Helen 2:75

Je m’en-fuy du combat, ma bataille est desfaite :

J’ay perdu contre Amour la force et la raison :

Ja dix lustres passez, et ja mon poil grison

M’appellent au logis, et sonnent la retraite.

 

Si comme je voulois ta gloire n’est parfaite,

N’en blasme point l’esprit, mais blasme la saison :

Je ne suis ny Pâris, ny desloyal Jason :

J’obeis à la loy que la Nature a faite.

 

Entre l’aigre et le doux, l’esperance et la peur,

Amour dedans ma forge a poly cest ouvrage.

Je ne me plains du mal, du temps ny du labeur,

 

Je me plains de moymesme et de ton faux courage.

Tu t’en repentiras, si tu as un bon cœur,

Mais le tard repentir n’amande le dommage.

 

 

 

                                                                            I flee from the fight, my battle is lost:

                                                                            I have lost, fighting Love, both strength and reason;

                                                                            Fifty years now gone, and now my grey hairs,

                                                                            All call me to rest, and sound the retreat.

 

                                                                            If your glory is not perfected as I wished,

                                                                            Don’t blame my spirit for it, but blame the season:

                                                                            I am neither Paris, nor disloyal Jason;

                                                                            I obey the law which Nature has made.

 

                                                                            Between sour and sweet, hope and fear,

                                                                            Love within my forge has polished this work.

                                                                            I do not complain of trouble, time and labour,

 

                                                                            I complain of myself and of your false courage.

                                                                            You will repent it, if you have a good heart,

                                                                            But late repenting does not mend the loss.

 

 

 

 

And so, the last sonnet to Helen: a mixture of reproach of her, reproach of self, and (inevitably) a claim that in the end it is Helen’s loss… Ronsard is not Paris (failing the original Helen) nor Jason (abandoning Medea) – he has put in the time and trouble, it is Helen who is abandoning him. ‘You will repent it’: I wonder if she did?

 

Of course not! The literary character Hélène might have done so, losing a lover. But the real Hélène had no reason to complain: she has been the centre of attention in two books of France’s finest sonnets; even if portrayed as distant and ungrateful she has been portrayed also as chaste and inaccessible, beautiful and virtuous; and, far from late repenting at the loss of the affair, she has got everything she needed from it – the poems, the fame, the immortality. In fact.as we saw elsewhere, her only complaint was that too many of the poems were recycled from earlier collections!

 

Blanchemain offers a small change in line 1: “Je m’en-fuy du combat, mon armée est desfaite” (‘I flee from the fight, my army is lost’).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:40

Comme un vieil combatant qui ne veut plus s’armer,

Ayant le corps chargé de coups et de vieillesse,

Regarde en s’esbatant l’Olympique jeunesse

Pleine d’un sang bouillant aux joustes escrimer :

 

Ainsi je regardois du jeune Dieu d’aimer,

Dieu qui combat tousjours par ruse et par finesse,

Les gaillards champions, qui d’une chaude presse

Se veulent dans le camp amoureux enfermer.

 

Quand tu as reverdy mon escorce ridée

De ta jeune vertu, ainsi que fit Medee

Par herbes et par jus le pere de Jason,

 

Je n’ay contre ton charme opposé ma defense :

Toutefois je me deuls de r’entrer en enfance,

Pour perdre tant de fois l’esprit et la raison.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Like an old warrior who no longer wants to arm himself,

                                                                            His body laden with wounds and age,

                                                                            Looks back at his Olympian youth spent fighting,

                                                                            Filled with brimming excitement for fencing in competition:

 

                                                                            Just so I looked on the young god of love,

                                                                            The god who always makes war by ruse and trickery

                                                                            On the brave champions who, hotly hurrying,

                                                                            Wish to lock themselves into Love’s camp.

 

                                                                            When you renewed my furrowed hide

                                                                            With your youthful virtue, just as Medea did

                                                                            With her herbs and essences to Jason’s father,

 

                                                                            I did not put up a defence against your magic ;

                                                                            Yet I am saddened at returning once more to childhood,

                                                                            For losing so often my spirit and reason.

 

 

 

There are times when Ronsard starts off as usual, but ends up sounding tired and fed up with it all. And this is one of them. A fine heroic beginning, a good parallel with the ‘war of love’, a strong mythological antecedent for youth-renewing Helen – and then a downturn at the end: youth isn’t everything, jettisoning the wisdom of age for lively spirits might not be such a good trade-off after all …

 

And the reference to Medea is another coded message about the trade-off. Medea certainly promised Jason’s father, Pelias, renewed youth – but he had to be killed to be re-born, and as it turned out Medea’s magic didn’t bring him back to life … So, what is he telling Hélène about her own ‘magic’?

 

Blanchemain offers a number of variants in lines 8-10:

 

 

Les gaillards champions, qui d’une chaude presse

Se veulent en l’arene amoureux enfermer.

 

Quand tu fis reverdir mon escorce ridée

De l’esclair de tes yeux, ainsi que fit Medee

Par herbes et par jus le pere de Jason …

 

 

                                                                            … On the brave champions who, hotly hurrying,

                                                                            Wish to lock themselves into Love’s arena.

