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 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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1: “Vow”

The second of the two dedicatory sonnets included at the front of book 1. In the last line, Ronsard clearly imagines this poem appearing opposite the picture engraved at the front of the book, showing Cassandre (see top of my Amours 1 page.)

 

Divines Sœurs, qui sur les rives molles

De Castalie, et sur le mont Natal,

Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal

M’avez d’enfance instruit en vos escoles :

 

Si tout ravy des saults de vos caroles,

D’un pied nombreux j’ay guidé vostre bal :

Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal,

Dans vostre Temple engravez ces paroles :

 

RONSARD, AFIN QUE LE SIECLE AVENIR

DE TEMPS EN TEMPS SE PUISSE SOUVENIR

QUE SA JEUNESSE A L’AMOUR FIST HOMAGE :

 

DE LA MAIN DEXTRE APAND A VOSTRE AUTEL

L’HUMBLE PRESENT DE SON LIVRE IMMORTEL,

SON CŒUR DE L’AUTRE AUX PIEDS DE CESTE IMAGE. 

 

 

.                                                                            Divine sisters, who on the soft streams

.                                                                            Of Castalia, and on your native mount

.                                                                            And on the banks of the equine waters

.                                                                            Have taught me since childhood in your school ;

 

.                                                                            If, swept away by leaping in your round-dances

.                                                                            I have led your dances with many a step ;

.                                                                            [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal

.                                                                            Engrave these words within your temple :

 

.                                                                            Ronsard, so that future ages

.                                                                            May from time to time recall

.                                                                            That his youth paid homage to Love,

 

.                                                                            With his right hand places on your altar

.                                                                            The humble gift of his immortal book,

.                                                                            With the other his heart at the feet of this image.

 

 

 

An appeal to the Muses (and their Castalian spring), as so often in the poems in the book. We’ve already noted elsewhere that the spring is also associated with Pegasus, whose (equine) hoof stamping the ground caused it to flow. There’s also a reminiscence of Horace and his odes specifying dedications in temples. Note that, even at the start of his career, Ronsard is already sure his book will be ‘immortal’ – even while it is ‘humble’!

 

Blanchemain’s version is nearer in time to the beginning of the career, of course:

 

 

Divines Sœurs, qui sur les rives molles

Du fleuve Eurote et sur le mont natal

Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal

M’avez nourri maître de vos escoles :

 

Si mille fois en vos douces carolles,

Le guide-danse, ay conduit vostre bal :

Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal,

En vostre Temple engravez ces paroles :

 

Ronsard, afin que le siecle à venir

De père en fils se puisse souvenir

D’une beauté qui sagement affole,

 

De la main dextre append à nostre autel

L’humble discours de son livre immortel,

Son cœur de l’autre aux pieds de ceste idole.

 

 

 

.                                                                            Divine sisters, who on the soft streams

.                                                                            Of river the river Eurotas, and on your native mount

.                                                                            And on the banks of the equine waters

.                                                                            Have brought me up as a master in your lessons ;

 

.                                                                            If a thousand times in your sweet round-dances

.                                                                            I have steered your balls as leader of the dance ;

.                                                                            [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal

.                                                                            Engrave these words in your temple :

 

.                                                                            Ronsard, so that the age to come

.                                                                            May recall from father to son

.                                                                            A beauty who wisely made men mad,

 

.                                                                            With his right hand places on our altar

.                                                                            The humble words of his immortal book,

.                                                                            With the other his heart at the feet of this idol.

 

 

 

Here the Muses are located by the river Eurotas – whose spring is in (the real, southern Greek) Arcadia. Note too that Ronsard is not just participating in, but leading, the Muses’ dances!  Devotees of Ronsard’s variants may also enjoy this version which Blanchemain footnotes, again showing the (lesser) variants from the late Marty-Laveaux version:

 

 

Divin troupeau, qui sur les rives molles

De Castalie, et sur le mont Natal,

Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal

Assis, tenez vos plus saintes escoles

 

Si quelquefois, aux sauts de vos carolles,

M’avez receu par un astre fatal :

Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal,

Dans vostre Temple engravez ces paroles :

 

RONSARD, AFIN QUE LE SIECLE AVENIR

MAUGRE LE TEMPS, SE PUISSE SOUVENIR

QUE SA JEUNESSE A L’AMOUR FIST HOMAGE :

 

DE LA MAIN DEXTRE APAND A VOSTRE AUTEL

L’HUMBLE PRESENT DE SON LIVRE IMMORTEL,

SON CŒUR DE L’AUTRE AUX PIEDS DE CESTE IMAGE. 

 

 

.                                                                            Divine company, who on the soft streams

.                                                                            Of Castalia, and on your native mount

.                                                                            And seated on the banks of the equine waters

.                                                                            Hold your most holy lessons

 

.                                                                            If sometimes in the leaps of your round-dances

.                                                                            You have accepted me by some fateful star,

.                                                                            [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal

.                                                                            Engrave these words within your temple :

 

.                                                                            Ronsard, so that future ages

.                                                                            Despite time’s [passing], may recall

.                                                                            That his youth paid homage to Love,

 

.                                                                            With his right hand places on your altar

.                                                                            The humble gift of his immortal book,

.                                                                            With the other his heart at the feet of this image.

 

 

 

 **EDIT**  complete Cassndre poems (Amours 1) now available as a pdf here.

 

Ode 5:3

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

Sonnet 57

Divin Bellay, dont les nombreuses lois

Par un ardeur du peuple separée,

Ont revestu l’enfant de Cytherée

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

 

Si le doux feu dont jeune tu ardois,

Enflambe encor ta poitrine sacrée,

Si ton oreille encore se recrée,

D’ouir les plaints des amoureuses vois :

 

Oy ton Ronsard qui sanglote et lamente,

Pâle de peur, pendu sur la tourmente,

Croizant en vain ses mains devers les Cieux,

 

En fraile nef, sans mast, voile ne rame,

Et loin du havre où pour astre Madame

Me conduisoit du Fare de ses yeux.

 

 

 

                                                                           Divine Bellay, whom numerous statutes

                                                                           For your ardour distinct from the norm

                                                                           Have invested as the son of Venus

                                                                           With bows, torches, arrows and quiver;

 

                                                                           If the soft fire with which you burned when young

                                                                           Still flames within your holy breast,

                                                                           If your ear still enjoys

                                                                           Hearing the woes of lovers’ tongues;

 

                                                                           Then hear your Ronsard, who sobs and weeps,

                                                                           Pale with fear, suspended in torment,

                                                                           Holding his hands up in vain to Heaven,

 

                                                                           In a frail ship without mast, sail or oar,

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

                                                                           Leads me with the beacon of her eyes.

