Amours retranchées 3

Le seul penser, qui me fait devenir

Brave d’espoir, est si doulx que mon ame

Desja gaignée, impuissante se pasme,

Songeant au bien qui me doit advenir.

 

Donc sans mourir pourray-je soustenir

Le doux combat que me garde ma Dame,

Puis qu’un penser si brusquement l’entame

Du seul plaisir d’un si doulx souvenir ?

 

Helas ! Venus, que l’escume féconde,

Non loin de Cypre enfanta dessus l’onde,

Si de fortune en ce combat je meurs ;

 

Reçoy ma vie, ô Déesse, et la guide

Par les odeurs de tes plus belles fleurs,

Dans les vergers du Paradis de Gnide.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            The thought alone, which makes me become

                                                                            Bold in hope, is so sweet that my soul

                                                                            Already defeated, faints weakened away

                                                                            Dreaming of the good which must come to me.

 

                                                                            Could I sustain, without dying,

                                                                            The sweet combat which my lady reserves for me,

                                                                            With just the pleasure of so sweet a memory,

                                                                            Since a thought begins it so suddenly? 

 

                                                                            Alas, Venus, whom the fertile surf

                                                                            Bore upon the waves not far from Cyprus,

                                                                            If by chance I die in that combat, 

 

                                                                            Receive my life, o goddess, and guide it

                                                                            Amongst the fragrances of your most beautiful flowers,

                                                                            In the orchards of the gardens of Cnidus.

 

 

 

It’s relatively uncommon to have a sonnet with just the one theme all the way through. But this is a good one; I wonder why Ronsard withdrew it?

 

The love-death is a fine romantic theme, but here of course it’s a more neo-Platonic love-death, more the anticipation than the reality of love.

 

The second quatrain is one of those whose grammar is rather contorted: unusually, I’ve opted to re-organise the translation to prioritise sense over parallelism with Ronsard’s French. Taking it line by line it would go something like:

 

              Without dying, then, could I sustain

              The sweet combat which my lady reserves for me

              (Since a thought so suddenly launches it)

              With just the pleasure of so sweet a memory?

 

We’ve met Venus as goddess of Cnidus before; and Cnidus as a place rich in agriculture (though, as noted before, its real wealth was apparently based more on trade than agriculture).

 

There are plenty of changes in Blanchemain’s version, some of them minor re-orderings of word for euphony; here it is complete:

 

 

Le seul penser, qui me fait devenir

Haultain et brave, est si doulx que mon ame

Desja desja impuissante, se pasme,

Yvre du bien qui me doibt avenir.

 

Sans mourir donq, pourray-je soustenir

Le doux combat que me garde ma Dame,

Puis qu’un penser si brusquement l’entame

Du seul plaisir d’un si doulx souvenir ?

 

Helas ! Venus, que l’escume féconde,

Non loin de Cypre enfanta dessus l’onde,

Si de fortune en ce combat je meurs ;

 

Reçoy ma vie, ô Déesse, et la guide

Parmy l’odeur de tes plus belles fleurs,

Dans les vergers du Paradis de Gnide.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            The thought alone, which makes me become

                                                                            Proud and bold, is so sweet that my soul

                                                                            Now already weakened, faints away

                                                                            Drunk on the good which must come to me.

 

                                                                            Could I sustain, without dying,

                                                                            The sweet combat which my lady reserves for me,

                                                                            With just the pleasure of so sweet a memory,

                                                                            Since a thought begins it so suddenly? 

 

                                                                            Alas, Venus, whom the fertile surf

                                                                            Bore upon the waves not far from Cyprus,

                                                                            If by chance I die in that combat, 

 

                                                                            Receive my life, o goddess, and guide it

                                                                            Amongst the fragrance of your most beautiful flowers,

                                                                            In the orchards of the gardens of Cnidus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:53

Belle gorge d’albastre, et vous chaste poictrine,

Qui les Muses cachez en un rond verdelet :

Tertres d’Agathe blanc, petits gazons de laict,

Des Graces le sejour, d’Amour et de Cyprine :

 

Sein de couleur de lis et de couleur rosine,

De veines marqueté, je vous vy par souhait

Lever l’autre matin, comme l’Aurore fait

Quand vermeille elle sort de sa chambre marine.

 

Je vy de tous costez le Plaisir et le Jeu,

Venus, Amour, la Grace armez d’un petit feu,

Voler ainsi qu’enfans, par vos coustaux d’yvoire,

 

M’esblouyr, m’assaillir et surprendre mon fort :

Je vy tant de beautez que je ne les veux croire.

