Helen 2:52

Je suis esmerveillé que mes pensers ne sont

Laz [las] de penser en vous, y pensant à toute heure :

Me souvenant de vous, or’ je chante, or’ je pleure,

Et d’un penser passé cent nouveaux se refont.

 

Puis legers comme oiseaux ils volent et s’en-vont,

M’abandonnant tout seul, devers vostre demeure :

Et s’ils sçavoient parler, souvent vous seriez seure

Du mal que mon cœur cache, et qu’on lit sur mon front.

 

Or sus venez Pensers, pensons encor en elle,

De tant y repenser je ne me puis lasser :

Pensons en ces beaux yeux et combien elle est belle,

 

Elle pourra vers nous les siens faire passer.

Venus non seulement nourrit de sa mammelle

Amour son fils aisné, mais aussi le Penser.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I am astonished that my thoughts are not

                                                                            Tired of thinking of you, thinking of you all the time ;

                                                                            Remembering you, sometimes I sing, sometimes cry,

                                                                            And as one thought passes a hundred new ones reform.

 

                                                                            Then, light as birds, they fly and are gone

                                                                            Towards your home, leaving me all alone;

                                                                            And they know how to speak; you’ll often be sure

                                                                            Of the ills which are hidden in my heart and which can be read on my brow.

 

                                                                            Come then my thoughts, let’s think again of her,

                                                                            Of thinking so often on her I cannot tire;

                                                                            Let’s think of those fair eyes and of how fair she is;

 

                                                                            She might let hers pass over us.

                                                                            Venus not only feeds at her breast

                                                                            Her elder son Love, but Thought too.

 

 

 

Did you get the message that this poem is all about ‘thinking’?! In fact, the French is even more insistent than my translation in that the ‘p’ (of ‘penser’) also alliterates with other words regularly, too. Personally I am not convinced that Ronsard carries it off: a good effort but ultimately unsuccessful.

 

The idea of thoughts as birds, flying lightly but also speaking (singing), is attractive; though being ‘left alone’ by them – as immediately he starts thinking of Helen again – doesn’t seem to work very well.

 

The last line is a minor puzzle: I don’t recall any ‘authorised’ myth which credits Venus with a son Thought. Indeed I’m struggling to think of a god (or goddess) of ‘thought’. I suspect this is something Ronsard has invented for the poem: but his knowledge of the classics was far wider and deeper than mine, so I can’t rule out a real source for this.

 

It is interesting that he is ’emulating’ (basing his work on, but seeking to surpass) a poem of Petrarch’s. It’s not a translation, not least because Petrarch begins with thought but moves on to other actions in each ‘section’ of the poem – so we get thinking + talking + walking + writing (4+4+3+3). Because of this, I think this works rather better than Ronsard’s monothematic poem.

 

 

Io son già stanco di pensar sí come

i miei pensier’ in voi stanchi non sono,

et come vita anchor non abbandono

per fuggir de’ sospir’ sí gravi some;

 

et come a dir del viso et de le chiome

et de’ begli occhi, ond’io sempre ragiono,

non è mancata omai la lingua e ‘l suono

dí et notte chiamando il vostro nome;

 

et che’ pie’ non son fiaccati et lassi

a seguir l’orme vostre in ogni parte

perdendo inutilmente tanti passi;

 

Et onde vien l’enchiostro, onde le carte

ch’i’ vo empiendo di voi: se ‘n ciò fallassi,

colpa d’Amor, non già defecto d’arte.

 

 

                                                                            I’m now weary of thinking of how

                                                                            my thoughts of you are never weary,

                                                                            and how I’ve not yet abandoned life

                                                                            to flee so heavy a weight of sighs;

 

                                                                            and of how, to speak of your face and hair

                                                                            and your fair eyes, which I am always considering,

                                                                            my tongue never lacks the sound,

                                                                            day and night calling your name;

 

                                                                            and of how my feet are never exhausted or tired

                                                                            of following your steps in every place,

                                                                            uselessly wasting so many paces;

 

                                                                            and of how it happens that all that ink and paper

                                                                            I use, writing of you …  If in this I’m wrong,

                                                                            it’s a fault of Love, not a defect of art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:55

Je te voulois nommer pour Helene, Ortygie

Renouvellant en toy d’Ortyge le renom.

Le tien est plus fatal : Helene est un beau nom,

Helene, honneur des Grecs, la terreur de Phrygie :

 

Si pour sujet fertil Homere t’a choisie,

Je puis suivant son train qui va sans compagnon,

Te chantant m’honorer, et non pas toy, sinon

Qu’il te plaise estimer ma rude Poësie.

 

Tu passes en vertus les Dames de ce temps

Aussi loin que l’Hyver est passé du Printemps,

Digne d’avoir autels, digne d’avoir Empire.

 

Laure ne te veincroit de renom ny d’honneur

Sans le Ciel qui luy donne un plus digne sonneur,

Et le mauvais destin te fait present du pire.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I’d have preferred to name you, instead of Helen, Ortygian,

                                                                            Renewing in you the renown of Ortygia.

                                                                            Your own [name] is more deadly : [yet] Helen is a lovely name,

                                                                            Helen, glory of the Greeks, terror of Phrygia ;

 

                                                                            If Homer had chosen you as his fruitful subject,

                                                                            I could, following the train of him who goes without companion

                                                                            And singing of you, honour myself yet not you, unless

                                                                            It pleases you to value my crude poetry.

 

                                                                            You surpass in virtues the ladies of our time

                                                                            As far as Winter is surpassed by Spring,

                                                                            Worthy to have altars, worthy to have Dominion.

 

                                                                            Laura would not beat you in fame or honour

                                                                            If Heaven had not given her a worthier poet

                                                                            And evil destiny made you the gift of a worse one.

 

 

This poem offers a number of difficulties, which make it the more interesting: the thought is quite compressed in stanza 2, in particular.

 

The opening lines differentiate ‘Ortygie’ and ‘Ortyge’. They are both presented as nouns: yet awkwardly, classical ‘Ortygia’ is another name for Delos, while ‘Ortyga’ (perhaps the English – or Italian – equivalent of ‘Ortyge’) is a town in Sicily. The renown of Delos, yes, not least as the birthplace of the chaste goddess Artemis-Diana: is Ortyga renowned for anything? And clearly there is no way Ronsard is looking to the Greek noun ‘ortyx’ – it means a quail! So I’ve reasoned that, instead, Ronsard intends the first as an adjective formed from the second – ‘Ortygian’ from ‘Ortygia’ – even though that’s not quite what he appears to say …

 

Then, line 3: “is Helen’s ‘name’ or ‘renown’ more deadly (or, associated with death)? And whichever it is, how to manage the sharp contrast between its deadliness and Helen being ‘a lovely name’? I’ve added a ‘yet’ to make that transition. (Helen is ‘terror of the Phrygians’, being dangerous to Troy whose queen, Hecuba, was a Phrygian princess.)

 

Then stanza 2: I think the logic is, ‘if Homer had written about Helen I could follow him; but writing poetry (even about you) would only bring me honour, not you, unless you value my poetry (which would mean you would value both what I’ve written and the good things people say about it); and yet (last stanza), you have an inferior poet in me (regardless of how much you value my writing)’. Though, of course, Ronsard clearly expects people to say good things about his poetry, even if it’s inferior to Petrarch’s …

 

Petrarch is a ‘sonneur’, which is more ‘musician’ than poet; but once again it’s worth remembering that for Ronsard the two are closely linked.

 

Only one tiny variant in Blanchemain, in line 9 ‘vertu‘ instead of the plural.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Garnier’s tribute to Ronsard

It is SO long since I posted anything here: I hope to get going again & finish off Helen 2 at least. Meanwhile, it felt right to include Garnier’s tribute to the dead Ronsard – not least because my own attempt to preserve his memory has faltered …

This elegy was originally published in Binet’s memorial volume, Discours de la Vie de Pierre de Ronsard, in 1586. It was picked up and anthologised in 1778, in volume 8 of the Annales poétiques, ou Almanach des Muses, after which it reappeared several times elsewhere, copied from that anthology,and can now be found in several places on the web. But the 1778 anthologisers quietly abbreviated Garnier’s text – removing approximately 50% of it! So the versions found elsewhere are likewise abbreviated and I think this is the first time the full original text has been reproduced online.