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

Divin Ronsard, qui de l’arc à sept cordes

Tiras premier au but de la Memoire

Les traits ailez de la françoise gloire,

Que sur ton luth hautement tu accordes.

 

Fameux harpeur et prince de nos odes,

Laisse ton Loir, hautain de ta victoire,

Et vien sonner au rivage de Loire

De tes chansons les plus nouvelles modes.

 

Enfonce l’arc du vieil Thebain archer,

Où nul que toi ne sceut onc encocher

Des doctes sœurs les sagettes divines.

 

Porte pour moy parmy le ciel des Gaules

Le sainct honneur des nymphes angevines,

Trop pesant faix pour mes foibles espaules.

 

 

 

                                                                           Divine Ronsard, who with the seven-stringed bow

                                                                           First shot at the target of Memory

                                                                           The winged arrows of French glory

                                                                           Which you tune precisely  on your lute;

 

                                                                           Famous harper and prince of our [French] odes,

                                                                           Leave your Loir, proud in your victory,

                                                                           And come to sing on the banks of the Loire

                                                                           The newest strains of your songs.

 

                                                                           Bend the bow of the old Theban archer,

                                                                           On which none but you have ever been able to notch

                                                                           The divine arrows of the learned Sisters.

 

                                                                           Bear for me among the Gallic heavens

                                                                           The holy honour of the nymphs of Anjou,

                                                                           Too weighty a deed for my feeble shoulders.

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Divin Bellay, dont les nombreuses lois

Par une ardeur du peuple separée,

Ont revestu l’enfant de Cytherée

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

 

Si le doux feu dont jeune tu ardois,

Enflambe encor ta poitrine sacrée,

Si ton oreille encore se recrée,

D’ouir les plaints des amoureuses vois :

 

Oy ton Ronsard qui sanglote et lamente,

Pâle, agité des flots de la tourmente,

Croizant en vain ses mains devers les Cieux,

 

En fraile nef, et sans voile et sans rame,

Et loin du bord où pour astre sa dame

Le conduisoit du Fare de ses yeux.

 

 

 

 

                                                                           Divine Bellay, whom numerous statutes

                                                                           For your ardour distinct from the norm

                                                                           Have invested as the son of Venus

                                                                           With bow, torch, arrows and quiver;

 

                                                                           If the soft fire with which you burned when young

                                                                           Still flames within your holy breast,

                                                                           If your ear still enjoys

                                                                           Hearing the woes of lovers’ tongues;

 

                                                                           Then hear your Ronsard, who sobs and weeps,

                                                                           Pale and tossed by waves of torment,

                                                                           Holding his hands up in vain to Heaven,

 

                                                                           In a frail ship, without either sail or oar,

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

                                                                           Leads him with the beacon of her eyes.

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

To Robert Garnier (2)

Il me souvient, Garnier, que je prestay la main

Quant ta Muse accoucha, je le veux faire encore :

Le parrain bien souvent par l’enfant se decore,

Par l’enfant bien souvent s’honore le parrain.

 

Ton ouvrage, Garnier, Tragique et Souverain,

Qui fils, parrain ensemble, et toute France honore,

Fera voller ton nom du Scythe jusque au More,

Plus dur contre les ans que marbre ny qu’airain.

 

Réjoüy-toy, mon Loir, ta gloire est infinie,

Huyne et Sarte tes sœurs te feront compagnie,

Faisant Garnier, Belleau et Ronsard estimer :

 

Trois fleuves qu’Appollon en trois esprits assemble.

Quand trois fleuves, Garnier, se desgorgent ensemble,

Bien qu’ils ne soient pas grands, font une grande mer.

 

 

 

 

                                                                             I am reminded, Garnier, that I lent a hand

                                                                             When your Muse was giving birth, I would like to do it again;

                                                                             The godfather often gains glory through the child,

                                                                             Through the child the godfather is often honoured.

 

                                                                             Your oeuvre, Garnier, tragic and regal,

                                                                             Which child, godfather, and all of France together honour,

                                                                             Will make your name known from Scythia to the Moor,

                                                                             Stronger against the years than marble or bronze.

 

                                                                             Rejoice, my Loir, your fame is infinite,

                                                                             Your sisters the Huyne and Sarte will bear you company,

                                                                             Making Garnier, Belleau and Ronsard renowned;

 

                                                                             Three rivers which Apollo gathered in three spirits.

                                                                             When three rivers flow together, Garnier,

                                                                             Even if they are not great, they make a great sea.

 

 

 

I find the beginning strangely attractive – ‘il me souvient’ not ‘je me souviens’.  I’ve tried to capture something of its oddness by saying not ‘I remember’ but ‘I am reminded’. In line 7 his name/renown is to ‘fly’ as far as Scythia in the east and the Moorish peoples in the south.

 

 

 

 

Elegy XVI (Ronsard’s autobiography) – epic 200th post :-)

This is my 200th post (though not yet the 200th poem), so I wanted to do something special. In the end it has snowballed a bit and this post is going to be monstrously long…!!  Hope you enjoy it anyway.

In his Elegies, Ronsard included a poem – addressed to his old friend Remy Belleau – which provides his family background and details of his early life – sometimes uncorroborated details we only learn here but often events we can triangulate against other records. So, here is his Elegy XVI (or in Blanchemain’s numbering Elegy XX), with translations, annotations and added biographical detail…   🙂

It is worth noting before we start, though, that this poem was published in the Bocage in 1554 addressed to his friend Pierre de Pascal [Paschal] “du bas païs de Languedoc” (‘from the low country of Languedoc’), not to Remy Belleau!  In that version Durbam/Durban [Michel-Pierre de Mauléon, protonotary of Durban], not Baïf, is the 3rd in their group in the final line… For more on Paschal, and Ronsard’s subsequent ‘un-friending’, see here.