Un homme ne doit croire aux tesmoins de sa mort.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Fair throat of alabaster, and chaste breast

                                                                            Which the Muses hide in that swelling roundness;

                                                                            Breasts of white agate, small lawns of milky-white,

                                                                            The resting-place of the Graces, of Love and of Cyprian Venus:

 

                                                                            Breasts the colour of lilies and of roses,

                                                                            Inlaid with veins, I saw you, as I wished,

                                                                            Arise the other morning, like Dawn does

                                                                            When she redly leaves her watery bed.

 

                                                                            I saw on all sides Pleasure and Joy

                                                                            And Venus, Love, Grace, armed with their little fires

                                                                            Flying like children through those ivory hills of yours,

 

                                                                            To stun me, to assail me, to surprise my defences:

                                                                            I saw so much beauty that I could not believe it.

                                                                            A man should not believe in the presages of his death.

 

 

 

This time we have Cyprian Venus – the place she landed after birth at sea – and others in a poem absorbed with Helen’s breasts! Lawns and hills, neither are white… Interestingly, Ronsard’s use of “coustaux” tells us something of his origins: the usual word is “coteaux”, but the pronunciation is that of central France.

 

The last line seems to come out of nowhere: in what way are Helen’s breasts “presages of his death”? The point, simply, is that so much beauty is enough to kill someone.

 

Richelet offers a number of notes: on line 2, he suggests that the ‘swelling’ roundness means that her breasts are ‘not yet ripe’ (or ‘mature’ if you prefer); on the opening lines, he adds ‘that is the perfection of the breast, to be round, mid-size, firm and white’; and on line 6, he remarks that “marqueté” (inlaid) indicates ‘mixed with little purplish streams which can be seen through the delicate skin’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:50

Je voy mille beautéz, et si n’en voy pas-une

Qui contente mes yeux : seule vous me plaisez,

Seule quand je vous voy, mes Sens vous appaisez :

Vous estes mon destin, mon Ciel et ma Fortune,

 

Ma Venus mon Amour ma Charite ma brune,

Qui tous bas pensemens de l’esprit me rasez,

Et de belles vertus l’estomac m’embrasez,

Me soulevant de terre au cercle de la Lune.

 

Mon œil de vos regards goulument se repaist :

Tout ce qui n’est pas vous luy fasche et luy desplaist,

Tant il a par usance accoustumé de vivre

 

De vostre unique douce agreable beauté.

S’il peche contre vous affamé de vous suivre,

Ce n’est de son bon gré c’est par necessité.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I see a thousand beauties, and yet see not one

                                                                            Who pleases my eye : only you please me,

                                                                            Only when I look at you, do you calm my senses,

                                                                            You are my destiny, my heaven, my luck,

 

                                                                            My Venus, my beloved, my love, my dark beauty,

                                                                            Who erase all low thoughts from my soul,

                                                                            And set my heart ablaze with fair virtues,

                                                                            Lifting me from the earth to the orbit of the moon.

 

                                                                            My eye feeds greedily on your glances;

                                                                            Everything which isn’t you irritates and displeases it,

                                                                            So accustomed has it been through familiarity to live

 

                                                                            On your unique, sweet, pleasant beauty.

                                                                            If it sins against you, desperate to follow you,

                                                                            It is not by its own choice but by necessity.

 

 

 

By way of contrast with what he will do in his next poem, Ronsard here maintains throughout the tone of admiration for his mistress. Is it relevant that the poem (possibly) derives from some lines by Pietro Bembo – which themselves maintain that tone throughout?

 

Bembo’s lines – in the middle of a long ‘canzon’ in his “Asolani” – are

 

 

        … Soave sguardo

Lieto cortese e tardo

Armavansi felici e cari lumi;

Che quant’ io vidi poi,

Vago, amoroso, et pellegrin fra noi,

Rimembrando di lor tenni ombre et fumi …

                                                                                    … Sweet look
                                                                            Joyous, courteous and slow,
                                                                            Arming such happy and dear lamps;
                                                                            How much I saw then,
                                                                            Wandering amorously, a pilgrim among us,
                                                                            Remembering their tender shade and mists…

 

 

As so often when presented with a ‘source’ for Ronsard’s poem, I’m left thinking that the only thing in common is the theme, in this case the eyes of the mistress – because almost every other word, and certainly all the phraseology, is different!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:33

Si la beauté se perd, fais-en part de bonne heure,

Tandis qu’en son printemps tu la vois fleuronner :

Si elle ne se perd, ne crain point de donner

A tes amis le bien qui tousjours te demeure.

 

Venus, tu devrois estre en mon endroit meilleure,

Et non dedans ton camp ainsi m’abandonner :

Tu me laisses toy-mesme esclave emprisonner

Es mains d’une cruelle où il faut que je meure.

