tu es contre moy,

Loy des humains, bride trop dure et forte.

 

Faut-il que veuf, seul entre mille ennuis,

Mon lict desert je couve tant de nuits ?

Hà ! que je porte et de haine et d’envie

 

A ce Vulcan ingrat et sans pitié,

Qui s’opposant aux raiz de ma moitié,

Fait eclipser le Soleil de ma vie.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            In the deepest place in my dead breast

                                                                            I seem to feel a hand

                                                                            Which as it plunders me drags with it

                                                                            My captive heart, and takes it to be its mistress.

 

                                                                            Iniquitous custom, wicked fate,

                                                                            Unlucky and wretched law,

                                                                            You have killed me, so much you are against me,

                                                                            Law of mankind, bridle too harsh and strong.

 

                                                                            Must I bereft, alone among a thousand troubles,

                                                                            Brood on my deserted bed for so many nights?

                                                                            Ah, what hate and jealousy I bear

 

                                                                            Towards that ungrateful and pitiless Vulcan

                                                                            Who, setting himself against the light of my other half,

                                                                            Eclipsed the Sun of my life.

 

 

 

Muret, footnoting the Amours, tells us: ‘Vulcan, husband of Venus, was a jealous god. This sonnet has nothing to do with Cassandre, as with several others in this book.’ Vulcan as the husband of Venus, who found her in bed with Mars; are we to assume that Ronsard has been playing with a married lady? Or is this a less-precise reference, which would fit Cassandre better, to another lover competing for her hand and making off with her – perhaps, her husband-to-be rather than a husband? Or is Muret right in saying this has nothing to do with Cassandre – for, after all, we have already encountered many a sonnet addressed to Sinope, Marguerite and other ladies?

 

In the end, does it matter?! Poetry does not, after all, have to be subjected to the analysis which a strict biographer might apply. It is an attractive poem with a novel image in the opening quatrain and some unusual phrases in the second.

 

In both, there are variants in the earlier Blanchemain edition: of these I think we can safely say the older versions of lines 2 and 7 are weaker, but that does not make the version less interesting.

 

 

Au plus profond de ma poitrine morte

Sans me tuer une main je reçoy,

Qui, me pillant, entraine avecques soy

Mon cœur captif, que, maistresse, elle emporte.

 

Coustume inique et de mauvaise sorte,

Malencontreuse et miserable loy,

Tant à grand tort, tant tu es contre moy,

Loy sans raison miserablement forte.

 

 

                                                                            In the deepest place in my dead breast

                                                                            I feel a hand which does not kill me,

                                                                            Which as it plunders me drags with it

                                                                            My captive heart, and takes it to be its mistress.

 

                                                                            Iniquitous custom, wicked fate,

                                                                            Unlucky and wretched law,

                                                                            So wrongly, so much you are against me,

                                                                            Law without reason, wretchedly strong.

 

 

 

 

Muret – Ma petite colombelle

This is a ‘double-first’ post! It’s the very first setting ever published of a Ronsard poem; and it’s the very first time I’ve tried (I hope successfully) to transcribe my own ‘edition’ from the original 16th century part-books.

On 5th July 1552 Nicolas du Chemin published his 10th book of songs; among the settings by well-known names like Arcadelt, Janequin and Goudimel was one setting by “M.A.Muret” – whom we can probably quite safely identify with Ronsard’s friend, commentator and fellow-humanist Marc Antoine de Muret. This song therefore pre-dates the publication later in 1552 of the Amours with its musical supplement.

[Some writers have indicated that there is an even earlier setting, by Goudimel, from 1550: Comte & Laumonier’s late-19th century review of the sixteenth century Ronsard settings made reference to a setting in du Chemin’s 5th book. This has been picked up and repeated (even by a a writer of the quality of Gilbert Gadoffre in the late 1980s) without re-checking. Yet Tiersot, in the 1920s, sounded the warning note: he could not access all the incredibly-rare original books (mostly now available online!), but even while including the reference on the authority of Comte & Laumonier, he pointed out that he had tracked down another bibliography (by Robert Eitner), which mentioned a song in du Chemin’s 6th – not 5th – book by Goudimel on the text «Qui veult sçavoir qu’elle est m’amie», rather than the Ronsardian «Qui veut sçavoir Amour et sa nature». It is not unusual to find songs with openings that sound like Ronsard, but whose poems then diverge rapidly. With the internet at our service, it is simple to confirm that Tiersot’s intuition was right, that the 1550 Ronsard setting does not exist, and that Muret has priority.]

Below I have shown the original parts from the part-books and my transcription of them. It took me a long while to get the parts lined-up right in score – I struggle to imagine singers simply sight-reading their parts off the books and getting it right, but no doubt with practice I will get better too…

 

Title

Ma petite colombelle

Composer

Marc Antoine de Muret (1526-1585)

Source

Dixiesme livre, contenant xxvi. chansons nouvelles…, published by Nicolas du Chemin, 1552

(text on recmusic.org/lieder site here)
(blog entry here)
(recorded extract here – source: Egidius Kwartet “Ronsard et les Néerlandais”)

 

Though an early setting and by a non-musician, Muret’s work shows the same level of skill as Bertrand or Boni – other humanist scholars, rather than professional musicians – would do later in the century.  Indeed Gilbert Gadoffre, famous professor of French literature in general and Ronsard in particular, thought it “infinitely superior to those which Chardavoine and Claireau would later publish”.

Thankfully for a new editor, Muret steers clear of chromaticism!  I’ve ventured only one editorial accidental and even that is probably not necessary as it’s a passing note.

The recording is a small extract from the middle of the piece; the Egidius Kwartet choose to open their CD with this setting, which I think is highly appropriate.

 

 

Here are the original parts – ‘snipped’ from the volume so helpfully published on the Gallica website. On each page, Muret’s song occupies the top half while another piece by Gervaise fills the second half of the page.