1 – the poem

As usual, in Marty-Laveaux’s edition (Ronsard’s latest thoughts) first:

Je veux, mon cher Belleau, que tu n’ignores point D’où, ne qui est celuy, que les Muses ont joint D’un nœud si ferme à toy, afin que des années, A nos neveux futurs, les courses retournées Ne celent que Belleau et Ronsard n’estoient qu’un, Et que tous deux avoient un mesme cœur commun.   Or quant à mon ancestre, il a tiré sa race D’où le glacé Danube est voisin de la Thrace : Plus bas que la Hongrie, en une froide part, Est un Seigneur nommé le Marquis de Ronsart, Riche d’or et de gens, de villes et de terre. Un de ses fils puisnez ardant de voir la guerre, Un camp d’autres puisnez assembla hazardeux, Et quittant son pays, faict Capitaine d’eux Traversa la Hongroie et la basse Allemaigne. Traversa la Bourgongne et la grasse Champaigne, Et hardy vint servir Philippes de Valois, Qui pour lors avoit guerre encontre les Anglois.   Il s’employa si bien au service de France, Que le Roy luy donna des biens à suffisance Sur les rives du Loir : puis du tout oubliant Freres, pere et pays, François se mariant Engendra les ayeux dont est sorty le pere Par qui premier je vy ceste belle lumiere.   Mon pere fut tousjours en son vivant icy Maistre-d’hostel du Roy, et le suivit aussi Tant qu’il fut prisonnier pour son pere en Espaigne : Faut-il pas qu’un servant son Seigneur accompaigne Fidele à sa fortune, et qu’en adversité Luy soit autant loyal qu’en la felicité ?   Du costé maternel j’ay tiré mon lignage De ceux de la Trimouille, et de ceux du Bouchage, Et de ceux des Roüaux, et de ceux des Chaudriers Qui furent en leurs temps si vertueux guerriers, Que leur noble vertu que Mars rend eternelle Reprint sur les Anglois les murs de la Rochelle, Où l’un fut si vaillant qu’encores aujourd’huy Une rue à son los porte le nom de luy.   Mais s’il te plaist avoir autant de cognoissance (Comme de mes ayeux) du jour de ma naissance, Mon Belleau, sans mentir je diray verité Et de l’an et du jour de ma nativité.   L’an que le Roy François fut pris devant Pavie, Le jour d’un Samedy, Dieu me presta la vie L’onzieme de Septembre, et presque je me vy Tout aussi tost que né, de la Parque ravy.   Je ne fus le premier des enfants de mon pere, Cinq davant ma naissance en enfanta ma mere : Deux sont morts au berceau, aux trois vivans en rien Semblable je ne suis ny de mœurs ny de bien.   Si tost que j’eu neuf ans, au college on me meine : Je mis tant seulement un demy an de peine D’apprendre les leçons du regent de Vailly, Puis sans rien profiter du college sailly. Je vins en Avignon, où la puissante armée Du Roy François estoit fierement animée Contre Charles d’Autriche, et là je fus donné Page au Duc d’Orleans : apres je fus mené Suivant le Roi d’Escosse en l’Escossoise terre, Où trente mois je fus, et six en Angleterre.   A mon retour ce Duc pour page me reprint : Long temps à l’Escurie en repos ne me tint Qu’il me renvoyast en Flandres et Zelande, Et depuis en Escosse, où la tempeste grande Avecques Lassigni, cuida faire toucher Poussée aux bords Anglois la nef contre un rocher.   Plus de trois jours entiers dura ceste tempeste, D’eau, de gresle et d’esclairs nous menassant la teste : A la fin arrivez sans nul danger au port, La nef en cent morceaux se rompt contre le bord, Nous laissant sur la rade, et point n’y eut de perte Sinon elle qui fut des flots salez couverte, Et le bagage espars que le vent secoüoit, Et qui servoit flottant aux ondes de jouet.   D’Escosse retourné, je fus mis hors de page, Et à peine seize ans avoient borné mon âge, Que l’an cinq cens quarante avec Baïf je vins En la haute Allemaigne, où la langue j’apprins.   Mais làs ! à mon retour une aspre maladie Par ne sçay quel destin me vint boucher l’ouie, Et dure m’accabla d’assommement si lourd, Qu’encores aujourd’huy j’en reste demy-sourd. L’an d’apres en Avril, Amour me fist surprendre, Suivant la Cour à Blois, des beaux yeux de Cassandre Soit le nom faux ou vray, jamais le temps veinqueur N’effacera ce nom du marbre de mon cœur.   Convoiteux de sçavoir, disciple je vins estre De d’Aurat à Paris, qui cinq ans fut mon maistre En Grec et en Latin : chez luy premierement Nostre ferme amitié print son commencement, Laquelle dans mon ame à tout jamais, et celle De nostre amy Baïf sera perpetuelle.

I’d like, my dear Belleau, for you not to be in any way uninformed About where he’s from, and who he is, this man whom the Muses have bound With so firm a knot to you, such that the years’ Course turning will not hide from our future descendants That Belleau and Ronsard were but one person, The two joined by one shared heart.       So, as for my first ancestor, he came from roots Where the freezing Danube runs beside Thrace; Lower down than Hungary, in a cold region, There was a Lord named Marquis of Ronsart, Rich in gold and retainers, in towns and lands. One of his younger sons, eager to see war, Assembled a band of other daring younger sons And, leaving his country, as their Captain Crossed Hungary and lower Germany, Crossed Burgundy and rich Champagne, And boldly came to serve Philip of Valois Who for some time had been at war with the English.       He acted so well in the service of France That the King gave him plentiful holdings On the banks of the Loir; then forgetting all about Brothers, father and homeland, as a Frenchman he married And bore the ancestors from whom descended the father Through whom I first saw this fair light.   My father was always while living here In charge of the King’s household, and he followed him Even when he was a prisoner in Spain for his father; Shouldn’t a servant accompany his Lord, Loyal to his fate, and in bad times Be as loyal to him as in good?       On my mother’s side, I take my lineage From the people of Trimouille, of Bouchage, Of Rouaux, and of Chaudriers; They were in their time such brave warriors That their noble bravery (may Mars make it everlasting) Re-took from the English the walls of La Rochelle, Where one of them was so valiant that even today In his honour a street bears his name.       But if it would please you to have as much information About the date of my birth, as about my ancestors, Dear Belleau, then without falsifying anything I shall tell you the true Date, both the year and the day, of my birth.   The year in which King Francis was taken before Pavia, On a Saturday, God granted me life – The 11th September it was – and I very nearly found myself As soon as born, torn away by Fate.   I was not the first of my father’s children, My mother had produced five children before my birth: Two died in the cradle, and to the three living am I In no way similar in either way of life or wealth.       As soon as I was nine, they sent me to college, But I spent only half a year troubling To learn the lessons of the master, de Vailly. Then I left having gained nothing from college. I came to Avignon, where the powerful army Of King Francis was proudly in action Against Charles of Austria; and there I was granted The role of page to the Duke of Orleans; afterwards I was sent In the King of Scotland’s entourage to Scotland Where I spent 30 months, and six in England.     On my return the Duke took me back as page, But I did not stay quietly in the Royal Mews for long Before he sent me to Flanders and Zeeland And then to Scotland, where a great storm Tried to drive the ship, along with Lassigni, Onto the rocks, after blowing it to the coast of England.     More than three whole days the storm lasted, Menacing our lives with water, hail and lightning; In the end, as we arrived with no danger at port, The ship broke into a hundred pieces on the coast Leaving us in the harbour with no losses Except the ship herself, sunk in the salty waves, And our widely-scattered baggage blown about by the wind Which used it as a plaything as it floated on the waves.         Returned from Scotland I lost my job as page And had barely reached the age of sixteen When in 1540 I went with Baïf To Upper Germany, where I learned the language.   But alas, on my return a terrible illness For some end unknown came and stopped up my hearing, And hit me hard with a blow so heavy That still today I remain half-deaf as a result. The year after, in April, love took me unawares As I followed the Court to Blois, through the fair eyes of Cassandre. Whether that name is her true one or not, never will conquering time Wipe that name from the marble [memorial] in my heart.   Eager to learn, I came to be the disciple Of d’Aurat in Paris, and he was for five years my teacher In Greek and Latin; it was at his home that first Our firm friendship began And it shall for all time in my soul, along with that For our friend Baïf, be everlasting.