Elégie sur le trespas de feu Monsieur de Ronsard   A monsieur des Portes Abbé de Thiron     Nature est aux humains sur tous autres cruelle, On ne voit animaux En la terre et au ciel, ny en l’onde infidele, Qui souffrent tant de maux.   Le rayon eternel de l’essence divine, Qu’en naissant nous avons, De mille passions noz tristes jours épine Tandis que nous vivons :   Et non pas seulement vivants il nous torture, Mais nous blesse au trespas, Car pour prevoir la mort, elle nous est plus dure Qu’elle ne seroit pas.   Si tost que nostre esprit dans le cerveau raisonne, Nous l’alons redoutant, Et sans cette frayeur que la raison nous donne, On ne la craindroit tant.   Nous creignons de mourir, de perdre la lumiere Du Soleil radieus, Nous creignons de passer sur les ais d’une biere Le fleuve stygieus.   Nous creignons de laisser noz maisons delectables, Noz biens et noz honneurs, Ces belles dignitez, qui nous font venerables Remarquer des seigneurs.   Les peuples des forests, de l’air et des rivieres, Qui ne voyent si loing, Tombent journellement aux mortelles pantieres Sans se gesner de soing.   Leur vie est plus heureuse, et moins sujette aus peines, Et encombres divers, Que nous souffrons chetifs en noz ames humaines, De desastres couverts.   Ores nous poind l’amour, Tyran de la jeunesse, Ores l’avare faim De l’or injurieus, qui fait que chacun laisse La vertu pour le gain.   Cetuy-cy se tourmente apres les grandeurs vaines, Enflé d’ambition, De cetuy-la l’envie empoisonne les veines Cruelle passion.   La haine, le courroux, le depit, la tristesse, L’outrageuse rancœur, Et la tendre pitié du foeble qu’on oppresse, Nous bourellent le cœur.   Et voila nostre vie, ô miserables hommes ! Nous semblons estre nez Pour estre, cependant qu’en ce monde nous sommes, Tousjours infortunez.   Et enquore, où le ciel en une belle vie Quelque vertus enclost, La chagrineuse mort qui les hommes envye Nous la pille aussi tost.   Ainsi le verd email d’une riante prée Est soudain effacé, Ainsi l’aymable teint d’une rose pourprée Est aussi tost passé.   La jeunesse de l’an n’est de longue durée, Mais l’Hyver aux dois gours, Et l’Esté embruny de la torche etherée Durent [orig : durant] presque toujours.   Mais las ! ô doux Printems, vostre verdeur fanie Retourne en mesme point, Mais quand nostre jeunesse une fois est finie Elle ne revient point.   La vieillesse nous prend maladive et facheuse, Hostesse de la mort, Qui pleins de mal nous pousse en une tombe creuse D’où jamais on ne sort.   Des Portes, que la Muse honore et favorise Entre tous ceux qui ont Suivy le saint Phebus, et sa science aprise Dessur le double mont.   Vous voyez ce Ronsard, merveilles de nostre age, L’honneur de l’Univers, Paitre de sa chair morte, inevitable outrage, Une source de vers.   De rien vostre Apollon, ny les Muses pucelles Ne luy ont profité, Bien qu’ils eussent pour luy les deux croppes jumelles De Parnasse quitté :   Et qu’ils eust conduits aux accords de sa Lire Dans ce François sejour, Pour chanter de noz Roys, et leurs victoires dire, Ou sonner de l’amour.   C’est grand cas, que ce Dieu, qui des enfance l’aime, Afranchit du trespas Ses divines chansons, et que le chantre mesme N’en affranchisse pas.   Vous en serez ainsi : car bien que vostre gloire, Espandue en tous lieux, Ne descende estoufée en une tombe noire Comme un peuple otieux,   Et que voz sacrez vers, qui de honte font taire Les plus grands du metier, Nous facent choir des mains, quand nous en cuidons faire, La plume et le papier.   Si verres vous le fleuve où tout le monde arrive, Et payrez le denier Que prend pour nous passer jusques à l’autre rive L’avare Nautonnier.   Que ne ressemblons nous aus vagueuses rivieres Qui ne changent de cours ? Ou au branle eternel des ondes marinieres Qui reflotent toujours ?   Et n’est-ce pas pitié, que ces roches pointues, Qui semblent depiter, De vents, de flots, d’oraige, et de foudres batues, L’ire de Jupiter,   Vivent incessament, incessament demeurent Dans leurs membres pierreux, Et que des hommes, tels que ce grand Ronsard, meurent Par un sort rigoureux ?   O destin lamentable ! un homme qui approche De la divinité Est ravy de ce monde, et le front d’une roche Dure un eternité.   Qui pourra desormais d’une alaine assez forte Entonner comme il faut La gloir de mon Roy, puisque la muse est morte Qui le chantoit si haut ?   Qui dira ses combats ? ses batailles sanglantes ? Quand jeune, Duc d’Anjou, De sa main foudroya les troupes protestantes Aux plaines de Poictou ?   Des portes qui sera-ce ? une fois vostre Muse, Digne d’estre en son lieu, Fuyant l’honneur profane aujourdhuy ne s’amuse Qu’au loüanges de Dieu.   Et qui sera-ce donc ? quelle voix suffisante, Pour sonner gravement Joyeuse nostre Achil, dont la gloire naissante S’acroist journellement ?   Qui dira son courage, indomtable à la peine, Indomtable à la peur, Et comme il appareille avec une ame humaine Un magnanime cœur ?   Comme il est de l’honneur, du seul honneur avare, D’autres biens liberal, Cherissant un chacun, fors celuy qui s’egare Du service royal ?   Ne permette Clion et Phebus ne permette Que Ronsard abattu Par l’ennuyeuse mort, ne se treuve Poëte Qui chante sa vertu.   Adieu, mon cher Ronsard, l’abeille en vostre tombe Face tousjour son miel, Que le baume Arabic à tout jamais y tombe, Et la manne du ciel.   Le Laurier y verdisse avec le lierre Et le Mirthe amoureus, Riche en mille boutons, de toutes parts l’enserre Le Rosier odoreus :   Le tin, le baselic, la franche Marguerite, Et nostre Lis François, Et cette rouge fleur, où la pleinte est escrite Du malcontent Gregeois.   Les Nymphes de Gâtine, et les Nayades sainctes, Qui habitent le Loir, Le venant arroser de larmettes epreintes, Ne cessent de douloir.   Las ! Cloton a tranché le fil de vostre vie D’une piteuse main, La voyant de vieillesse et de goutes suyvie, Torturage inhumain.   Voyant la povre France en son corps outragee Par le sanglant effort De ses enfans, qui l’ont tant de foys ravagee, Soupirer à la mort :   Le Souysse aguerry, qui aus combats se loüe, L’Anglois fermé de flots, Ceux qui boivent le Pau, le Tage et la Danoüe, Fondre dessus son dos.   Ainsi que le Vautour, qui de griffes bourelles Va sans fin tirassant De Promethé le foye, en patures nouvelles Coup sur coup renaissant.   Les meurtres inhumains se font entre les freres, Spectacle plein d’horreur, Et deja les enfans courent contre leurs peres D’une aveugle fureur :   Le cœur des Citoyens se remplit de furies, Les Paysans ecartez Meurent comme une haye : on ne voit que turies Par les chams desertez.   Et puis alez chanter l’honneur de nostre France En siecles si maudits, Attendez-vous qu’aucun vos labeurs recompense Comme on faisait jadis ?   La triste povreté noz chansons accompaigne, La Muse, les yeus bas, Se retire de nous, voyant que lon dedaigne Ses antiques ebats.   Vous estes donque heureus, et vostre mort heureuse, O Cigne des François, Ne lamentez que nous, dont la vie ennuyeuse Meurt le jour mile fois.   Vous errez maintenant aux campaignes d’Elise, A l’ombre des Vergers, Où chargent en tout tems, asseurez de la Bise, Les jaunes Orengers :   Où les prez sont toujours tapissez de verdure, Les vignes de raisins, Et les petits oyseaus, gasoüillans au murmure Des ruisseaus cristalins.   Là le Cedre gommeus odoreusement sue, Et l’arbre du Liban, Et l’Ambre, et Myrrhe, au lit de son Pere receüe, Pleure le long de l’an.   En grand’ foule acourus, autour de vous se pressent Les heros anciens, Qui boyvent le nectar, d’ambrosie se paissent, Aux bords Elisiens :   Sur tous le grand Eumolpe, et le divin Orphee, Et Line, et Amphion, Et Musee, et celuy, dont la plume eschauffee Mist en cendre Ilion.   Le loüengeur Thebain, le chantre de Mantoüe, Le Lyrique latin, Et aveques Seneque, honneur grand de Cordoüe, L’amoureus Florentin :   Tous vont battant des mains, sautellent de liesse, S’entredisant entre eux, Voyla celuy, qui donte et l’Itale et la Grece En poëmes nombreus :   L’un vous donne sa lyre, et l’au[t]re sa trompette, L’autre vous veut donner Son Myrthe, son Lierre, ou son Laurier profette, Pour vous en couronner.   Ainsi vivez heureuse, ame toute divine, Tandis que le destin Nous reserve aus malheurs de la France, voysine De sa derniere fin.