 

Tu as changé mon aise et mon doux en amer :

Que devoy-je esperer de toy, germe de mer,

Sinon toute tempeste ? et de toy qui es femme

 

De Vulcan, que du feu ? de toy garce de Mars,

Que couteaux qui sans cesse environnent mon ame

D’orages amoureux de flames et de dars ?

 

 

 

 

                                                                            If beauty becomes lost, use it in good time,

                                                                            Since in its springtime you see it flowering;

                                                                            If it does not become lost, never fear to give

                                                                            To your friends that good thing which always remains with you.

 

                                                                            Venus, you ought to act better in this place where I am,

                                                                            And not abandon me thus within your camp:

                                                                            You yourself have left me a slave, imprisoned

                                                                            In the hands of a cruel woman, where I must die.

 

                                                                            You have changed my ease and my sweetness into bitterness:

                                                                            What should I hope for from you, born of the sea,

                                                                            Unless all kinds of storms? And from you who are wife

 

                                                                            Of Vulcan, what but fire? From you, Mars’s bitch,

                                                                            But knives which ceaselessly encircle my soul

                                                                            With love’s downpours of flames and darts?

 

 

 

 

It’s not often that Ronsard resorts to a ‘logical’ manoeuvre like this – if A, then you must, if not-A then you still must… But it’s neatly done. ‘Your beauty is a gift – use it while you’ve got it (whether it will fade or not)’. And there’s also of course the point-scoring value of suggesting that Helen’s beauty is such that it will never fade.

 

Line 5 is clear in meaning but surprisingly hard to translate – ‘in my place’ sounds like ‘instead of me’ (which it isn’t), but then in line 6 he is ‘in your camp’, so where is ‘his’ place? There’s a mixture of implicit meanings – ‘in the surroundings I am in’ might capture some of it.

 

And then the sestet, with its multiple references to the myths of Venus. Sea-born, as in the famous painting by Botticelli as she glides to land in her shell; wife of Vulcan, the fire-god and blacksmith of the gods; wife too of Mars, god of war. Or rather, not really the wife of Mars as she’s married to Vulcan … I see no reason to doubt that ‘bitch’ was as offensive in middle French as it is to us today.

 

Richelet tells us that Ronsard based this poem on an epigram of Meleager. This is at 5.180 in the Greek Anthology:

 

 

τί ξένον, εἰ βροτολοιγὸς Ἔρως τὰ πυρίπνοα τόξα
βάλλει, καὶ λαμυροῖς ὄμμασι πικρὰ γελᾷ;
οὐ μάτηρ στέργει μὲν Ἄρη γαμέτις δὲ τέτυκται
Ἁφαίστου, κοινὰ καὶ πυρὶ καὶ ξίφεσιν;
ματρὸς δ᾽ οὐ μάτηρ ἀνέμων μάστιξι Θάλασσα
τραχὺ βοᾷ; γενέτας δ᾽ οὔτε τις οὔτε τινός.

τοὔνεκεν Ἁφαίστου μὲν ἔχει φλόγα. κύμασι δ᾽ ὀργὰν
στέρξεν ἴσαν, Ἄρεως δ᾽ αἱματόφυρτα βέλη.

 

 

                             How is it strange, if murderous Love shoots his fire-breathing arrows,

                             And laughs bitterly with his cruel eyes?

                             Does his mother not love Ares [Mars], and was she not made the wife

                             Of Hephaestus [Vulcan], [is she not] shared by fire and swords?

                             Doesn’t his mother’s mother the sea roar sharply

                             At the whip of the winds? [We know] neither who his father is, nor whose son [that father was].

                             Therefore he has Hephaestus’s fire, he loves anger equally

                             With the waves and [loves] Ares’ blood-stained weapons.

                             

 

As you can see, the ideas have been seamlessly adapted into Ronsard’s poem: most of Meleager is there, and yet Ronsard’s poem is completely different. It just goes to show why it’s worth looking at Ronsard’s inspirations: you get a very good feel for just how his genius works, but also for just how great that genius is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:52

Je suis esmerveillé que mes pensers ne sont

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

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

Et d’un penser passé cent nouveaux se refont.

 

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

M’abandonnant tout seul, devers vostre demeure :

Et s’ils sçavoient parler, souvent vous seriez seure

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

 

Or sus venez Pensers, pensons encor en elle,

De tant y repenser je ne me puis lasser :

Pensons en ces beaux yeux et combien elle est belle,

 

Elle pourra vers nous les siens faire passer.

Venus non seulement nourrit de sa mammelle

Amour son fils aisné, mais aussi le Penser.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            I am astonished that my thoughts are not

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

                                                                            Remembering you, sometimes I sing, sometimes cry,

                                                                            And as one thought passes a hundred new ones reform.

 

                                                                            Then, light as birds, they fly and are gone

                                                                            Towards your home, leaving me all alone;

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

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

 

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

                                                                            Of thinking so often on her I cannot tire;

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

 

                                                                            She might let hers pass over us.