 

 

Inevitably, there are varants in Blanchemain’s edition (Ronsard’s first version):  for simplicity here is the whole poem with changes marked in red:

ELEGIE XX A REMY BELLEAU Excellent Poëte françois   Je veux, mon cher Belleau, que tu n’ignores point D’où, ne qui est celuy, que les Muses ont joint D’un nœud si ferme à toy, afin que des années, A nos neveux futurs, les courses retournées Ne celent que Belleau et Ronsard n’estoient qu’un, Et que tous deux avoient un mesme cœur commun.       Or quant à mon ancestre, il a tiré sa race D’où le glacé Danube est voisin de la Thrace : Plus bas que la Hongrie, en une froide part, Est un Seigneur nommé le Marquis de Ronsart, Riche d’or et de gens, de villes et de terre. Un de ses fils puisnez ardant de voir la guerre, Un camp d’autres puisnez assembla hazardeux, Et quittant son pays, faict Capitaine d’eux Traversa la Hongrie et la basse Allemaigne. Traversa la Bourgongne et toute la Champaigne, Et soudard vint servir Philippes de Valois, Qui pour lors avoit guerre encontre les Anglois.   Il s’employa si bien au service de France, Que le Roy luy donna des biens à suffisance Sur les rives du Loir : puis du tout oubliant Freres, pere et pays, François se mariant Engendra les ayeux dont est sorty le pere Par qui premier je vy ceste belle lumiere.     Mon pere de Henry gouverna la maison, Fils du grand Roy François, quand il fut en prison Servant de seur hostage à son pere en Espagne: Faut-il pas qu’un servant son Seigneur accompaigne Fidele à sa fortune, et qu’en adversité Luy soit autant loyal qu’en la felicité ?     Du costé maternel j’ay tiré mon lignage De ceux de la Trimouille, et de ceux du Bouchage, Et de ceux des Roüaux, et de ceux des Chaudriers Qui furent en leurs temps si vertueux guerriers, Que leur noble prouesse, au fait des armes belle Reprint sur les Anglois les murs de la Rochelle, Où l’un fut si vaillant qu’encores aujourd’huy Une rue à son los porte le nom de luy.   Mais s’il te plaist avoir autant de cognoissance (Comme de mes ayeux) du jour de ma naissance, Mon Belleau, sans mentir je diray verité Et de l’an et du jour de ma nativité.     L’an que le Roy François fut pris devant Pavie, Le jour d’un Samedy, Dieu me presta la vie L’onziesme de Septembre, et presque je me vy Tout aussi tost que né, de la Parque ravy.     Je ne fus le premier des enfants de mon père, Cinq avant moy longtemps en enfanta ma mere : Deux sont morts au berceau, aux trois vivans en rien Semblable je ne suis ny de mœurs ny de bien.   Si tost que j’eu neuf ans, au college on me meine : Je mis tant seulement un demy an de peine D’apprendre les leçons du regent de Vailly, Puis sans rien profiter du college sailly, Je vins en Avignon, où la puissante armée Du Roy François estoit fierement animée Contre Charles d’Austriche, et là je fus donné Page au Duc d’Orleans : apres je fus mené Suivant le Roy d’Escosse en l’Escossoise terre, Où trente mois je fus, et six en Angleterre.     A mon retour ce Duc pour Pape me reprint : Et guere à l’Escurie en repos ne me tint Qu’il me renvoyast en Flandres et Zelande, Et encore en Escosse, où la tempeste grande Avecques Lassigni, cuida faire toucher Poussée aux bords Anglois ma nef contre un rocher.       Plus de trois jours entiers dura ceste tempeste, D’eau, de gresle et d’esclairs nous menassant la teste : A la fin arrivez sans nul danger au port, La nef en cent morceaux se rompt contre le bord, Nous laissant sur la rade, et point n’y eut de perte Sinon elle qui fut des flots salez couverte, Et le bagage espars que le vent secoüoit, Et qui servoit flottant aux ondes de jouet.     D’Escosse retourné, je fus mis hors de page, Et à peine seize ans avoient borné mon âge, Que l’an cinq cens quarante avec Baïf je vins En la haute Allemaigne, où la langue j’apprins.   Mais làs ! à mon retour une aspre maladie Par ne sçay quel destin me vint boucher l’ouie, Et dure m’accabla d’assommement si lourd, Qu’encores aujourd’huy j’en reste demy-sourd. L’an d’apres en Avril, Amour me fist surprendre, Suivant la Cour à Blois, des beaux yeux de Cassandre Soit le nom faux ou vray, jamais le temps veinqueur N’ostera ce beau nom du marbre de mon cœur.           Incontinent apres disciple je vins estre A Paris, de Daurat qui cinq ans fut mon maistre En Grec et en Latin : chez luy premierement Nostre ferme amitié print son commencement, Laquelle dans mon ame à tout jamais, et celle De nostre amy Baïf sera perpetuelle.