Elegy on the death of the late M.de Ronsard   To M. Desportes, abbot of Thiron     Nature is to men above all others cruel, We do not see animals On earth or in the skies, or in the treacherous seas, Suffering so many ills.   The eternal ray of the divine essence Which we receive at birth With a hundred passions troubles our sad days While we live.   And not only while we live does it torture us, But injures us at our death, For foreseeing death is to us harder Than the event itself will be.   As soon as our spirit reasons within our brains, We begin to fear it, And without this terror which reason gives us We would not be so frightened of it.   We are frightened of dying, of losing the light Of the radiant Sun, We are frightened of crossing, on the planks of a bier, The Stygian river;   We are frightened of leaving our delightful homes, Our goods and our honours, Those fine dignities which make us respected And noticed by lords.   The inhabitants of the forests, the air and the rivers Who do not see so far, Fall daily to death-dealing snares Without troubling themselves with worries.   Their life is happier, and less subject to the troubles And various burdens Which we weakly suffer in our human souls, Overcome by disasters.   Sometimes love afflicts us, that tyrant of our youth, Sometimes the greedy hunger For harmful gold, which makes everyone abandon Virtue for gain.   This man torments himself seeking empty greatness, Puffed up with ambition, That man’s veins are poisoned by envy, That cruel passion.   Hatred, anger, spite, sorrow, Hurtful bitterness, And tender pity for the weak who are oppressed Bubble away in our hearts.   And that’s our life, o wretched men! We seem to be born To be, while we are in this world, Always unfortunate.   And even when heaven includes Some happiness in a good life, Sorrowful death which envies men Steals it from us soon enough.   Just so the fresh mosaic of a gay meadow Is suddenly wiped away, Just so the lovely tint of a crimson rose Is soon enough past.   The year’s youth does not last long, But Winter with his stiff fingers And Summer scorched by the heavenly flame Last almost forever.   Alas, sweet Spring, your faded freshness Returns to the same state [each year] But when once our youth is finished It does not return.   Old age takes us, sickly and disagreeable, Death’s hostess, And, full of ills, pushes us into a dug grave From which none ever escapes.   Desportes, whom the Muse honours and favours Among all those of us who have Followed holy Apollo and learned his wisdom Upon the double mount:   You see this Ronsard, the marvel of our age, The glory of the world, Feeding with his dead flesh – an inescapable indignity – A stream of worms.   Nothing have your Apollo and his maiden Muses Profited him, Although for him they abandoned The twin mounts of Parnassus,   And although they have spent time, to the harmonies of his lyre, In this France of ours, To sing of our Kings and announce their victories, Or to celebrate love.   It’s very clear that the god who loved him from infancy Excepted from death His divine songs, and yet could not except from it The singer himself.   It will be the same for you: for although your glory, Spreading to every place, Will not descend, smothered, into a dark tomb Like unproductive folk’s,   And though your sacred verse, which for shame makes The greatest in the business fall silent, Makes the pen and paper fall from our hands, When we wish to use them:   Yet still you will see the river where every man arrives, And you will pay the penny Which the greedy Boatman takes That we may pass to the other side.   Why are we not like the rippling waters Which don’t change their course? Or the eternal movement of the sea’s waves Which break and break again?   Isn’t it a pity that those sharp rocks Which seem to despise The winds, the tides, storms and battering of lightning, The anger of Jupiter,   Live on eternally, remain eternally In their stony forms, And that men like the great Ronsard die By harsh fate?   O grievous destiny! A man who approaches The divine Is stolen from this world, and a rock-face Lasts an eternity.   Who will be able henceforth with so strong a voice To thunder as they should Of my King’s glory, since the muse is dead Who sang it so loudly?   Who shall sing of his combats? Of his bloody battles? Who when young, as the Duke of Anjou, Overthrew with his might the protestant troops On the plains of Poitou …   Deportes, who will it be? Once, perhaps, your muse Was worthy to be in his place; But fleeing worldly honours today she employs herself Only in the praise of God.   So who will it be? What voice sufficient To celebrate gravely Our joyous Achilles, whose budding glory Grows daily?   Who shall speak of his courage, unconquered by strife, Unconquered by fear, And how it equipped with a human soul A magnanimous heart?   How it is hungry for honour, for honour alone, Liberal with other good things, Cherishes everyone, even those who fall away From the king’s service?   Do not permit, Clio, and Apollo do not permit That Ronsard, defeated By grievous death, should not find a Poet To sing of his worth.   Farewell, my dear Ronsard, may the bees always Make their honey on your tomb, May balm from Arabia forever fall there With manna from heaven.   May the laurel flourish there, along with ivy And lovers’ myrtle, Rich with a thousand buds, and on all sides may The perfumed rose-bush embrace it,   And thyme, basil, the simple daisy, Our lily of France, And that red flower on which is written the plaint Of the unhappy Greek.   May the nymphs of Gastine and the holy water-nymphs Who live in the Loir Having just poured out and expressed their tears for you Not cease from grieving.   Alas! Clotho has cut the thread of your life With her pitying hand, Seeing it accompanied by old age and gout, Those inhuman tortures,   And seeing our poor France, wounded in her body By the bloody struggles Of her children, who have so many times ravaged her, Sighing for death;   And Switzerland at war, giving itself over to strife, England enclosed by the seas, And those who drink from the Po, Tagus and Danube Drowning beneath their waters;   Just like the vulture, which with its executioner’s claws Endlessly rakes The liver of Prometheus, in new pastures Renewing blow on blow,   Inhuman murders take place between brothers, A horrific sight, And now children rush upon their fathers In blind madness;   The hearts of city-dwellers are filled with Furies, The country-folk, swept aside, Die in their rows; we see nothing but killings Throughout the deserted countryside.   And yet you go on singing of the honour of our France In times so accursed: Do you expect anyone to reward your labours As they did in the past?   Wretched poverty accompanies our songs; The Muse, her eyes lowered, Leaves us, seeing that we disdain Her former amusements.   So, you are fortunate, and your death fortunate, O Swan of the French, Lament only for us, whose troubled lives Die a thousand times every day.   You now wander in the fields of Elysium, In the shade of the orchards Where at all times, secure from cold northerly winds, The tawny orange-trees are laden;   Where the meadows are always carpeted in green, The vines with grapes, And the little birds go chattering to the murmur Of crystalline streams.   There the cedar sweats its perfumed gum, And the tree of Lebanon Weeps both amber and myrrh, received at its father’s bed, All year long.   Running up in a great crowd, around you press The ancient heroes Who drink nectar and feed on ambrosia On the banks of Elysium,   Above all great Eumolpe and godlike Orpheus And Linus and Amphion And Musaeus, and he whose burning pen Set fire to Troy;   The Theban praise-singer, the poet of Mantua, The Latin lyricist And, with Seneca the great glory of Cordoba, The Florentine love-poet,   All of them clapping their hands, leaping with joy, Saying to one another, “There he is, the man who surpassed Italy and Greece In many a poem”.   One of them gives you his lyre, another his trumpet, Another tries to give you His myrtle, his ivy, or his prophetic laurel To crown you with them.   So, live on happily, godlike soul, While fate keeps us back For the misfortunes of France, close To her final end.

 

(In verse 15, I have amended one word slightly, to form a proper sentence – though Garnier may have been deliberately leaving the sentence hanging.)

 

As one would expect, Garnier’s tribute ranges over the areas Ronsard himself wrote about – the King and the civil wars, classical myth, nature, love poetry, Ronsard’s home on the Loir … So there are plenty of relatively obscure references perhaps worth amplifying:

 – the dedication is to Ronsard’s “successor”, Philippe Desportes – a lesser poet, but one whose fame eclipsed Ronsard’s in the latter portion of his life;

 – verse 5, the “Stygian river”, the Styx, is the river between the living world and Hades, across which Charon the ferryman or boatman (verse 25) takes all dead souls;

 – verses 18 & 20, Parnassus (the ‘double mount’, at right – photo credit Rens van der Sluijs) is the traditional home of the Muses. Ovid called it ‘biceps’, that is ‘two-headed’, and between its twin peaks was Delphi, the ‘omphalos’ (navel, centre) of the world;

 – verse 33, ‘Achilles’ (the great soldier) means of course the King

 – verse 37, Clio is usually the Muse of history, but sometimes also the Muse of lyre-playing: both seem appropriate here;

 – verse 40, the ‘unhappy Greek’ is not Narcissus but Hyacinthus, whose flower bears the Greek letters AIAI (‘alas’, ‘woe’);

 – verse 41, the Gastine & Loir are familiar as part of Ronsard’s beloved estates;

 – verse 42, Clotho is one of the Fates who determine the length of a man’s life – though note that Clotho is normally the Fate who spins the thread of life, Atropos the one who cuts it …

 – verse 45, the story of Prometheus eternally having his liver torn out by the eagle (or vulture) by day only for it to re-grow overnight, is well-known;

 – verse 53, I confess I have no idea what the end of line 3 (“received at its father’s bed”) is referring to … Ideas welcome. Amber and myrrh (like frankincense too) are resinous – and therefore associated with the resin-rich cedars of Lebanon, though myrrh in particular comes form small thorn-trees not huge cedars;

 –  verse 55-56 list many of the greatest poets of the past, legendary and historical.

     – Eumolpe (or Eumolpos – which means ‘beautiful song’) was founder of the Eleusininan mysteries in ancient Athens;

     – ‘godlike Orpheus’ is still well-known to us if only for carelessly losing Eurydice after charming Cerberus, the hell-dog, and Hades himself with his song;

     – Linus, sometimes viewed as Orpheus’s brother, was the inventor of lyric song and/or the harp;

     – Amphion, one of the founders of Thebes, was taught music by the god Hermes himself – and has a modern poetic form named after him;

     – Musaeus, lawgiver of Athens, was also was held to have been one of the great poets by Athenians – Socrates in the Apology links his name with three others in this list: “What would not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer?”;

     – Homer indeed is the next on the list, he “whose burning pen Set fire to Troy”;

     – the “Theban praise-singer” is Hesiod, associated with Mt. Helicon in Boeotia.

Bringing us from legendary to historical poets, “the poet of Mantua” is Virgil and the “Latin lyricist” is Horace. Seneca, although we think of him as Roman, was indeed born in Spain, in Cordoba; and last in the list and the only ‘modern’, the love-poet from Florence is of course Petrarch.