                                                                            Venus not only feeds at her breast

                                                                            Her elder son Love, but Thought too.

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Io son già stanco di pensar sí come

i miei pensier’ in voi stanchi non sono,

et come vita anchor non abbandono

per fuggir de’ sospir’ sí gravi some;

 

et come a dir del viso et de le chiome

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

non è mancata omai la lingua e ‘l suono

dí et notte chiamando il vostro nome;

 

et che’ pie’ non son fiaccati et lassi

a seguir l’orme vostre in ogni parte

perdendo inutilmente tanti passi;

 

Et onde vien l’enchiostro, onde le carte

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

colpa d’Amor, non già defecto d’arte.

 

 

                                                                            I’m now weary of thinking of how

                                                                            my thoughts of you are never weary,

                                                                            and how I’ve not yet abandoned life

                                                                            to flee so heavy a weight of sighs;

 

                                                                            and of how, to speak of your face and hair

                                                                            and your fair eyes, which I am always considering,

                                                                            my tongue never lacks the sound,

                                                                            day and night calling your name;

 

                                                                            and of how my feet are never exhausted or tired

                                                                            of following your steps in every place,

                                                                            uselessly wasting so many paces;

 

                                                                            and of how it happens that all that ink and paper

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:69

Tes freres les Jumeaux, qui ce mois verdureux

Maistrisent, et qui sont tous deux liez ensemble,

Te devroient enseigner, au moins comme il me semble,

A te joindre ainsi qu’eux d’un lien amoureux.

 

Mais ton corps nonchalant revesche et rigoureux,

Qui jamais en son cœur le feu d’amour n’assemble,

En ce beau mois de May, malgré tes ans ressemble,

O perte de jeunesse ! à l’Hyver froidureux.

 

Tu n’es digne d’avoir les deux Jumeaux pour freres :

A leur gentille humeur les tiennes sont contraires,

Venus t’est desplaisante, et son fils odieux,

 

Au contraire, par eux la terre est toute pleine

De Graces et d’Amours : change ce nom d’Helene :

Un autre plus cruel te convient beaucoup mieux.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Your brothers the Twins [Gemini], who are in charge

                                                                            Of this verdant month, and who are both bound together,

                                                                            Ought to teach you – or so it seems to me –

                                                                            To bind yourself as they have with the ties of love.

 

                                                                            But your body – indolent, surly and harsh,

                                                                            Never in its heart gathering the fires of love –

                                                                            In this fair month of May, despite your youth, resembles

                                                                            (O waste of youth!) the freezing winter.

 

                                                                            You are not worthy to have the Twins as brothers;

                                                                            To their gentle humour your own are opposed,

                                                                            Venus [Love] displeases you, her son is hateful,

 

                                                                            And yet through them the earth is filled

                                                                            With Graces and Loves! Change your name of Helen;

                                                                            A different one, more cruel, would suit you much better.

 

 

 

Straightforward mythology throughout here. Castor & Pollux, the Gemini, are Helen’s brothers through their mother Leda; of course Helen shares Zeus as a father with one of the two (the other had a mortal father). The Twins are, however, generally seen as gods of travellers, sailors, sportsmen rather than “Graces and Loves”, although a “gentle humour” fits them.

 

I am a little surprised by Ronsard’s last line: he often treats Helen as a name linked with destruction (I assume he derives it from ἑιλον, ‘I captured, killed, destroyed’, rather than ἑλένη, or ‘torch’, ‘light’ which seems popular these days, though considered doubtful by Liddell & Scott) – yet here is presumably thinking of that more attractive etymology, if telling her to lose that name and choose one ‘more cruel’.

 

Blanchemain offers a variant in line 6, not changing the sense:”Qui jamais nulle flamme amoureuse n’assemble”, ‘Never gathering any flame of love‘. Additionally, he offers an alternative reading for the final tercet:

 

Au contraire, par eux tout est plein d’allegresse,
De Graces et d’Amours : change de nom, maistresse.

Un autre plus cruel te convient beaucoup mieux.

 

                                                                            And yet through them all is filled with the happiness 

                                                                            Of Graces and Loves! Change that name, mistress;

                                                                            A different one, more cruel, would suit you much better.

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:35

Cythere entroit au bain, et te voyant pres d’elle

Son Ceste elle te baille à fin de le garder.

Ceinte de tant d’amours tu me vins regarder

Me tirant de tes yeux une fleche cruelle.

 

Muses, je suis navré, ou ma playe mortelle

Guarissez, ou cessez de plus me commander.

Je ne suy vostre escole, à fin de demander

Qui fait la Lune vieille, ou qui la fait nouvelle.