ELEGY 20 TO REMY BELLEAU Excellent poet of France   I’d like, my dear Belleau, for you not to be in any way uninformed About where he’s from, and who he is, this man whom the Muses have bound With so firm a knot to you, such that the years’ Course turning will not hide from our future descendants That Belleau and Ronsard were but one person, The two joined by one shared heart.   So, as for my first ancestor, he came from roots Where the freezing Danube runs beside Thrace; Lower down than Hungary, in a cold region, There was a Lord named Marquis of Ronsart, Rich in gold and retainers, in towns and lands. One of his younger sons, eager to see war, Assembled a band of other daring younger sons And, leaving his country, as their Captain Crossed Hungary and lower Germany, Crossed Burgundy and all of Champagne, And came as a mercenary to serve Philip of Valois Who for some time had been at war with the English.   He acted so well in the service of France That the King gave him plentiful holdings On the banks of the Loir; then forgetting all about Brothers, father and homeland, as a Frenchman he married And bore the ancestors from whom descended the father Through whom I first saw this fair light.   My father managed the household of Henry, Son of the great King Francis, serving his lord When he was in prison as a hostage for his father in Spain; Shouldn’t a servant accompany his Lord, Loyal to his fate, and in bad times Be as loyal to him as in good?   On my mother’s side, I take my lineage From the people of Trimouille, of Bouchage, Of Rouaux, and of Chaudriers; They were in their time such brave warriors That their noble prowess, fair in deeds of arms, Re-took from the English the walls of La Rochelle, Where one of them was so valiant that even today In his honour a street bears his name.   But if it would please you to have as much information About the date of my birth, as about my ancestors, Dear Belleau, then without falsifying anything I shall tell you the true Date, both the year and the day, of my birth.   The year in which King Francis was taken before Pavia, On a Saturday, God granted me life – The 11th September it was – and I very nearly found myself As soon as born, torn away by Fate.   I was not the first of my father’s children, My mother had produced five long before me; Two died in the cradle, and to the three living am I In no way similar in either way of life or wealth.   As soon as I was nine, they sent me to college, But I spent only half a year troubling To learn the lessons of the master, de Vailly. Then I left having gained nothing from college. I came to Avignon, where the powerful army Of King Francis was proudly in action Against Charles of Austria; and there I was granted The role of page to the Duke of Orleans; afterwards I was sent In the King of Scotland’s entourage to Scotland Where I spent 30 months, and six in England.   On my return the Duke took me back [on the Pope’s behalf??]    [surely a misprint for ‘page’?!] But barely had I stopped quietly in the Royal Mews Before he sent me to Flanders and Zeeland And again to Scotland, where a great storm Tried to drive my ship, along with Lassigni, Onto the rocks, after blowing it to the coast of England.   More than three whole days the storm lasted, Menacing our lives with water, hail and lightning; In the end, as we arrived with no danger at port, The ship broke into a hundred pieces on the coast Leaving us in the harbour with no losses Except the ship herself, sunk in the salty waves, And our widely-scattered baggage blown about by the wind Which used it as a plaything as it floated on the waves.   Returned from Scotland I lost my job as page And had barely reached the age of sixteen When in 1540 I went with Baïf To Upper Germany, where I learned the language.   But alas, on my return a terrible illness For some end unknown came and stopped up my hearing, And hit me hard with a blow so heavy That still today I remain half-deaf as a result. The year after, in April, love took me unawares As I followed the Court to Blois, through the fair eyes of Cassandre. Whether that name is her true one or not, never will conquering time Remove that fair name from the marble [memorial] in my heart.   Immediately afterwards, I came to be the disciple Of Daurat in Paris, and he was for five years my teacher In Greek and Latin; it was at his home that first Our firm friendship began And it shall for all time in my soul, along with that For our friend Baïf, be everlasting.

(As noted in the text, I assume the printing of “Pape” instead of “page” is a typo. My approximation of what the Pope might be doing in there is really not a translation of what the French says in any case!)

2 – biographical notes

(i) Blanchemain

Blanchemain litters his text with footnotes: as he puts it “we have retained (‘conservé’) all the notes on this piece…” – though I am not sure which early edition he’s “conserved” them from. So here are the relevant lines from the translation of his edition (above), paired with his notes. My own additions or clarifications are in [brackets]:

So, as for my first ancestor, he came from roots

Where the freezing Danube runs beside Thrace;

Lower down than Hungary, in a cold region,

There was a Lord named Marquis of Ronsart,

Rich in gold and retainers, in towns and lands.

One of his younger sons, eager to see war,

Assembled a band of other daring younger sons

And, leaving his country, as their Captain

Crossed Hungary and lower Germany,

Crossed Burgundy and all of Champagne,

And came as a mercenary to serve Philip of Valois

Who for some time had been at war with the English.

He acted so well in the service of France

That the King gave him plentiful holdings

On the banks of the Loir;

This ancestor of our poet, who came from the lower Danube to offer his services to Philip of Valois, was called Marucini or Mârâcinâ like his father, who added to his name the title of Bano (Ban). Once settled in France he translated his paternal name and title literally, changing ‘bano’ into Marquis and Marucini (=Ronces – bramble; or Roncière – bramble-bush) into Ronsard. Source: Ubicini 1855, Romanian Popular Songs collected by Alecsandri [see further the notes below about Alecsandri’s contribution on this origins story].

My father managed the household of Henry,

Son of the great King Francis, serving his lord

When he was in prison as a hostage for his father in Spain;

Henry = Henry II, then Duke of Orleans. It was a great thing at that time to be in charge of the king’s household; for his responsibilities were given only to noble folk and there were no valets [grooms] who were not gentlemen.

King Francis I, who was captured before Pavia covered in dust and blood, returned to France [in exchange for] leaving his two sons, Francis the dauphin & Henry Duke of Orleans (later king) as hostages in Spain.

On my mother’s side, I take my lineage

From the people of Trimouille, of Bouchage,

Of Rouaux, and of Chaudriers;

Trimouille: the princess, mother of the Prince of Condé, bore this name.  Bouchage: of the house of Joyeuse, father of madame de Guise, mother of mlle. De Montpensier.  Rouaux: from which came that great warrior Joachim Roüaut [Rouault], marshal of France under Charles VII [actually, under Louis XI in 1461 rather than under Charles; Jeanne Chaudrier, Ronsard’s mother, was a descendant].  Chaudriers: an ancient house [going back to the Mayor of la Rochelle c1300;  Ronsard’s mother was also Dame du Bouchaige].

 … and I very nearly found myself

As soon as born, torn away by Fate.

The maid carrying him when they were taking him to baptism dropped him on a meadow, specified as the pré Bouju by Cohen(!).

Two died in the cradle, and to the three living am I

In no way similar in either way of life or wealth.

Descended from the eldest brother and still alive in 1623, his grandsons, were de la Poissonière & the knight Ronsard, and several girls descended from one or the other of the children.

 As soon as I was nine, they sent me to college,

He studied at the college in Navarre under a man called de Vailly, beneath whom also studied the Cardinal of Lorraine [a member of the influential Guise family].

 I came to Avignon, where the powerful army

Of King Francis was proudly in action

Against Charles of Austria; and there I was granted

The role of page to the Duke of Orleans; afterwards I was sent

In the King of Scotland’s entourage to Scotland

Where I spent 30 months, and six in England.