 

Helen 2:2

A fin qu’à tout jamais de siecle en siecle vive

La parfaite amitié que Ronsard vous portoit,

Comme vostre beauté la raison luy ostoit,

Comme vous enchaisnez sa liberté captive :

 

A fin que d’âge en âge à noz neveux arrive,

Que toute dans mon sang vostre figure estoit,

Et que rien sinon vous mon cœur ne souhaitoit,

Je vous fais un present de ceste Sempervive.

 

Elle vit longuement en sa jeune verdeur :

Long temps apres la mort je vous feray revivre,

Tant peut le docte soin d’un gentil serviteur,

 

Qui veut en vous servant toutes vertus ensuivre.

Vous vivrez (croyez-moy) comme Laure en grandeur,

Au moins tant que vivront les plumes et le livre.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            That for ever, from age to age, may live on

                                                                            The perfect love which Ronsard bears you,

                                                                            Since your beauty has stolen his reason,

                                                                            Since you keep in chains his captive liberty ;

 

                                                                            That from age to age to our descendants may be known

                                                                            How your picture was everywhere in my blood,

                                                                            And how my heart desired nothing but you,

                                                                            I make you a gift of this sempervivum

 

                                                                            It lives long in its youthful freshness :

                                                                            A long time after death I shall make you live again,

                                                                            So far as the learned care of a noble servant

 

                                                                            Who wishes in serving you to follow all the virtues.

                                                                            You shall live, believe me, like Laura in greatness,

                                                                            At least as long as live pens and books.

 

 

 

An ordinary offering – a succulent houseplant – generates the conceit of ‘ever-living’ through the memorial of poetry; and suddenly we are back in the world of Petrarch and Laura. As we give up pens and books for online messaging and e-books, it would be nice to think Ronsard will survive the changeover 🙂

Nicolas Richelet, early editor of the Helen poems, offers this footnote on the sempervivum:  “A kind of simple which takes its name from its nature. It is not without cause that he makes this present, sempervivum is also used to make someone fall in love. That’s why in ancient times it was attached to house doors, to chase away all hatred and hostility.”

 

(This use of sempervivum was apparently unknown to Culpepper, whose Herbal says ‘Our ordinary Houseleek is good for all inward heats, as well as outward, and in the eyes or other parts of the body: a posset made of the juice is singularly good in all hot agues, for it cooleth and tempereth the blood and spirits and quencheth the thirst; and is also good to stay all defluction or sharp and salt rheums in the eyes, the juice being dropped into them. If the juice be dropped into the ears, it easeth pain…. It cooleth and restraineth all hot inflammations, St. Anthony’s fire (Erysipelas), scaldings and burnings, the shingles, fretting ulcers, ringworms and the like; and much easeth the pain and the gout.’ – from Wikipedia.)

 

Blanchemain has only two variants, plus a third hidden in a footnote. In line 4 he has a chnage of tense, “Comme vous enchaisniez … ” (‘Since you have kept in chains …’); and in line 13 “Vous vivrez et croistrez …” (‘You shall live and increase like Laura in greatness’), which is perhaps better in meaning but has none of the rhythmic complexity of the revised version. The footnote offers a variant of the opening, “A fin qu’en renaissant …” (‘That through being reborn from age to age may live on …’), which offers two slightly different ways of reading the opening: being reborn from age to age, in order to live on; or living on from age to age through being reborn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours book 2 – Elégie à son livre

Although it’s been months since my last post, I find myself still in book 2 of the Amours! This is really the very last poem from book 2 I’ll be posting, though: the lengthy Elegy which Ronsard prefixed to the book as he sent it out into the world.

Mon fils, si tu sçavois ce qu’on dira de toy, Tu ne voudrois jamais desloger de chez moy, Enclos en mon estude : et ne voudrois te faire Salir ny fueilleter aux mains du populaire. Quand tu seras parti, sans jamais retourner, Estranger loin de moy te faudra sejourner : « Car ainsi que le vent sans retourner s’envole, « Sans espoir de retour s’eschappe la parole.   Or tu es ma parole, à qui de nuict et jour J’ay conté les propos que me contoit Amour, Pour les mettre en ces vers qu’en lumiere tu portes, Crochetant maugré moy de ma chambre les portes, Pauvret! qui ne sçais pas que nos citoyens sont Plus subtils par le nez que le Rhinoceront.   Donc avant que tenter la mer et le naufrage, Voy du port la tempeste, et demeure au rivage. « Tard est le repentir de tost s’estre embarqué.   Tu seras tous les jours des médisans moqué D’yeux, et de hausse-becs, et d’un branler de teste. « Sage est celuy qui croit à qui bien l’amoneste.   Tu sçais (mon cher enfant) que je ne te voudrois Tromper, contre nature impudent je faudrois, Et serois un Serpent de farouche nature Si je voulois trahir ma propre geniture : Car tout tel que tu es, n’agueres je te fis, Et je ne t’aime moins qu’un pere aime son fils.   Quoy? tu veux donc partir : et tant plus je te cuide Retenir au logis, plus tu hausses la bride. Va donc puis qu’il te plaist, mais je te suppliray De respondre à chacun ce que je te diray, Afin que toy (mon fils) tu gardes en l’absence De moy le pere tien, l’honneur et l’innocence.   Si quelque dame honneste et gentille de cœur (Qui aura l’inconstance et le change en horreur) Me vient, en te lisant, d’un gros sourcil reprendre Dequoy je ne devois oublier ma Cassandre, Qui la premiere au cœur le trait d’amour me mist, Et que le bon Petrarque un tel peché ne fist, Qui fut trente et un an amoureux de sa dame, Sans qu’une autre jamais luy peust eschauffer l’ame : Respons-luy je te pri’, que Petrarque sur moy N’avoit authorité pour me donner sa loy, Ny à ceux qui viendroyent apres luy, pour les faire Si long temps amoureux sans leur lien desfaire.   Luy-mesme ne fut tel : car à voir son escrit Il estoit esveillé d’un trop gentil esprit Pour estre sot trente ans, abusant sa jeunesse Et sa Muse au giron d’une vieille maistresse : Ou bien il jouyssoit de sa Laurette, ou bien Il estoit un grand fat d’aimer sans avoir rien. Ce que je ne puis croire, aussi n’est-il croyable : Non, il en jouyssoit : puis la fist admirable, « Chaste, divine, saincte : aussi l’amoureux doit « Celebrer la beauté dont plaisir il reçoit : « Car celuy qui la blasme apres la jouissance « N’est homme, mais d’un Tygre il a prins sa naissance. Quand quelque jeune fille est au commencement Cruelle, dure, fiere à son premier amant, Constant il faut attendre : il peut estre qu’une heure Viendra sans y penser, qui la rendra meilleure. Mais quand elle devient voire de jour en jour Plus dure et plus rebelle, et plus rude en amour, On s’en doit esloigner, sans se rompre la teste De vouloir adoucir une si sotte beste. Je suis de tel advis : me blasme de ceci, M’estime qui voudra, je le conseille ainsi.   Les femmes bien souvent sont cause que nous sommes Volages et legers, amadoüans les hommes D’un espoir enchanteur, les tenant quelquefois Par une douce ruse, un an, ou deux, ou trois, Dans les liens d’Amour sans aucune allegeance : Ce-pendant un valet en aura joüissance, Ou bien quelque badin emportera ce bien Que le fidele amy à bon droit cuidoit sien. Et si ne laisseront, je parle des rusées Qui ont au train d’amour leurs jeunesses usées, (C’est bien le plus grand mal qu’un homme puisse avoir Que servir une femme accorte à decevoir) D’enjoindre des travaux qui sont insupportables, Des services cruels, des tâches miserables : Car sans avoir esgard à la simple amitié De leurs pauvres servans, cruelles n’ont pitié, Non plus qu’un fier Corsaire en arrogance braves, N’a pitié des captifs aux environs esclaves. Il faut vendre son bien, il faut faire presens De chaisnes, de carquans, de diamans luisans : Il faut donner la Perle, et l’habit magnifique, Il faut entretenir la table et la musique, Il faut prendre querelle, il faut les suporter. Certes j’aimerois mieux dessus le dos porter La hotte, pour curer les estables d’Augée, Que me voir serviteur d’une Dame rusée. « La mer est bien à craindre, aussi est bien le feu, « Et le Ciel quand il est de tonnerres esmeu, « Mais trop plus est à craindre une femme clergesse, « Sçavante en l’art d’amour, quand elle est tromperesse : « Par mille inventions mille maux elle fait, « Et d’autant qu’elle est femme, et d’autant qu’elle sçait. Quiconque fut le Dieu qui la mit en lumiere Il fut premier autheur d’une grande misere.   Il falloit par presens consacrez aux autels Acheter nos enfans des grands Dieux immortels, Et non user sa vie avec ce mal aimable, Les femmes, passion de l’homme miserable, Miserable et chetif d’autant qu’il est vassal, Durant le temps qu’il vit, d’un si fier animal. Mais je vous pri’, voyez comment par fines ruses Elles sçavent trouver mille feintes excuses, Apres qu’ell’ ont failly ! voyez Helene apres Qu’Ilion fut bruslé de la flamme des Grecs, Comme elle amadoüa d’une douce blandice Son badin de mary, qui luy remit son vice, Et qui plus que devant de ses yeux fut épris, Qui scintilloient encor les amours de Pâris. Que dirons-nous d’Ulysse ? encores qu’une trope De jeunes poursuyvans aimassent Penelope, Devorans tout son bien, si est-ce qu’il brusloit D’embrasser son espouse, et jamais ne vouloit Devenir immortel avec Circe la belle, Pour ne revoir jamais Penelope, laquelle Pleurant luy rescrivoit de son fascheux sejour, Pendant qu’en son absence elle faisoit l’amour : Si bien que le Dieu Pan de ses jeux print naissance, (D’elle et de ses muguets la commune semence) Envoyant tout expres, pour sa commodité, Le fils chercher le père en Sparte la cité. « Voilà comment la femme avec ses ruses donte « L’homme, de qui l’esprit toute beste surmonte.   Quand on peut par hazard heureusement choisir Quelque belle maistresse, et l’avoir à plaisir, Soit de haut ou bas lieu, pourveu qu’elle soit fille Humble, courtoise, honneste, amoureuse et gentille, Sans fard, sans tromperie, et qui sans mauvaitié Garde de tout son cœur une simple amitié, Aimant trop mieux cent fois à la mort estre mise, Que de rompre sa foy quand elle l’a promise : Il la faut honorer tant qu’on sera vivant, Comme un rare joyau qu’on treuve peu souvent. « Celuy certainement merite sur la teste « Le feu le plus ardent d’une horrible tempeste, « Qui trompe une pucelle et mesmement alors « Qu’elle se donne à nous, et de cœur et de cors.   N’est-ce pas un grand bien quand on fait un voyage, De rencontrer quelcun qui d’un pareil courage Veut nous acompagner, et comme nous passer Les torrens, les rochers, fascheux à traverser ? Aussi n’est-ce un grand bien de trouver une amie, Qui nous aide à passer cette chetive vie, Qui sans estre fardée ou pleine de rigueur, Traite fidellement de son amy le cueur ?   Dy leur, si de fortune une belle Cassandre Vers moy se fust monstrée un peu courtoise et tendre, Et pleine de pitié eust cherché à guarir Le mal dont ses beaux yeux dix ans m’ont fait mourir, Non seulement du corps, mais sans plus d’une œillade Eust voulu soulager mon pauvre cœur malade, Je ne l’eusse laissée, et m’en soit à tesmoin Ce jeune enfant ailé qui des amours a soin.   Mais voiant que tousjours elle marchoit plus fiere, Je desliay du tout mon amitié premiere, Pour en aimer une autre en ce païs d’Anjou, Où maintenant Amour me detient sous le jou : Laquelle tout soudain je quitteray, si elle M’est comme fut Cassandre, orgueilleuse et rebelle, Pour en chercher une autre, à fin de voir un jour De pareille amitié recompenser m’amour, Sentant l’affection d’une autre dans moymesme : « Car un homme est bien sot d’aimer si on ne l’aime.   Or’ si quelqu’un apres me vient blasmer, dequoy Je ne suis plus si grave en mes vers que j’estoy A mon commencement, quand l’humeur Pindarique Enfloit empoulément ma bouche magnifique : Dy luy que les amours ne se souspirent pas D’un vers hautement grave, ains d’un beau stille bas, Populaire et plaisant, ainsi qu’a fait Tibulle, L’ingenieux Ovide, et le docte Catulle. Le fils de Venus hait ces ostentations : Il suffist qu’on luy chante au vray ses passions Sans enflure ny fard, d’un mignard et doux stile, Coulant d’un petit bruit, comme une eau qui distile. Ceux qui font autrement, ils font un mauvais tour A la simple Venus, et à son fils Amour.   S’il advient quelque jour que d’une voix hardie J’anime l’eschafaut par une tragedie Sentencieuse et grave, alors je feray voir Combien peuvent les nerfs de mon petit sçavoir. Et si quelque furie en mes vers je rencontre, Hardi j’opposeray mes Muses alencontre : Et feray resonner d’un haut et grave son (Pour avoir part au bouc) la tragique tançon. Mais ores que d’Amour les passions je pousse, Humble je veux user d’une Muse plus douce.   Je ne veux que ce vers d’ornement indigent Entre dans une escole, ou qu’un brave regent Me lise pour parade : il suffist si m’amie Le touche de la main dont elle tient ma vie. Car je suis satisfait, si elle prend à gré Ce labeur que je voüe à ses pieds consacré.