 

Je ne vous fait la Cour, comme un homme ocieux,

Pour apprendre de vous le mouvement des cieux,

Que peut la grande Eclipse, ou que peut la petite,

 

Ou si Fortune ou Dieu ont fait cest Univers :

Si je ne puis flechir Helene par mes vers,

Cherchez autre escolier, Deesses, je vous quitte.

 

 

                                                                            Cytherea [Venus] entered her bath, and seeing you near her

                                                                            Handed you her girdle so that you could guard it.

                                                                            Girded with so much love, you came to see me,

                                                                            You eyes shooting me with a cruel dart.

 

                                                                            Muses, I am wounded : cure my

                                                                            Mortal wound, or cease henceforth to command me.

                                                                            I do not follow your school to ask

                                                                            Who makes the moon old, or who makes her new [again];

 

                                                                            I do not pay you court, like a man of leisure,

                                                                            To learn from you the movements of the heavens,

                                                                            Or what a great eclipse can do, or a small one,

 

                                                                            Or if Chance or God made this universe.

                                                                            If I cannot move Helen with my verses,

                                                                            Seek some other pupil, goddesses : I abandon you.

 

 

When Ronsard talks of the Muses, it’s easy to forget there were Muses in charge of things other than poetry or music: astronomy, for instance. That was Urania.

 

In line 2, it’s worth noting that Venus’s “cestus”, her magic girdle, ‘gave the wearer the power to excite love’ (Wiktionary).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen 2:9

Ny la douce pitié, ny le pleur lamentable

Ne t’ont baillé ton nom : ton nom Grec vient d’oster,

De ravir, de tuer, de piller, d’emporter

Mon esprit et mon cœur, ta proye miserable.

 

Homere en se joüant de toy fist une fable,

Et moy l’histoire au vray. Amour, pour te flater,

Comme tu fis à Troye, au cœur me vient jetter

Le feu qui de mes oz se paist insatiable.

 

La voix, que tu feignois à l’entour du Cheval

Pour decevoir les Grecs, me devoit faire sage :

Mais l’homme de nature est aveugle à son mal,

 

Qui ne peut se garder ny prevoir son dommage.

Au pis-aller je meurs pour ce beau nom fatal,

Qui mit tout l’Asie et l’Europe en pillage.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Neither sweet pity nor grievous weeping

                                                                            Gave you your name ; your Greek name has just now taken away,

                                                                            Seized, killed, pillaged, carried off

                                                                            My spirit and my heart as your wretched prey.

 

                                                                            Homer, enjoying himself, made a myth of you,

                                                                            But I have told the true story. Love, to flatter you,

                                                                            Has just thrown into my heart, as you did into Troy,

                                                                            A fire which feeds insatiably on my bones.

 

                                                                            The misleading words you used, as you circled the Horse,

                                                                            To deceive the Greeks should have made me wise ;

                                                                            But man is by nature blind to his own ills

 

                                                                            And cannot guard himself nor foresee what will hurt him.

                                                                            The worst part is, I am dying for this fair, deadly name

                                                                            Which put all Asia and Europe to pillage.

 

 

Lengthy footnotes today from Ronsard’s editor, Richelet, to explain the slightly tortuous meaning in several places in the poem.

 

In lines 1-2, Richelet explains, “the name she has was not given because of any sweetness in her, [nor] as coming from the word ‘eleein’ [Greek ελεειν, to weep], but rather from ‘helein’ [ελειν, to seize], ‘helinnuein’ [ελιννευειν, to rest], ‘helissein’ [ελισσειν, to whirl around], ‘helkein’ [ελκειν, to drag off] which are all words of ruin and damage.” (Though, as you can see, Liddell & Scott don’t agree that one of them – ‘helinneuein’ – falls into this category!) Note however that Ronsard’s French amounts to a set of meanings for just two of those words (‘helein’ and ‘helkein’) . I imagine we owe the inclusion of the other two, more obscure, words (one of which is doubtful) more to Richelet than to Ronsard.

 

At line 7, Blanchemain reminds us that Helen, with Sinon, gave the signal to the Greeks to emerge from the Trojan Horse and thus to burn Troy; though Richelet expounds at length on lines 9-11 which seem to refer to a slightly earlier episode: “after the Greeks had, by the counsel of Minerva, placed the horse in Troy, Venus, knowing their plan and wishing to have it discovered by the Trojans, came at night on the garb of an old woman to Helen, to give her information about the horse, in which among others was her husband Menelaus. At this report, as soon as she’d leapt from her bed, she came to the horse and spoke to the Greeks who were hidden insde, which frightened them so much that she thought she had put them in danger”. But this, it seems to me, does not fit with “que tu feignois” (the phrase to which Richelet attached the explanation): for Ronsard is clearly saying Helen ‘feigned’ another’s voice or said something misleading to the Greeks – as if she not Minerva were in disguise, or she was seeking to deceive the Greeks in the horse – which is not at all what Richelet describes. Rather, Ronsard is referring to Homer’s Odyssey (book 4, 270-290) where Menelaus tells Helen he knows how she came to the Horse “bidden by some god” to try to trick the Greeks into giving themselves away by imitating the voices of their wives and lovers. Sorry, Richelet: wrong this time.