Charles = Charles V, [Holy Roman] Emperor and King of Spain, who attacked Provence and who boasted he’d hold Paris like Madrid.

Orleans = Henry II, being Dauphin on the death of his brother, poisoned at Tournon by the Count of Montecuculo [Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli, secretary to the Dauphin, was executed for his murder though it is likely the Dauphin died of tuberculosis].

Ronsard made the journey to Scotland in 1536, in the entourage of James V who had just married Madeleine, daughter of Francis I, in Paris. That king married secondly [Mary of Guise] the sister of M de Guise, Francis of Lorraine; from whence comes the blood-relationship between the Guise family & the king of England.

Before he sent me to Flanders and Zeeland

And again to Scotland, where a great storm

Tried to drive my ship, along with Lassigni,

Onto the rocks,

Flanders: the Duke of Orleans sent Ronsard, who was his page, to Flanders and Zeeland, with several letters of credit that he sent to his mistress, niece of the Emperor.

Lassigni: a French lord.

When in 1540 I went with Baïf

To Upper Germany,

This was Lazare Baïf, a gentleman of Anjou, related to those [gentlemen] de Laval [an important family, producing several marshals of France in mid-1400s] and de Guimené; the king’s ambassador in Germany as he had been in Venice; a very learned man, witness the books he wrote De re navali [About naval matters] and De re vestiaria [Concerning clothes]. He was father of Jean Antoine Baïf, excellent poet.

(ii) additional notes

“My father was always while living here

In charge of the King’s household “

“My father managed the household of Henry,

Son of the great King Francis, serving his lord

When he was in prison as a hostage for his father in Spain;”

Loys de Ronsard served Louis XII with distinction in the Italian wars between 1495 and 1515 – being present at the taking of Milan in 1499 and Genoa in 1507, the capture of Ludovico Sforza in 1500, and the battles of Agnadello (1509) and Marignano (1515). After the King’s death Loys became maître-d’hotel and then premier maître-d’hotel to King Francis I and remained in France, but following the disastrous battle of Pavia when the King was captured he spent the years 1526-30 in Spain with the hostages who had been swapped for the King’s freedom after Pavia: the dauphin Francis and his younger brother Henry, later Henry II. He brought back a fair bit of Renaissance sculpture from Italy to adorn his home (the Château de la Poissonière, near Vendôme, where his son Pierre was later born), among the earlier Frenchmen to appreciate the new art burgeoning in Italy.

 “The year in which King Francis was taken before Pavia,

On a Saturday, God granted me life –

The 11th September it was”

Ronsard’s birthdate is a cause of endless confusion, argument and uncertainty. It amuses me that the biography on Wikipedia.fr states three different dates in three different places… We know where he was born (the Château de la Poissonière, near Vendôme), but not quite when. Ronsard says here he was born on Saturday 11^th September 1524.  However, the 11^th September was in fact a Sunday in 1524.  (And, because 1524 was a leap year, it was a Friday the year before; and thus 11^th September was never a Saturday in the 1520s!)  Other dates suggested therefore include Saturday 10^th; as well as Friday 2^nd or even late at night on Saturday 10^th as it was just turning into Sunday(!). Perhaps  from a mis-reading of the poem, a tradition grew up that he was born on the date of the Battle of Pavia, 25^th February 1525, as well. [Note: this is still ‘in the same year’ as his birth because new year was at the beginning of March at this time.] The 2^nd September 1525, and even 6^th September 1522 – both of which are Saturdays – have also been suggested. The fact is, we will never know: but a date in early September 1524 seems likeliest.

 “I was not the first of my father’s children,

My mother had produced five long before me;

Two died in the cradle”

We know that Ronsard had a sister and two brothers: Louise (b. 1514), Claude (b. 1515) and Charles (b. 1519) who entered the church. He was the last born – and (as he says here) a ‘long time’, five years, after the other children. However, Chalandon writing in 1875 mentions also a fifth surviving child, another Loys, who became abbé at Tyron; I haven’t been able to track down anything more about this claim, which seems an extraordinary one – would Ronsard have forgotten or attempted to erase the existence of one of his brothers?

 “As soon as I was nine, they sent me to college,

But I spent only half a year troubling

To learn the lessons of the master, de Vailly”

Ronsard went to the Collège de Navarre (part of the university of Paris) in the autumn of 1533, perhaps in preparation for a career in the Catholic church to which, as a younger son, his father may have destined him.  He left quickly, though it is not clear why: perhaps because the teaching was bad, more probably because he didn’t like the idea of a church career and wanted to see some excitement with the Court and the army. Simonin’s 1990 biography also suggests he left college (or perhaps was removed by his family?) because of agitation there by the Protestant reformer Gérard Roussel. This was of course a period of immense tensions in France, as in the rest of Europe, between the established church and protestant reformers. While he was there, though, Ronsard apparently made the acquaintance of Charles de Guise, later Cardinal of Lorraine, and as a Guise a member of a powerful and influential family. Another, Mary of Guise, later married James V of Scotland and precipitated Ronsard’s return to France.

It is interesting to note that one of the great theologians of the time, Mathurin Cordier, had been master at the college a few years earlier, though he had moved on to another college by this time.

 “there I was granted

The role of page to the Duke of Orleans; afterwards I was sent

In the King of Scotland’s entourage to Scotland

Where I spent 30 months, and six in England”

Ronsard was appointed a page at Court in 1536, initially to the Dauphin but when he died soon afterwards he joined (as he says) the suite of Charles, Duke of Orleans.  When the King’s daughter, Madeleine (sister of Charles) was married to King James V of Scotland in January 1537, Ronsard was given to Madeleine by Charles and went to Scotland in her service. She died in June the same year, and was thus known as the ‘Summer Queen’ by the Scots. The boy Ronsard was then attached to the Court of King James. There is little corroborating detail for Ronsard’s claim to have spent 3 years abroad; some doubt the whole story. But it seems probable that he stayed in Scotland until 1538, when the king re-married; and thus it seems likely (to me at least) that his 3 years in England and Scotland includes time later when he travelled in the suite of Lassigny (below). It’s not clear why he spent 6 months in England; but there are later links with the Renaissance court there and it is possible the precocious teenage Ronsard was extending his knowledge of humanist poetry and poetic forms at Henry VIII’s court?