My son, if you knew what they’ll say of you, You’d never want to leave my home, But stay shut away in my study; you wouldn’t want yourself Dirtied or leafed thorough by the crowd’s hands. When you’ve gone, never to return, You’ll have to live like a stranger far from me : “For as the wind flies off without returning, So, without hope of returning, the word escapes.”   And you are my word, to whom night and day I have told the ideas which Love told me, So I could put them into these verses which you take into the light, Picking the locks of the doors of my room in defiance of me, Poor thing, who know not that our citizens have Sharper noses than the rhinoceros.   So, before trying the sea and shipwreck, See the storm from port, and stay on the shore. “Early to board, late to repent.”   Every day you’ll be mocked by ill-wishers, With their eyes, their lifted noses, and a shake of the head. “Wise the man who believes a person who gives good advice.”   You know, my dear child, that I have no desire To deceive you: I would have to be shameless, contrary to nature And a serpent with an untamed nature If I sought to betray my own offspring, For just as you are, I recently made you, And I love you no less than a father loves his son.   Yet you still wish to go? And the more I wish To keep you at home, the more you pull at the bit. Go on then, since you want to, but I beg you To answer everyone as I will tell you, So that you, my son, protect in my absence Your father’s – my own! – honour and innocence.   If some honest lady of noble heart, Who is horrified by inconstancy and change, On reading you reproves me with a heavy frown That I ought not to have forgotten my Cassandre, Who was first to shoot the arrow of love into my heart, And that good old Petrarch committed no such sin, Being thirty-one years in love with his lady Without any other ever being able to set his soul ablaze, Then reply to her, I beg, that Petrarch had No authority over me to subject me to his law, Nor those others who came after him, to make us Love so long a time without breaking our ties.   He himself was not like that; for if you look at what he wrote He was a sharp man, with too noble a spirit To be a fool for thirty years, wasting his youth And his Muse in the lap of an old mistress. Either he enjoyed his little Laura, or he was Indeed a great fool to love but not have her at all. I can’t believe that, nor is it believable; No, he enjoyed her, then made her out to be admirable, Chaste, divine, holy: “The lover should also Celebrate the beauty from whom he gains his pleasure; For he who blames her after enjoying her Is no man, but was born of a tiger.”   When some young girl is at the beginning Cruel, harsh and proud to her first lover, He must remain constant; it may be that the time Will come, unexpectedly, which will make her better. But when she becomes from day to day Harsher and more contrary, and coarser in love, You should distance yourself, without wearying yourself Trying to soften so foolish a beast. That’s my advice: blame me for it Or praise me who will, I counsel him thus.   Women are often the reason we are Light and flighty, coaxing men With bewitching hope, sometimes keeping them With sweet tricks for a year, or two, or three, In love’s bonds without relief; And yet a servant will enjoy them, Or perhaps some wag will run off with the delight Which the faithful lover rightly thought his own. And still they won’t stop, I mean those sly girls Who have spent their youths in Love’s train, (It’s certainly the greatest trouble a man can have To serve a woman used to deception) [They won’t stop] demanding work which is insupportable, Cruel service, wretched tasks; For without regard to the simple love Of their poor servants, they cruelly have no pity, No more than a proud corsair, brave and arrogant, Has pity on the captives in his slave-quarters. [The lover] has to sell his goods, make presents Of chains, purses, and shining diamonds; He must give pearls and magnificent clothes, He must look after the table and the music, He must take up her quarrels, and endure them. Certainly I’d prefer to carry on my back A basket and clean the Augean stables, Than to become the servant of a sly Lady. “The sea really should be feared, the fire as well, And the sky when it is shaken with thunder, But much more to be feared is a learned woman Well-versed in the art of love, when she is a deceiver; By a thousand tricks she makes a thousand evils, And she’s as wise as she is a woman.” Whichever was the god who brought her to life, He was the prime author of great misery.   We ought, with presents consecrated at their altars To offer bribes for our children with the great, immortal gods, So they don’t waste their lives with that pleasant evil Woman, the passion of wretched men, Wretched and weak insofar as they’re vassals During their lives of so proud a beast. I beg you, see how by subtle tricks They are able to find a thousand fake excuses After they’ve deceived! Look at Helen after Troy was burned by the Greeks’ fire, How she wheedled with sweet flattery Her fool of a husband, who forgave her vice And fell in love more than before with her eyes Which sparkled still with love for Paris. And what shall we say of Ulysses? While a troop Of young suitors was making love to Penelope, Devouring all his goods, yet still he burned To kiss his wife, and never wished To become immortal with the beautiful Circe So as never again to see Penelope, whom Weeping he wanted to tell about his wearisome journey, While in his absence she was making love: So much so that the god Pan was born from their frolics (The common seed of her and her dandies) As she immediately sent, to make things easier for her, The son to seek his father in the city of Sparta. “That is how woman with her cunning defeats Man, whose spirit overcomes all the animals.”   If by chance you might fortunately choose Some fair mistress, and have her for your pleasure, No matter if she’s from a high or low place provided she is A humble, courteous, honest, loving and gentle girl, Without disguise, without trickery, who without wickedness Keeps with all her heart her simple love, Much preferring to be put to death a hundred times Than to break her word when she has promised it; Then you must honour her while you live As a rare jewel most infrequently found. “He certainly deserves the hottest fires Of terrible storms upon his head Who deceives a maid, especially when She gives herself to us heart and body.“   Isn’t it a great delight when we’re travelling To meet someone who with equal bravery Wishes to a company us and like us to journey Over torrents and rocks, tiresome to cross? And isn’t it a great delight to find a girl Who helps us on this life’s wretched journey, Who without being burdened or full of harshness Treats her lover’s heart faithfully?   Tell them, then, if perchance the fair Cassandre Had showed herself a little courteous and tender towards me, And full of pity had sought to cure The ills with which her fair eyes had put me to death those ten years; If not with her body but with just a single glance She’d been willing to soothe my poor, ill heart, I’d not have left her, let my witness be That young winged child who watches over love-affairs.   But seeing how she always continued more proud I unbound myself from all my first love To love with it another in the country of Anjou, Where Love now keeps me under his yoke. [A love] which I will immediately abandon if she Is to me as Cassandre was, proud and rebellious, To find another, so that one day I may see My love returned with an equal love, Feeling the affection of another within myself: “For a man is a complete fool to love if he isn’t loved.”   So, if someone afterwards chooses to blame me that I am no more as grave in my verse as I was At the beginning, when the Pindaric mood Puffed up in swollen words my magniloquent voice; Then tell him that love does not sigh In high-flown grave verse, but in a fine low style, Pleasant and popular, like that of Tibullus, The ingenious Ovid and the learned Catullus. The son of Venus hates ostentation: Enough that we sing his passions to him truly Without bombast or disguise, in a charming sweet style Flowing with a gentle sound like a tinkling spring. Those who do otherwise do a bad turn To simple Venus and her son Love.   If it should happen one day that with bold voice I enliven the stage with some tragedy Grave and sententious, then I shall show How loud the strings of my little learning can sound. And if I encounter passion in my verse I shall boldly set my Muses against it, And make a tragic dialogue resound with high-flown And serious tones (assuming the tragic buskin). But while I focus on the passions of Love, In lower style I prefer to employ a sweeter Muse.   I do not want these verses, stripped of ornament, To enter some school, or a worthy regent To read me for show; it’s enough if my beloved Touches it with the hand in which she holds my life. For I am satisfied if she approves This work which I dedicate, consecrated, at her feet.