 

Two minor variants in Blanchemain’s version: in line 2, “Helene vient d’oster” (‘Helen has just now taken away’); and at the beginning of line 8, “Ton feu…” (‘Your fire’)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Interlude (5)

Another quick set of variants across editions. I’m including this one partly because it graphically demonstrates also that you can’t trust modern editors: neither of my two ‘standards’, Blanchemain and Marty-Laveaux, actually print the text which appears in the edition they say they are using…

1552   Thiard, chacun disoit à mon commencement, Que j’estoi trop obscur au simple populaire : Aujourd’hui, chacun dit que je suis au contraire, Et que je me dements parlant trop bassement.   Toi, qui as enduré presqu’un pareil torment, Di moi, je te suppli, di moi que doi-je faire ? Di moi, si tu le sçais, comme doi-je complaire A ce monstre testu, divers en jugement ?   Quand j’escri haultement, il ne veult pas me lire, Quand j’escri basement, il ne fait qu’en médire : De quel estroit lien tiendrai-je, ou de quels clous,   Ce monstrueux Prothé, qui se change à tous cous ? Paix, paix, je t’enten bien : il le faut laisser dire, Et nous rire de lui, comme il se rit de nous.	Thiard, everyone said when I began That I was too obscure for the simple man in the street; Today, everyone says that I am the opposite, And that I’ve gone mad for speaking in too low a style.   You who have endured much the same torture, Tell me, I beg, tell me what must I do? Tell me, if you know, how I should please This many-headed monster, with such varied opinions?   When I write in a high style, they don’t want to read me; When I write in a low style, they just abuse me. With what tight bonds or what nails can I hold   This monstrous Proteus who changes shape at every moment? OK, OK, I understand you completely: we must leave them to speak, And laugh at them, as they laugh at us.
1560   Mon Thiard, on disoit à mon commencement, Que j’estoi trop obscur au simple populaire : Mais aujourdhuy lon dit que je suis au contraire, Et que je me dements parlant trop bassement.   Toy, de qui le labeur enfante doctement Des livres immortels, di-moi, que doi-je faire ? Di-moi (car tu sçais tout) comme doi-je complaire A ce monstre testu, divers en jugement ?   Quand j’escri hautement, il ne veult pas me lire, Quand j’escri basement, il ne fait qu’en médire : De quels liens serrez ou de quel rang de clous   Tiendrai-je ce Prothé, qui se change à tous cous ? Paix, paix, je t’enten bien : il le faut laisser dire, Et nous rire de lui, comme il se rit de nous.	My Thiard, they used to say at the beginning That I was too obscure to the simple man in the street; But today they say that I am the opposite, And that I’ve gone mad for speaking in too low a style.   You whose labour gives birth learnedly To immortal books, tell me, what should I do? Tell me (for you know everything) how I should please This many-headed monster, with such varied opinions?   When I write in a high style, they don’t want to read me; When I write in a low style, they just abuse me. With what tight bonds or what line of nails   Can I hold this Proteus who changes shape at every moment? OK, OK, I understand you completely: we must leave them to speak, And laugh at them, as they laugh at us.