 “But barely had I stopped quietly in the Royal Mews

Before he sent me to Flanders and Zeeland

And again to Scotland where a great storm

Tried to drive my ship, along with Lassigni,

Onto the rocks, after blowing it to the coast of England”

Returning to France, Ronsard joined the other pages in the Écurie or Stable (we might perhaps say the Royal Mews), where all the pages were housed. Scholars tend to say he then joined the suite of Claude d’Humières, Seigneur de Lassigny, who was an equerry in charge of the pages (at an annual remuneration of 400 livres) and with him travelled in Flanders. Cohen states that they left on 24th December 1538. Then in 1539-40 Ronsard was again in England and Scotland. Notably, though, Ronsard only links Lassigny with the shipwreck in England. So perhaps (with Blanchemain, and following Ronsard’s lead) we might conclude that the missions to Flanders and Zeeland were in the service of the Duke of Orleans instead?  (Nothing beyond Ronsard’s own account seems to exist to add detail about the place of the shipwreck, nor his missions in Flanders and Scotland.)

“And had barely reached the age of sixteen

When in 1540 I went with Baïf

To Upper Germany, where I learned the language”

Again a page to the Duke of Orleans in 1539, Ronsard joined the embassy sent to Germany in 1540. This was led by Lazare de Baïf, whose son Jean-Antoine also accompanied him. It is possible that Ronsard was sent by the Duke to keep an eye on things; the embassy was designed to try to detach some of the German princes from Charles V’s side and perhaps bring them into alliance with France, and no doubt the Duke would have liked to have his own sources of information as well as the ‘official’ sources. (The embassy is sometimes referred to as going to the Diet of Speyer; the Diet was though convened by Charles V, so this mission might have been rather delicate – if the Diet had been in session in 1540, which it wasn’t. Cohen however says the embassy stayed in Haguenau, in the Alsace – nearby, and perhaps a more obvious target for French alliances.)

Cohen doubts that Ronsard bothered to learn German; it wasn’t a very useful language at the time!

“on my return a terrible illness

For some end unknown came and stopped up my hearing,

And hit me hard with a blow so heavy

That still today I remain half-deaf as a result”

Struck by illness (Cohen postulates a possible venereal origin!), Ronsard retired to Poissonière for a lengthy recovery. Half-deaf he decided to abandon a politico-military career and turned again to study, perhaps with a view to some sort of church career. He in fact took the tonsure in 1543; this did not make him a priest but it did make him eligible for a number of church posts from which he could have drawn (and later did draw) income. In the event, though, he remained in the service of Charles of Orleans and attached to the Court.

“The year after, in April, love took me unawares

As I followed the Court to Blois, through the fair eyes of Cassandre”

“The year after” – after what?  If it was the year after visiting Germany as Ronsard’s text implies that would be 1541 – which is too early.  So it’s likely to be a year after his illness and convalescence – implying a 2-3 period for these (see above). While Ronsard is certain he met Cassandre at Blois in April 1546, court records apparently show that the court did not go to Blois in 1546! There was however a ball held there in 1545, so it seems likely the two met in that year – and Ronsard’s memory was at fault…

 “Immediately afterwards, I came to be the disciple

Of d’Aurat in Paris”

So when did Ronsard move to Paris? Immediately after what?  (Or perhaps the later change to the text means it wasn’t ‘immediately after’?) Ronsard’s parents both died in 1544, and Lazare de Baïf apparently stepped in to offer the young man the chance to study in Paris, with the younger Baïf under Jean Dorat (D’Aurat). Initially the pair lived at the Baïf residence, as did Dorat who had been engaged to tutor Jean-Antoine; but Lazare died in 1547, and it is likely that at this point Dorat installed himself at the Collège de Coqueret where he became principal around this time. The ‘five years’ spent under Dorat would therefore include those initial years when they studied privately with him.

“… it was at his home that first

Our firm friendship began”

Although after Lazare de Baïf’s death Ronsard and the younger Baïf moved out and apparently joined Dorat, it is not clear that they attended his Collège. That is hardly “chez luy”.  Indeed Ronsard entered into a contract to rent no.2, rue de la Poterie, at Easter 1548 jointly with a minor cleric – interesting evidence also of a continued involvement in ecclesiastical circles.  Baïf and Ronsard were joined under Dorat’s tutelage by Belleau, and then by du Bellay, at this time – the core of the Pléiade. At least one source refers to the Pléiade arising from ‘teaching/learning [enseignement] at Chef Saint-Jean’ – Dorat’s own home. Perhaps then the group met informally at Dorat’s house rather than formally at the Collège. And it was from this context that du Bellay launched the Pléiade’s “manifesto” Défense et illustration de la langue française in 1549 and Ronsard exploded the bombshell of his first major collection, the Odes I-IV, in 1550.

3 – a Romanian (or Bulgarian) ancestor?

“So, as for my first ancestor, he came from roots

Where the freezing Danube runs beside Thrace;

Lower down than Hungary, in a cold region,

There was a Lord named Marquis of Ronsart,”

Did Mârâcinâ Ban exist, and was he Ronsard’s ancestor? The probable answer is no: this was quite possibly a family tradition which Ronsard reports – though it has also been suggested it might be pure imagination on his part!

The romantic tradition of Ronsard’s Romanian origins was not just popular in France. A French teacher and activist working in Romania during the 1830s -40s, Jean Vaillant, adopted Ronsard’s story in his 1844 book La Roumanie, using him as a symbol of the links between France and Romania.  Then the Romanian poet Vasile Alecsandri, writing in Paris after the failure of the 1848 Wallachian revolution, produced Banul Mărăcină in 1855 (though it was not published till 1861). This developed the bare bones of Ronsard’s story with circumstantial detail: Alecsandri made Mărăcină a boyar, lord of Ronsart, governor of Craiova (70 miles west of Bucharest, now Romania’s 6th largest city); and specified a troop of 50 younger sons coming to liberate France. It interests me that Blanchemain used Alecsandri’s “research” (indirectly) as a source for his footnote providing the story.

But romantic legends are not facts.

Further scholarly activity in France established that Ronsard’s grandfather was Olivier Ronsart or Roussart, who was an enfeoffed sergeant (sergent fieffé) in Gastine forest. Though some have said this title is, in modern terms, a gamekeeper it is worth noting that Loys de Ronsard carried the same title; I think it would therefore be better to see him as ‘warden of the forest’ or equivalent, a minor noble rather than a mere gamekeeper. He was a vassal of the Du Bellay family, ancestors of Joachim du Bellay.

Minor gentility does not of course invalidate a romantic Romanian origin, several generations further back. And scholars have identified a tradition which might be relevant: “a certain Baudoin Rossart came to France with John of Bohemia to fight the English at Crécy in 1346. King Philip of Valois apparently gave him as a sign of his recognition a domain in the Vendômois, where the brave gallant established himself.”  (Alliot & Baillou 1926, in a quatercentenary volume on Ronsard)  The same scholars also turned up an 11th century cartulary mentioning a ‘moulin Ronzart’ (Ronzart mill), however; which might suggest that the family had French origins several centuries older than the ‘Romanian link’.