 

A few words of commentary on these 200 lines:- the rhinoceros (or, in the earlier version, elephant) has a ‘subtle’ nose, one good for smelling out the good and the bad: ‘sharp’, we could more easily say in English, but while it’s obvious which sort of ‘sharpness’ the elephant’s nose has, it’s perhaps less so for the rhinoceros where a ‘sharp’ nose could refer to its horn not its sensitivity.- Ronsard’s cynicism about Petrarch’s chaste relationship with Laura is perhaps also a corrective to those scholars who think Ronsard’s own affairs were more imagined than real?  His harsh words about women, implicitly applied to Cassandra, should not be taken too literally: he speaks elsewhere of still loving her.

– there’s a cluster of classical references in the middle of the poem:  the Augean stables, cleaning whose filth was one of Heracles’ ‘impossible’ tasks;  Helen of Troy, taken back by Menelaus after Troy’s fall as she was still the most beautiful woman in the world, though her continuing love for Paris is largely a Ronsardian invention (in Homer, she and Menelaus are genuinely reconciled)

– Ronsard invents, too, Penelope’s unfaithfulness to Odysseus with her troop of suitors – in the Odyssey she famously remains loyal; his son Telemachus journeys to Sparta seeking information from Menelaus at the goddess Athene’s prompting, not sent away by Penelope; and Circe did not offer Odysseus immortality but threatened to turn him into a pig like his followers!  Ronsard has, ironically because it would be obvious to all his readers, twisted the Greek tale on its head. However, at the same time he demonstrates his wide and deep reading: in a pretty obscure Pindar fragment, but as far as I know nowhere else, Penelope is indeed said to be Pan’s mother (the father, though, Apollo not one or several human suitors!)

– where Ronsard turns to his new love in Anjou, he says “Je desliay du tout mon amitié premiere, / Pour en aimer une autre en ce païs d’Anjou“; that “en” technically means that he is giving Marie his first love, transferring it from Cassandre: this is not a new love, but the old one with a new subject.

– for the really interested, “empoulément” is ampoulément, from the same root as ampoule, a ‘swollen’ bulb of glass.

– Ronsard contrasts the style of Pindar – the great Greek poet of Odes – with that of Tibullus, Ovid and Catullus: Romans, but principally contrasted as love-poets and slightly licentious ones at that. (The ‘son of Venus’ is of course Cupid, god of love.)

 

 

See the next post for Blanchemain’s earlier version with its many variants.

 

Amourette (2:67b)

I guess “amourette” is best translated, ‘a little love-song’…

Or’ que l’hyver roidist la glace épesse,

Réchaufons nous ma gentille maistresse,

Non acroupis pres le foyer cendreux,

Mais aux plaisirs des combats amoureux.

Assison-nous sur ceste molle couche :

Sus baisez-moy, tendez-moy vostre bouche,

Pressez mon col de vos bras despliez,

Et maintenant vostre mere oubliez.

 

Que de la dent vostre tetin je morde,

Que vos cheveux fil à fil je destorde :

Il ne faut point en si folastres jeux,

Comme au dimanche arrenger ses cheveux.

 

Approchez donc, tournez-moy vostre jouë.

Vous rougissez ? il faut que je me jouë.

Vous sou-riez : avez-vous point ouy

Quelque doux mot qui vous ait resjouy ?

Je vous disois que la main j’allois mettre

Sur vostre sein : le voulez-vous permettre ?

Ne fuyez pas sans parler : je voy bien

A vos regards que vous le voulez bien.

Je vous cognois en voyant vostre mine.

Je jure Amour que vous estes si fine,

Que pour mourir de bouche ne diriez

Qu’on vous baisast bien que le desiriez :

Car toute fille encor’ qu’elle ait envie

Du jeu d’aimer desire estre ravie.

Tesmoin en est Helene qui suivit

D’un franc vouloir Pâris qui la ravit.

 

Je veux user d’une douce main forte.

Hà vous tombez : vous faites ja la morte.

Hà quel plaisir dans le cœur je reçoy :

Sans vous baiser vous mocqueriez de moy

En vostre lit quand vous seriez seulette.

Or sus c’est fait ma gentille brunette :

Recommençon afin que nos beaux ans

Soyent reschauffez de combats si plaisans.

 

 

                                                                            Now that winter gnaws the thick ice,

                                                                            Let us re-warm ourselves, my gentle mistress,

                                                                            Not crouched near the cinder-filled fireplace,

                                                                            But in the pleasures of love’s contests.

                                                                            Let’s sit on this soft couch;

                                                                            Come, kiss me, offer me your lips,

                                                                            Squeeze my neck in your enlaced arms,

                                                                            And now forget your mother!

 

                                                                            How I shall nibble your breast with my teeth,

                                                                            How I shall unknot your hair, strand by strand;

                                                                            One cannot, in wild games like these,

                                                                            Keep one’s hair Sunday-tidy.

 

                                                                            Come here, then, turn to me your cheek.

                                                                            You’re blushing? But I must play with it.

                                                                            You are smiling: have you not heard

                                                                            Any of the soft words which made you happy.

                                                                            I told you that I was going to put my hand

                                                                            On your breast: will you allow me?

                                                                            Don’t run off without speaking; I clearly see

                                                                            From your looks that you really want it.

                                                                            I understand you from looking at your face.

                                                                            I swear by Love that you are so prim

                                                                            That even if you died, you would not say with your mouth

                                                                            That someone could kiss you even though you wanted it;

                                                                            For every girl, as she desires to play

                                                                            The game of love, wants to be ravished.

                                                                            Witnesses say that it was Helen who followed

                                                                            Of free will Paris who had ravished her.

 

                                                                            I want to use a hand that’s soft but strong.

                                                                            Ah, you fall, you are now silent.

                                                                            Ah, what pleasure I get in my heart!

                                                                            If I didn’t kiss you, you would mock me

                                                                            When you were alone in your bed.

                                                                            Up then, it’s done, my gentle brunette;

                                                                            Let’s begin, so that our beautiful years

                                                                            May be warmed up by such pleasant contests!

 

 

One of the rare poems in which Ronsard approaches the physicality of love-making – though even here he leaves unspoken how far his love-making goes. Perhaps we should think of the “Elegy to his Book” with which Ronsard begins this second set of Amours: there, Ronsard says Petrarch would have been a fool for continuing to write love-poems without having ‘enjoyed’ his Laura…

 

Ou bien il jouyssoit de sa Laurette, ou bien

Il estoit un grand fat d’aimer sans avoir rien.

 

                                                                            Either he enjoyed his little Laura, or else

                                                                            He was a great fool for loving without getting anything.

 

There are a few clumsinesses in here I’m surprised survived to the end of Ronsard’s life – “bien” as the rhyme word in 2 consecutive lines, with no grammatical difference to excuse it (as in “jouë…jouë” or “mettre…permettre”); or “ravit” followed by “ravie” 2 lines later (both prominent as rhyme words). And one of them (“bien..bien”) was even added in the course of re-writing! It’s nice to see, though, the older Ronsard more daringly putting his hand on her breast rather than her knee…  Note also that Blanchemain’s version, unlike the later one, is ‘edited’ into 2 homogeneous groupings: 4+4+4; 8+8+8.  Here’s the substantially-varying early version:

 

Or’ que l’hyver roidit la glace épesse,

Réchaufons-nous, ma gentille maistresse,

Non accroupis dans la fouyer cendreux,

Mais au plaisir des combats amoureux.