 

                                                                            When you made young again my furrowed hide

                                                                            With the lightning of your eyes, just as Medea did

                                                                            With her herbs and essences to Jason’s father …

 

 

Additionally, he offers a further variant in line 10, again changing the form of Hélène’s magic – “De ta charmante voix, ainsi que fit Medee…” – not her virtue or her eyes, but ‘her charming voice’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:32

J’avois esté saigné, ma Dame me vint voir

Lors que je languissois d’une humeur froide et lente :

Se tournant vers mon sang, comme toute riante

Me dist en se jouant, Que vostre sang est noir !

 

Le trop penser en vous a peu si bien mouvoir

L’imagination, que l’ame obeissante

A laissé la chaleur naturelle impuissante

De cuire de nourrir de faire son devoir.

 

Ne soyez plus si belle, et devenez Medée :

Colorez d’un beau sang ma face ja ridée,

Et d’un nouveau printemps faites moy r’animer.

 

Aeson vit rajeunir son escorce ancienne :

Nul charme ne sçauroit renouveller la mienne.

Si je veux rajeunir il ne faut plus aimer.

 

 

                                                                            I’d just been bled when my Lady came to see me,

                                                                            While I was suffering from a cold and indolent humour;

                                                                            Turning towards my blood, as if laughing at me,

                                                                            She said in joke, “How dark your blood is!

 

                                                                            Thinking too much has managed so to move

                                                                            Your imagination that your obedient soul

                                                                            Has lost its natural warmth, unable

                                                                            To heat, to nourish, to do its duty.”

 

                                                                            Oh, be no longer so fair, become Medea;

                                                                            Put colour in my already-lined cheeks with fresh blood,

                                                                            And make me live again with a new springtime.

 

                                                                            Aeson saw his ancient hide rejuvenated;

                                                                            But no magic could renew mine.

                                                                            If I wish to become young again, I must love no more.

 

 

Humours and bleeding – very sixteenth-century, not the medicine we know today. But all pretty elf-explanatory, I think. 

 

A couple of classical names that may not be so clear: Medea and Aeson.

 

Blanchemain to the rescue: ‘Medea, who rejuvenated with her magic the aged Æson’. Aeson was Jason’s (aged) father and, when Jason returned from Colchis with Medea, she did indeed rejuvenate him – by slitting his throat and boiling him in a pot! Aeson emerged , youn g again. It was all a plot to get rid of Pelias who was threatening to oust Aeson: promising to rejuvenate him too, Medea killed and boiled him – but without bringing him back to life.

 

Hence the references to blood, fresh and good, a new springtime, and magic. The names may also be familiar from a modern form of magic – Aeson is a parsing library for JSON (get it?), and named from these myths.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:56

Ne me suy point, Belleau, allant à la maison

De celle qui me tient en douleur nompareille :

Ignores-tu les vers chantez par la Corneille

A Mopse qui suivoit la trace de Jason ?

 

Prophete, dist l’oiseau, tu n’as point de raison

De suivre cest amant qui tout seul s’appareille

« D’aller voir ses amours : malheureux qui conseille,

« Et qui suit un amant quand il n’en est saison.

 

Pour ton profit, Belleau, que ton regard ne voye

Celle qui par les yeux la playe au cœur m’envoye,

De peur qu’il ne reçoive un mal au mien pareil.

 

Il suffist que sans toy je sois seul miserable :

Reste sain je te pri’ pour estre secourable

A ma douleur extreme, et m’y donner conseil.

 

 

 

                                                                            Don’t follow me, Belleau, as I go to the home

                                                                            Of the lady who keeps me in unequalled sadness.

                                                                            Do you not know the song sung by the crow

                                                                            To Mopsus, as he was following Jason’s footsteps ?

 

                                                                            “Prophet,” said the bird, “you are completely wrong

                                                                            To follow this lover who is sailing alone

                                                                            To visit his beloved : ‘misfortune to him who advises

                                                                            And who follows a lover at the wrong times’.”

 

                                                                            For your profit, Belleau, may your eyes not see

                                                                            Her who through her eyes sent this wound into my heart,

                                                                            For fear that yours may receive troubles equal to mine.

 

                                                                            Enough that I alone, and not you, am wretched:

                                                                            Stay healthy, I beg, to be a help

                                                                            In my extreme sadness, and to give me advice.

 

 

Although Ronsard claimed he was being less sophisticated in his classical allusions when writing the Marie poems, it seems he could not stop himself! Fortunately Belleau comes to the rescue, telling us in his commentary what we are supposed to understand from the allusion: “In the third book of the Argonauts [Argonautica], Apollonius Rhodius tells how Jason, having planned one day to see Medea, took with him Mopsus the great seer. However Juno, who favoured Jason, knowing he would get no courtesy from Medea if she found he was accompanied, made a crow and taught it to sing Greek verse, so that Mopsus had to retire.” 