And perhaps Romania is the wrong place to look anyway? At the end of the 19th century a Hungarian suggested that the lower Danubian area in question is Bulgaria – and even pointed to a town called Tarnovo which could (just) be translated as ‘Ronces’ (brambles). Today, there is a Musée Ronsard in Tarnovo…

Where does this leave us? For some scholars Olivier Ronsart’s ‘humble’ title of sergent fieffé means the Romanian/Bulgarian story cannot be true; others find no reason to argue against a possible East European root for the family. For myself, I rather like the Baudoin Rossart story but am not convinced.

In the end, does it matter? Ronsard came from minor noble stock; whether those minor nobles were home-grown, or came from dashing romantic Balkan stock racing across Europe in a crusade to ‘liberate France’, is really only a question of how colourful the story of his ancestry is!

My source for much of the detail in this section is:  N Popa  La Légende des Origines Roumaines de Ronsard in Lumières de la Pléiade (9^ème Stage International d’Etudes Huamnistes, Tours 1965. Special thanks to nikolchina for providing a link to http://www.patev.net/origironsard.htm which – for French readers – provides substantially more detail on the controversy over Ronsard’s Bulgarian roots, and takes a slightly less ambivalent attitude to the possibility. It also has some helpful maps!

Sonnet 5

    DIALOGUE.

Le Passant, et le Genie.

 

    LE PASSANT

Veu que ce marbre enserre un corps qui fut plus beau

Que celuy de Narcisse, ou celuy de Clitie,

Je suis esmerveillé qu’une fleur n’est sortie,

Comme elle feit d’Ajax, du creux de ce tombeau.

 

    LE GENIE

L’ardeur qui reste encore, et vit en ce flambeau,

Ard la terre d’amour, qui si bien a sentie

La flame, qu’en brazier elle s’est convertie,

Et seiche ne peut rien produire de nouveau.

 

Mais si Ronsard vouloit sur sa Marie espandre

Des pleurs pour l’arroser, soudain l’humide cendre

Une fleur du sepulchre enfanteroit au jour.

 

    LE PASSANT

A la cendre on cognoist combien vive estoit forte

La beauté de ce corps, quand mesmes estant morte

Elle enflame la terre et la tombe d’amour.

 

 

 

                                                                                            Dialogue – the Passer-by and the Spirit

 

                                                                                             P: 

                                                                                            Since this marble encloses a form which was more lovely

                                                                                            Than that of Narcissus, or that of Clytie,

                                                                                            I am astonished that a flower has not sprouted

                                                                                            From the hollow of this tomb as it did from Ajax’s.

 

                                                                                            S:

                                                                                            The hot passion which remains, and lives in this torch,

                                                                                            Burns with love the very earth, which has so felt

                                                                                            The flame that it is changed into a brazier

                                                                                            And, dried out, can produce nothing new.

 

                                                                                            But if Ronsard wished to scatter on his Marie

                                                                                            Tears to water it, suddenly the moist ashes

                                                                                            Would give birth to a flower from the tomb.

 

                                                                                            P:

                                                                                            Even as ashes, we understand how strong when alive was

                                                                                            The beauty of this form, when even being dead

                                                                                            She burns the earth and the tomb with love.

 

 

Blanchemain makes only one tiny change – in line 10, he alers the article so it reads “soudain d‘humide cendre…”.  That makes the translation of lines 10-11 something like ‘ …suddenly from the moist ashes / Of the tomb would be born a flower’.

 

We all know that Narcissus thought himself the most beautiful thing on earth; there are plenty of nymphs called Clytie, but the one we want is probably the daughter of Pandareus (she is also known as Merope), to whom Juno gave wisdom and beauty.  The flower of Ajax – thought by some to be larkspur – grew from his blood following his suicide, a flower marked ‘Ai’ (the first letters of his name, and also a Greek exclamation ‘ah!’, ‘woe’, ‘oh!’.

 

 

 

Sonnet 5

Ce-pendant que tu vois le superbe rivage
De la riviere Tusque, et le mont Palatin,
Et que l’air des Latins te fait parler Latin,
Changeant à l’estranger ton naturel langage :

 

Une fille d’Anjou me detient en servage,
Ores baisant sa main et ores son tetin,
Et ores ses beaux yeux astres de mon destin.
Je vy (comme lon dit) trop plus heureux que sage.

 

Tu diras à Maigni, lisant ces vers ici,
C’est grand cas que Ronsard est encore amoureux !
Mon Bellay, je le suis, et le veux estre aussi,

 

Et ne veux confesser qu’amour soit malheureux,
Ou si c’est un malheur, baste, je delibere
De vivre malheureux en si belle misere.

 

 

 

                                                                      Although you are looking at the superb banks

                                                                      Of the Tuscan river, and the Palatine hill,
                                                                      And although the Latin air is making you speak Latin,
                                                                      Changing to a foreign one your native language;

 

                                                                      A lass from Anjou is holding me in servitude,
                                                                      Now kissing her hand, now her breast,
                                                                      And now her fine eyes, the stars of my fate.
                                                                      I live, as they say, much more happily than wisely. 

 

                                                                      You’ll say to Maigni, as you read these verses,
                                                                      ‘There’s good reason to think Ronsard’s in love again!’
                                                                      My Bellay, I am indeed, and I want to be, too, 

 

                                                                      And have no wish to admit love can be unhappy,
                                                                      Or if it is unhappy – so what!  I plan
                                                                      To live unhappily in such joyful sadness!

 

 

 

Only minor differences in Blanchemain’s version, again. For line 7 he replaces “Et ores ses beaux yeux astres de mon destin” (‘And now her fine eyes, the stars of my fate’) with “Et maintenant ses yeux endormis au matin” (‘And now her eyes, still closed in the morning’). In line 9, Marty-Laveaux’s ‘Maigni’ (which is I presume a name) is re-spelled ‘Magny’ which looks more like a place – ‘You’ll say in Magny’? It’s a fairly common place name in France; though how that sits with the first stanza’s Italian sojourn is another matter!

 

Remy Bellau’s note on this poem tells us “This sonnet is addressed to Joachim du Bellay, who died suddenly on the 1st day of the year 1559, in the morning, after staying up very late the night before composing. He dedicated this sonnet when du Bellay was in Rome with cardinal du Bellay his cousin, when he enjoyed turning his Amours into Latin verse.”  The Palatine Hill points to Rome, the Tuscan river presumably is the Arno in Florence, that other centre of Italian letters.