 

Assisons-nous sur ceste molle couche :

Sus, baisez-moy de vostre belle bouche,

Pressez mon col de vos bras deliez,

Et maintenant vostre mere oubliez.

 

Que de la dent vostre tetin je morde,

Que vos cheveux fil à fil je destorde :

Il ne faut point en si folastres jeux,

Comme au dimanche arranger ses cheveux.

 

Approchez-vous, tendez-moy vostre oreille :

Hà ! vous avez la couleur plus vermeille

Que par avant : avez-vous point ouy

Quelque doux mot qui vous ait resjouy ?

Je vous disois que la main j’allois mettre

Sur vos genoux : le voulez-vous permettre ?

Vous rougissez, maistresse: je voy bien

A vostre front que je vous fais grand bien.

 

Quoi ! vous faut-il cognoistre à vostre mine.

Je jure Amour que vous estes si fine,

Que pour mourir de bouche ne diriez

Qu’on vous le fist bien que le desiriez :

Car toute fille encor’ qu’elle ait envie

Du jeu d’aimer desire estre ravie.

Tesmoin en est Helene qui suivit

D’un franc vouloir Pâris qui la ravit.

 

Or je vay donc user d’une main forte

Pour vous avoir. Ha ! vous faites la morte !

Sus, endurez ce doux je ne sais quoy !

Car autrement vous mocqueriez de moy

En vostre lict quand vous seriez seulette.

Or sus, c’est fait, ma gentille brunette :

Recommençons, a’ fin que nos beaux ans

Soyent réchauffez en combats si plaisants.

 

 

                                                                            Now that winter gnaws the thick ice,

                                                                            Let us re-warm ourselves, my gentle mistress,

                                                                            Not crouched in the cinder-filled fireplace,

                                                                            But in the pleasure of love’s contests.

 

                                                                            Let’s sit on this soft couch;

                                                                            Come, kiss me with your lovely lips,

                                                                            Squeeze my neck in your loosed arms,

                                                                            And now forget your mother!

 

                                                                            How I shall nibble your breast with my teeth,

                                                                            How I shall unknot your hair, strand by strand;

                                                                            One cannot, in wild games like these,

                                                                            Keep one’s hair Sunday-tidy.

 

                                                                            Come here, then, turn to me your ear.

                                                                            Ah, your colour is more crimson

                                                                            Than before!  Have you not heard

                                                                            Any of the soft words which made you happy.

                                                                            I told you that I was going to put my hand

                                                                            On your knee: will you allow me?

                                                                            You’re blushin, mistress; I clearly see

                                                                            In your face that I’m greatly pleasing you.

 

                                                                            Oh yes, I have to understand you by your face.

                                                                            I swear by Love that you are so prim

                                                                            That even if you died, you would not say with your mouth

                                                                            That someone could do it even though you wanted it;

                                                                            For every girl, as she desires to play

                                                                            The game of love, wants to be ravished.

                                                                            Witnesses say that it was Helen who followed

                                                                            Of free will Paris who had ravished her.

 

                                                                            So I’m going to use a strong hand

                                                                            To have you. Ah, you are now silent.

                                                                            Come on, enjoy this sweet something!

                                                                            For otherwise you would mock me

                                                                            When you were alone in your bed.

                                                                            Up then, it’s done, my gentle brunette;

                                                                            Let’s begin, so that our beautiful years

                                                                            May be warmed up in such pleasant contests!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:53

Veux-tu sçavoir, Bruez, en quel estat je suis ?

Je te le veux conter : d’un pauvre miserable

Il n’y a nul malheur, tant soit-il pitoyable,

Que je n’aille passant d’un seul de mes ennuis.

 

Je tien tout je n’ay rien je veux et si ne puis,

Je revy je remeurs ma playe est incurable :

Qui veut servir Amour, ce Tyran execrable,

Pour toute recompense il reçoit de tels fruis.

 

Pleurs larmes et souspirs accompagnent ma vie,

Langueur douleur regret soupçon et jalousie,

Transporté d’un penser qui me vient decevoir.

 

Je meurs d’impatience : et plus je ne sens vivre

L’esperance en mon cœur, mais le seul desespoir

Qui me guide à la mort, et je le veux bien suivre.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Do you want to know, Bruez, the state I’m in ?

                                                                            I want to tell you : a wretched pauper

                                                                            Has no ills, however pitiful,

                                                                            That a single one of my own troubles doesn’t surpass.

 

                                                                            I have everything and nothing, I want but cannot,

                                                                            I live and die again and again, my wound is incurable;

                                                                            Whoever wants to serve Love, that cursed tyrant,

                                                                            Receives as all his payment just such fruits.

 

                                                                            Tears, weeping and sighs accompany my life,

                                                                            Pining, sadness, regret, suspicion, jealousy,

                                                                            All carried on a thought which has just deceived me.

 

                                                                            I’m dying of impatience, I no longer feel hope

                                                                            Living in my heart, but only despair

                                                                            Which leads me to death – and I’m ready to follow.

 

 

 

Belleau’s commentary tells us that Brués, as the dedicatee seems to have spelled it, was “learned in law and philosophy, author of dialogues”. Indeed you can still read, courtesy of Google Books, the Dialogues of Guy de Brués, “against the new Academicians”, featuring invented dialogues in the renaissance style between the men of letters Ronsard, Baif, Guillaume Aubert (dedicatee of “Versons ces roses“) and Jean Nicot (who introduced tobacco to France, and is the source of ‘nicotine’!)  In later editions, this sonnet is addressed to Claude Binet who was, says Belleau, “a very learned man and among the best-versed in understanding of law and poetry”. Binet was in fact Ronsard’s closest friend and amanuensis in his old age.

 

There are some minor variants scattered through Blanchemain’s earlier version: here’s his version of the opening quatrain,

 

 

Veux-tu sçavoir, Brués, en quel estat je suis ?

Je te le conteray : d’un pauvre miserable

Il n’y a nul estat, tant soit-il pitoyable,

Que je n’aille passant d’un seul de mes ennuis.

 

                                                                            Do you want to know, Bruez, the state I’m in ?

                                                                            I will tell you : a wretched pauper’s

                                                                            Condition, however pitiful, is nothing

                                                                            That a single one of my own troubles doesn’t surpass.

 

 

and of lines 11-12,

 

Avecques un penser qui ne me laisse avoir

Un moment de repos : et plus je ne sens vivre

 

                                                                            With a thought which lets me have

                                                                            No moment of rest; I no longer feel hope …

 

 

This is another poem ‘translated’ from Petrarch; and this time it does indeed follow the original closely, though Ronsard’s opening quatrain is not paralleled in the Italian.

 

 

Pace non trovo, et non ò da far guerra;

e temo, et spero; et ardo, et son un ghiaccio;

et volo sopra ‘l cielo, et giaccio in terra;

et nulla stringo, et tutto ‘l mondo abbraccio.

 

Tal m’à in pregion, che non m’apre né serra,

né per suo mi riten né scioglie il laccio;

et non m’ancide Amore, et non mi sferra,

né mi vuol vivo, né mi trae d’impaccio.

 

Veggio senza occhi, et non ò lingua et grido;

et bramo di perir, et cheggio aita;

et ò in odio me stesso, et amo altrui.

 

Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido;

egualmente mi spiace morte et vita:

in questo stato son, donna, per voi.

 

 

 

                                                                            I cannot find peace, yet cannot make war;

                                                                            I both fear and hope; I burn and am ice;

                                                                            I fly above the heavens and fall to earth;

                                                                            I hold nothing and embrace the whole world.

 

                                                                            Such a lady is she who keeps me in prison, but neither frees nor binds me,

                                                                            Neither keeps me for herself nor unlooses the knot;

                                                                            Love does not kill me, does not unleash me,

                                                                            Neither wants me to live, nor rescues me from my troubles.

 

                                                                            I see without eyes, I cry out without a tongue,

                                                                            I yearn to perish and seek help,

                                                                            I hate myself and love another.

 

                                                                            I feed on grief, I laugh as I cry,

                                                                            Death and life displease me equally:

                                                                            I am in this state, my lady, because of you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 2:49

Chacun qui voit ma couleur triste et noire,

Me dit, Ronsard, vous estes amoureux :

Mais ce bel œil qui me fait langoreux,

Le sçait, le voit, et si ne le veut croire.

 

Dequoy me sert que mon mal soit notoire

Quand à mon dam son œil trop rigoureux,

Par ne sçay quel desastre malheureux

Voit bien ma playe, et si la prend à gloire ?

 

J’ay beau pleurer protester et jurer,

J’ay beau promettre et cent fois asseurer

Qu’autre jamais n’aura sus moy puissance,

 

Qu’elle s’esbat de me voir en langueur :

Et plus de moy je luy donne asseurance,

Moins me veut croire, et m’appelle un moqueur.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Everyone who sees my sad, dark colour

                                                                            Tells me, “Ronsard, you are in love !”

                                                                            But that fair eye which makes me pine

                                                                            Knows it, sees it, yet won’t believe it.