 

Blanchemain also notes that Ronsard uses this same story in the Franciade, when Francus is setting off to meet Hyante. (I must add, it amuses me that France’s greatest classical playwright, another master of the language, was named after so un-lyrical a bird as the crow… )

 

Blanchemain offers a few stylistic variants but essentially the same poem:

 

 

Ne me suy point, Belleau, allant à la maison

De celle qui me tient en douleur nompareille :

Ignores-tu les vers chantez par la corneille

A Mopse qui suivoit la trace de Jason ?

 

« Prophete, dit l’oiseau, tu n’as point de raison

De suivre cest amant qui tout seul s’appareille

D’aller voir ses amours : peu sage est qui conseille,

Et qui suit un amant quand il n’en est saison. »

 

Pour ton profit, Belleau, je ne veuil que tu voye

Celle qui par les yeux la playe au cœur m’envoye,

De peur que tu ne prenne un mal au mien pareil.

 

Il suffist que sans toy je sois seul miserable :

Reste sain je te pri’ pour estre secourable

A ma douleur extreme, et m’y donner conseil.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Don’t follow me, Belleau, as I go to the home

                                                                            Of the lady who keeps me in unequalled sadness.

                                                                            Do you not know the song sung by the crow

                                                                            To Mopsus, as he was following Jason’s footsteps ?

 

                                                                            “Prophet,” said the bird, “you are completely wrong

                                                                            To follow this lover who is sailing alone

                                                                            To visit his beloved : ‘little wisdom has he who advises

                                                                            And who follows a lover at the wrong times’.”

 

                                                                            For your profit, Belleau, I do not wish you to see

                                                                            Her who through her eyes sent this wound into my heart,

                                                                            For fear that you may win troubles equal to mine.

 

                                                                            Enough that I alone, and not you, am wretched:

                                                                            Stay healthy, I beg, to be a help

                                                                            In my extreme sadness, and to give me advice.

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.211

Si blond si beau, comme est une toison

Qui mon dueil tue et mon plaisir renforce,

Ne fut oncq l’or, que les toreaux par force

Aux champs de Mars donnerent à Jason.

 

De ceux qui Tyr ont choisi pour maison,

Si fine soye au mestier ne fut torce :

Ny mousse au bois ne revestit escorce

Si tendre qu’elle en la prime saison.

 

Poil digne d’estre aux testes des Deesses,

Puis que pour moy tes compagnons tu laisses,

Je sens ramper l’esperance en mon cueur :

 

Courage Amour, desja la ville est prise,

Lors qu’en deux parts, mutine, se divise,

Et qu’une part se vient rendre au veinqueur.

 

 

                                                                            So blond, so beautiful, as the locks

                                                                            Which kill my grief and strengthen my pleasure,

                                                                            Was never that gold which the bulls gave

                                                                            By force to Jason in the fields of Mars.

 

                                                                            By those who chose Tyre as their home

                                                                            Has no such fine silk been twisted in their work ;

                                                                            No moss which clothes bark in the woods

                                                                            Is so tender as this early in the season.

 

                                                                            Hair worthy of being on the heads of the goddesses,

                                                                            Since you have left your companions for me

                                                                            I feel hope building in my heart ;

 

                                                                            Courage, Love – the town is already taken

                                                                            Since it has rebelliously divided itself into two parts

                                                                            And one part has just handed itself to the conqueror.

 

 

My, what contorted grammar throughout: quite often you have to read two or three lines before the meaning emerges clearly. The opening for instance: “si blond si beau” could easily mean ‘She’s as blond as she is beautiful’ – but then line 3 forces a re-think. The references are almost simple by comparison:  Jason of course gained the golden fleece – but not directly from the bulls. It was Aeëtes (Medea’s father) who promised him the fleece if he would just plough his fields using the fire-breathing, brass-hooved bulls); and the result of ploughing the fields was not winning the fleece, but reaping the fruit of the dragons’ teeth, an army of soldiers. Only then, and after further skullduggery, was Jason able to obtain the fleece (by theft!)  ‘By force’, incidentally – though Ronsard’s usage is no less ambiguous – means that the bulls were forced by Jason to do his will.

 

The second quatrain refers to the fabled qualities of Tyrian purple – again, Ronsard’s image is deliberately oblique, since it was the colour of Tyrian cloth, not its innate qualities or those of its workmanship, that were valued. (Tyrian purple was a dye extracted from sea-snails, which actually improves its colour and brightness with exposure to air , rather than fading. It is estimated that “twelve thousand snails of Murex brandaris yield no more than 1.4 g of pure dye, enough to colour only the trim of a single garment.” No wonder that purple sold for its weight in silver. It is this value that Ronsard indirectly alludes to: though inevitably only the finest cloths, too, would be dyed with such expensive colour. Here, “Tyr” is the city of Tyre (hence, ‘Tyrian’ (or Phoenician) purple), no relation to the Norse god of the same name.

 

In the earlier version Blanchemain prints a minor variant in line 5 “qui Tyr ont esleu …” (‘those who elected to live in Tyre’); and a different form of line 9 “Poil folleton où nichent mes liesses” (‘Wild hair where my joys lodge’). He adds an admonitory footnote, that this sonnet is not about Cassandre, i.e. that Ronsard ‘re-used’ an earlier sonnet.