1578   Tyard, on me blasmoit à mon commencement, Que j’estoi trop obscur au simple populaire : Mais on dit aujourd’huy que je suis au contraire, Et que je me dements parlant trop bassement.   Toy, de qui le labeur enfante doctement Des livres immortels, dy-moy, que doy-je faire ? Dy-moy (car tu sçais tout) comme doy-je complaire A ce monstre testu, divers en jugement ?   Quand je brave en mes vers, il a peur de me lire : Quand ma voix se desenfle, il ne fait que mesdire. Dy moy de quels liens, et de quel rang de clous   Tiendray-je ce Prothé, qui se change à tous coups ? Tyard, je t’enten bien, il le faut laisser dire, Et nous rire de luy, comme il se rit de nous.	Tyard, they used to blame me at the beginning That I was too obscure to the simple man in the street; But today they say that I am the opposite, And that I’ve gone mad for speaking in too low a style.   You whose labour gives birth learnedly To immortal books, tell me, what should I do? Tell me (for you know everything) how I should please This many-headed monster, with such varied opinions?   When I am defiant in my verse, they are afraid to read me; When my voice becomes less grand, they just abuse me. Tell me with what bonds or what line of nails   Can I hold this Proteus who changes shape at every moment? Tyard, I understand you completely: we must leave them to speak, And laugh at them, as they laugh at us.
1584   Tyard, on me blasmoit à mon commencement, Dequoy j’estois obscur au simple populaire : Mais on dit aujourd’huy que je suis au contraire, Et que je me démens parlant trop bassement.   Toy de qui le labeur enfante doctement Des livres immortels, dy-moy, que doy-je faire ? Dy-moy (car tu sçais tout) comme doy-je complaire A ce monstre testu divers en jugement ?   Quand je brave en mes vers il a peur de me lire : Quand ma voix se desenfle, il ne fait qu’en mesdire. Dy-moy de quel lien, force, tenaille, ou clous   Tiendray-je ce Proté qui se change à tous coups ? Tyard, je t’enten bien, il le faut laisser dire, Et nous rire de luy, comme il se rit de nous.	Tyard, they used to blame me at the beginning Because I was too obscure to the simple man in the street; But today they say that I am the opposite, And that I’ve gone mad for speaking in too low a style.   You whose labour gives birth learnedly To immortal books, tell me, what should I do? Tell me (for you know everything) how I should please This many-headed monster, with such varied opinions?   When I am defiant in my verse, they are afraid to read me; When my voice becomes less grand, they just abuse me. Tell me with what bond, force, manacles or nails   Can I hold this Proteus who changes shape at every moment? Tyard, I understand you completely: we must leave them to speak, And laugh at them, as they laugh at us.
1587   Ma Muse estoit blasmée à son commencement, D’apparoistre trop haulte au simple populaire : Maintenant des-enflée on la blasme au contraire, Et qu’elle se desment parlant trop bassement.   Toy de qui le labeur enfante doctement Des livres immortels, dy-moy, que doy-je faire ? Dy-moy (car tu sçais tout) comme doy-je complaire A ce monstre testu divers en jugement ?   Quand je tonne en mes vers il a peur de me lire : Quand ma voix se rabaisse il ne fait qu’en mesdire. Dy-moy de quel lien force tenaille ou clous   Tiendray-je ce Proté qui se change à tous coups ? Tyard, je t’enten bien, il le faut laisser dire, Et nous rire de luy comme il se rit de nous.	My Muse used to be blamed at the beginning For appearing too high-flown for the simple man in the street; Now she’s become less grand, they blame her for the opposite, And that she’s gone mad for speaking in too low a style.   You whose labour gives birth learnedly To immortal books, tell me, what should I do? Tell me (for you know everything) how I should please This many-headed monster, with such varied opinions?   When I thunder in my verse, they are afraid to read me; When my voice becomes less grand, they just abuse me. Tell me with what bond, force, manacles or nails   Can I hold this Proteus who changes shape at every moment? Tyard, I understand you completely: we must leave them to speak, And laugh at them, as they laugh at us.