 

                                                                            What use to me that my misfortune is well-known

                                                                            When to my hurt her eyes, so harsh,

                                                                            See clearly the wound I got through

                                                                            Whatever unhappy disaster, yet glory in it?

 

                                                                            In vain I’ve wept, protested, sworn,

                                                                            In vain I’ve promised and assured her a hundred times

                                                                            That no other will ever have power over me,

 

                                                                            But she rejoices to see me pining;

                                                                            And the more I give her assurances about myself

                                                                            The less she believes me, and calls me a mocker.

 

 

 

There’s not much to coment on in the text; though I am intrigued that here Ronsard is ‘dark’ with illness not pale as usual! (Nothing to do with the rhyme of course…)  Blanchemain offers a number of variants, which I’ll put in context below:

 

 

Chacun qui voit ma couleur triste et noire,

Me dit, Ronsard, vous estes amoureux :

Mais ce bel œil qui me fait langoreux,

Le sçait, le voit, et si ne le veut croire.

 

Hé ! que me sert que mon mal soit notoire

A un chacun, quand son trait rigoureux,

Par ne sçay quel desastre malheureux

Me fait la playe, et si la prend à gloire ?

 

J’ay beau pleurer protester et jurer,

J’ay beau promettre et cent fois asseurer

Qu’autre jamais n’aura sus moy puissance,

 

Elle s’esbat de me voir en langueur :

Et plus de moy je luy donne asseurance,

Moins me veut croire, et m’appelle un moqueur.

 

 

                                                                            Everyone who sees my sad, dark colour

                                                                            Tells me, “Ronsard, you are in love !”

                                                                            But that fair eye which makes me pine

                                                                            Knows it, sees it, yet won’t believe it.

 

                                                                            What use to me that my misfortune is well-known

                                                                            To each and every one, when her harsh blow,

                                                                            Through whatever unhappy disaster,

                                                                            Gave me this wound, yet glories in it?

 

                                                                            In vain I’ve wept, protested, sworn,

                                                                            In vain I’ve promised and assured her a hundred times

                                                                            That no other will ever have power over me;

 

                                                                            She rejoices to see me pining;

                                                                            And the more I give her assurances about myself

                                                                            The less she believes me, and calls me a mocker.

 

 

In line 5 Ronsard has as usual swapped out an exclamation, and found a neat way or replacing it. I rather like the earlier version of the rest of the stanza! And he tidies up the grammar in lines 9-12, another late-Ronsard feature.

 

His commentators tell us this derives from a Petrarchan original; but as so often it takes ideas from the original without really ‘translating’ it. In fact Ronsard’s poem corresponds to the first half of Petrarch’s: apologies for the slightly loose translation, I’m not sure I have really understood all of Petrarch’s Italian!

 

 

Lasso, ch’i’ ardo, et altri non me ‘l crede;

sí crede ogni uom, se non sola colei

che sovr’ogni altra, et ch’i’ sola, vorrei:

ella non par che ‘l creda, et sí sel vede.

 

Infinita bellezza et poca fede,

non vedete voi ‘l cor nelli occhi mei?

Se non fusse mia stella, i’ pur devrei

al fonte di pietà trovar mercede.

 

Quest’arder mio, di che vi cal sí poco,

e i vostri honori, in mie rime diffusi,

ne porian infiammar fors’anchor mille:

 

ch’i’ veggio nel penser, dolce mio foco,

fredda una lingua et duo belli occhi chiusi

rimaner, dopo noi, pien’ di faville.

 

 

 

                                                                            Alas, how I burn, yet others won’t believe me;

                                                                            And if every man believed, yet still she alone does not

                                                                            Who is above all others, and whom alone I wish to.

                                                                            She seems not to believe it, and yet she sees…

 

                                                                            Infinite beauty and little faith,

                                                                            Don’t you see my heart in my eyes?

                                                                            If it were not my destiny, surely I ought

                                                                            At the fountain of pity to find my reward [mercy?].

 

                                                                            This burning passion of mine, about which you care so little,

                                                                            And your praises spread throughout my verse

                                                                            Might yet, perhaps, inflame a thousand others;

 

                                                                            What I see in my thoughts, o sweet flame,

                                                                            Is one cold tongue and two fair closed eyes

                                                                            Remaining after us, full of sparks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Odelette à sa maitresse

Today, a ‘little ode’ Ronsard wrote, chiding his mistress, around 1555. Originally in the Meslanges, this was ‘retranchée’ to a Ronsardian appendix in later editions.

Je veux aymer ardentement :

Aussi veus-je qu’egallement

On m’ayme d’une amour ardente :

Toute amitié froidement lente

Qui peut dissimuler son bien

Ou taire son mal, ne vaut rien,

Car faire en amours bonne mine,

De n’aymer point, c’est le vray sine.

 

Les amants si frois en esté

Admirateurs de chasteté,

Et qui morfondus petrarquisent,

Sont toujours sots, car ils ne prisent

Amour qui de sa nature est

Ardent et prompt, et à qui plest

De faire qu’une amitié dure

Quand elle tient de sa nature.

 

 

                                                                             I hope to love ardently ;

                                                                            And I hope too that equally

                                                                            She’ll love me with ardent love.

                                                                            Every affair which is cold and slow,

                                                                            Which can hide the good things

                                                                            Or be silent about the bad, is worth nothing;

                                                                            For putting on a good face in love

                                                                            Is the true sign of loving not at all.

 

                                                                            Those lovers, so cold in summer,

                                                                            Admirers of chastity,

                                                                            Who feeling dejected make Petrarchan rhymes,

                                                                            They’re always fools, for they do not prize

                                                                            Love, who by nature is

                                                                            Ardent and eager, and who is happy

                                                                            To make affairs long-lasting

                                                                            When they are of his kind.

 

 

Ronsard invents the word (or re-uses his previously-invented word) ‘to Petrarch-ise’, implying of course inferior copyists rather than those who, like Ronsard, can imitate Petrarch’s quality as well as style!

 

Blanchemain’s version has only one minor variant: “Ces” for “Les” at the start of the second stanza. Oddly, Blanchemain prints it among the “Oeuvres inédites” (unpublished works) with a footnote explaining it was published in the second (1555) edition of the ‘Meslanges’…?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.229

J‘alloy roulant ces larmes de mes yeux,

Or’ plein de doute ore plein d’esperance,

Lors que Henry loing des bornes de France

Vengeoit l’honneur de ses premiers ayeux :

 

Lors qu’il trenchoit d’un bras victorieux

Au bord du Rhin l’Espagnole vaillance,

Ja se traçant de l’aigu de sa lance

Un beau sentier pour s’en aller aux cieux.

 

Vous sainct troupeau, mon soustien et ma gloire,

Dont le beau vol m’a l’esprit enlevé,

Si autrefois m’avez permis de boire

 

Les eaux qui ont Hesiode abreuvé,

Soit pour jamais ce souspir engravé

Au plus sainct lieu du temple de Memoire.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I have been continually pouring these tears from my eyes,

                                                                            Now full of doubt, now of hope,

                                                                            While Henri, far from the bounds of France,

                                                                            Has avenged the honour of his first ancestors ;

 

                                                                            While he has broken with his victorious arm

                                                                            Spain’s valour, on the banks of the Rhine,

                                                                            Marking out with the point of his lance

                                                                            A fair path to raise himself to the heavens.

 

                                                                            Oh holy troop, my support and my glory,

                                                                            Whose lovely flight has lifted my spirits,

                                                                            If previously you have allowed me to drink

 

                                                                            The waters which generously you gave Hesiod,

                                                                            May this my plaint be for ever engraved

                                                                            In the holiest place in Memory’s temple. 

 

 

Simplicity, as Ronsard closes his first book of sonnets. And also a glance at the ‘real world’ around him: for this was not a time of peace and love in European politics! The Italian wars were a major feature of Henri II’s reign, all the way through the 1550s, and early victories led ultimately to the embarrassing Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis… The Spanish on the Rhine are, incidentally, the Habsburgs – for that family controlled Austro-Germanic Europe as well as Iberian Europe.

 

So, Ronsard acknowledges that love poetry may not seem the right thing at this time, while gently swinging the balance back towards the pre-eminence of poetry at the end. (Hesiod claimed inspiration from drinking at the fountain of the ‘holy troop’ of Muses on Mt Helicon.)

 

Blanchemain’s version shows considerable variation in the sestet: the opening octet was not changed.

 

 

Vous sainct troupeau qui desus Pinde errez,

Et qui de grâce ouvrez et desserrez

Vos doctes eaux à ceux qui les vont boire

 

Si quelquefois vous m’avez abreuvé,

Soit pour jamais ce souspir engravé

Au plus sainct lieu du temple de Memoire

 

 

                                                                                        Oh holy troop who wander upon Pindus

                                                                                       And who by grace open and release

                                                                                       Your learned waters to those who come to drink them,

 

                                                                                       If sometimes you have given me to drink

                                                                                       May this my plaint be for ever engraved

                                                                                       In the holiest place in Memory’s temple.

 

 

 

  Note how in this earlier version Ronsard does not refer back to Hesiod, but simply offers his own name as proof enough of the Muses’ generosity! There remains one other variant of the later version at the top of the page: in line 12, where yet another great poet enters: “L’eau dont amour a Petrarque abreuvé…” (‘The waters which love generously gave to Petrarch…’)