 

No doubt, as it was the opening poem in the Continuation des Amours and then became the first poem of book 2 in its various editions, Ronsard would have devoted significant effort to thinking and re-thinking the way his book opens.

 

If you look back at my original post, you’ll see that:

 – Marty-Laveaux inserts “Quand je tonne” from 1587 into his ‘1584’ version;

 – Blanchemain, basing his text on the 1560 edition, uses the 1578 version for line 3 (where Ronsard re-organised simply to remove the medieval ‘lon’), and also for line 13 (where Ronsard re-uses Tyard’s name, to avoid the repetitive exclamation “paix, paix!”)

 

Neither is a great sin, of course, but neither is a version Ronsard actually authorised!

 

 

 

 

Interlude (4)

Six months ago I posted a few poems in multiple versions, showing how they changed as Ronsard re-edited them through various editions. Here’s another which, as you can see, Ronsard virtually re-wrote every time he looked at it…

1552   Marie, qui voudroit vostre beau nom tourner, Il trouveroit Aimer: aimez-moi donq, Marie, Faites cela vers moi dont vostre nom vous prie, Vostre amour ne se peut en meilleur lieu donner:   S’il vous plaist pour jamais un plaisir demener, Aimez-moi, nous prendrons les plaisirs de la vie, Penduz l’un l’autre au col, et jamais nulle envie D’aimer en autre lieu ne nous pourra mener.   Si faut il bien aimer au monde quelque chose: Cellui qui n’aime point, cellui-là se propose Une vie d’un Scyte; et ses jours veut passer   Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure. E, qu’est-il rien de doux sans Venus? las! à l’heure Que je n’aimeray point puissai-je trépasser!	Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your lovely name Would find “Aimer” [‘to love’]; so love me, Marie, Do to me what your name asks of you, Your love cannot be given anywhere better.   If you please to keep it a pleasure for ever, Love me, we will enjoy the pleasures of life Hanging on each other’s necks, and never will any desire To love elsewhere be able to lead us away.   After all, you have to love something in this world; Whoever loves not at all offers himself only The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days   Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all. What is there that is sweet without Love? Oh, at the moment When I cease loving, may I die!
1560   Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner, Il trouveroit Aimer : aimez-moy donc, Marie ; Puisque vostre beau nom à l’amour vous convie, Il faut vostre jeunesse à l’amour adonner.   S’il vous plaist pour jamais vostre amy m’ordonner, Ensemble nous prendrons les plaisirs de la vie, D’une amour contra aymée, et jamais autre envie Ne me pourra le cœur du vostre detourner.   Si faut-il bien aimer au monde quelque chose ; Celuy qui n’aime point, pour son but se propose Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer   Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure. Eh! qu’est-il rien de doux sans Venus? las! à l’heure Que je n’aimeray point puissai-je trespasser!	Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name Would find “Aimer”; so love me, Marie, Since your fair name makes you ready to love, You should give your youth to love.   If you please to appoint me your love for ever, Together we shall take the pleasures of life, With a love loved in return, and never will any other desire Be able to turn my heart away from yours.   You really must love something in this world; Whoever loves not at all, offers himself the goal of The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days   Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all. Ah, is there anything that is sweet without Love? Oh, at the moment When I cease loving, may I die!
1578   Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner, Il trouveroit Aimer : aimez-moy donc, Marie ; Vostre nom de nature à l’amour vous convie, Pecher contre son nom ne se doit pardonner.   S’il vous plaist vostre cœur pour gage me donner, Je vous offre le mien : ainsi de ceste vie Nous prendrons les plaisirs, et jamais autre envie Ne me pourra l’esprit d’une autre emprisonner.   Il fault aimer, maistresse, au monde quelque chose. Celuy qui n’aime point, malheureux se propose Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer   Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure. Eh! qu’est-il rien de doux sans Venus? las! à l’heure Que je n’aimeray plus puissai-je trespasser!	Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name Would find “Aimer”; so love me, Marie, Your fair name naturally makes you ready to love, Sinning against your own name you should not forgive yourself.   If you please to give me your heart as guarantee, I shall offer you mine: so this life’s Pleasures we shall take, and never will any other desire Let me emprison the spirit of another lady.   One must love something, mistress, in this world; If anyone loves not at all, that unfortunate offers himself The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days   Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all. Ah, is there anything that is sweet without Love? Oh, at the moment When I cease loving, may I die!
1584   Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner, Il trouveroit aimer : aimez-moi donc, Marie, Vostre nom de nature à l’amour vous convie, A qui trahist Nature il ne faut pardonner.   S’il vous plaist vostre cœur pour gage me donner, Je vous offre le mien : ainsi de ceste vie, Nous prendrons les plaisirs, et jamais autre envie Ne me pourra l’esprit d’une autre emprisonner.   Il faut aimer, maistresse, au monde quelque chose. Celuy qui n’aime point, malheureux se propose Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer   Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure. Rien n’est doux sans Venus et sans son fils : à l’heure Que je n’aimeray plus puissé-je trespasser.	Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name Would find “Aimer”; so love me, Marie, Your fair name naturally makes you ready to love, And anyone who betrays Nature ought not to be forgiven.   If you please to give me your heart as guarantee, I shall offer you mine: so this life’s Pleasures we shall take, and never will any other desire Let me emprison the spirit of another lady.   One must love something, mistress, in this world; If anyone loves not at all, that unfortunate offers himself The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days   Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all. Nothing is sweet, without Venus and her son:  at the moment When I cease loving, may I die!
1587   Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner, Il trouveroit aimer : aimez-moi donc, Marie, Vostre nom de luymesme à l’amour vous convie, Il fault suyvre Nature, et ne l’abandonner.   S’il vous plaist vostre cœur pour gage me donner, Je vous offre le mien : ainsi de ceste vie, Nous prendrons les plaisirs, et jamais autre envie Ne me pourra l’esprit d’une autre emprisonner.   Il faut aimer, maistresse, au monde quelque chose. Celuy qui n’aime point, malheureux se propose Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer   Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure. Rien n’est doux sans Venus et sans son fils : à l’heure Que je n’aimeray plus puissé-je trespasser.	Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name Would find “Aimer”; so love me, Marie, Your fair name of itself makes you ready to love, You should follow Nature and not abandon her.   If you please to give me your heart as guarantee, I shall offer you mine: so this life’s Pleasures we shall take, and never will any other desire Let me emprison the spirit of another lady.   One must love something, mistress, in this world; If anyone loves not at all, that unfortunate offers himself The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days   Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all. Nothing is sweet, without Venus and her son:  at the moment When I cease loving, may I die!