Avril Part 7

THE EPITAPH ON RABELAIS.

Seven years after Rabelais died, Ronsard wrote this off-hand. I give it, not for its value, but because it connects these two great names. The man who wrote it had seen that large and honorable mouth worshipping wine: he had reverenced that head of laughter which has corrected all our philosophy. It would be a shame to pa.s.s such a name as Ronsard's signed to an epitaph on such a work as that of Rabelais, poetry or no poetry.

Ronsard also from a tower at Meudon used to creep out at night and drink with that fellow-priest, vicar of the Parish, Rabelais: a greater man than he.

By a memory separate from the rest of his verse, Ronsard was moved to write this Rabelaisian thing. For he had seen him "full length upon the gra.s.s and singing so."

There is no need of notes, for these great names of Gargantua, Panurge and Friar John are household to every honest man.

_THE EPITAPH ON RABELAIS._

_Si d'un mort qui pourri repose Nature engendre quelque chose, Et si la generation Se faict de la corruption, Une vigne prendra naissance Du bon Rabelais qui boivoit Tousjours ce pendant qu'il vivoit;_

_Demi me se troussoit les bras Et se couchoit tout plat a bas Sur la jonchee entre les ta.s.ses Et parmy les escuelles gra.s.ses_

_Il chantait la grande ma.s.sue Et la jument de Gargantue, Le grand Panurge et le jas Des papimanes ebahis, Leurs loix, leurs facons et demeures Et Frere Jean des Antonneures.

Et d'Espisteme les combas.

Mais la Mort qui ne boivoit pas Tira le beuveur de ce monde Et ores le fait boire de l'onde Du large fleuve d'Acheron._

"MIGNONNE ALLONS VOIR SI LA ROSE."

(_The 17th Ode of the First Book._)

"In these eighteen lines," says very modernly a princ.i.p.al critic, "lies Ronsard's fame more surely than in all the remaining ma.s.s of his works."

He condemns by implication Ronsard's wide waste of power; but the few other poems that I have here had room to print, should make the reader careful of such judgements. It is true that in the great h.o.a.rd which Ronsard left his people there are separate and particular jewels set in the copper and the gold, but the jewels are very numerous: indeed it was almost impossible to choose so few as I have printed here.

If it be asked why this should have become the most famous, no answer can be given save the "flavour of language." It is the perfection of his tongue. Its rhythm reaches the exact limit of change which a simple metre will tolerate: where it saddens, a lengthy hesitation at the opening of the seventh line introduces a new cadence, a lengthy lingering upon the last syllables of the tenth, eleventh and twelfth closes a grave complaint. So, also by an effect of quant.i.ties, the last six lines rise out of melancholy into their proper character of appeal and vivacity: an exhortation.

Certainly those who are so unfamiliar with French poetry as not to know that its whole power depends upon an extreme subtlety of rhythm, may find here the princ.i.p.al example of the quality they have missed.

Something much less weighty than the stress of English lines, a just perceptible difference between nearly equal syllables, marks the excellent from the intolerable in French prosody: and to feel this truth in the eighteen lines that follow it is necessary to read them virtually in the modern manner--for the "s" in "vespree" or "vostre" were pedantries in the sixteenth century--but one must give the mute "e's"

throughout as full a value as they have in singing. Indeed, reading this poem, one sees how it must have been composed to some good and simple air in the man's head.

If the limits of a page permitted it, I would also show how worthy the thing was of fame from its pure and careful choice of verb--"Tandis que vostre age _fleuronne_"--but s.p.a.ce prevents me, luckily, for all this is like splitting a diamond.

"_MIGNONNE ALLONS VOIR SI LA ROSE._"

_Mignonne, allons voir si la rose Qui ce matin avoit desclose Sa robe de pourpre au soleil A point perdu ceste vespree Les plis de sa robe pourpree Et son teint au vostre pareil_

_Las! Voyez comme en peu d'es.p.a.ce Mignonne, elle a dessus la place, Las! Las! ses beautez laisse cheoir!

O vrayment marastre nature, Puis qu'une telle fleur ne dure Que du matin jusques au soir!_

_Donc si vous me croyez, Mignonne, Tandis que vostre age fleuronne En sa plus verte nouveaute, Cuillez, Cuillez vostre jeunesse: Comme a ceste fleur, la veillesse Fera ternir vostre beaute._

THE "SONNETS FOR HeLeNE"

(_The 42nd and 43rd Sonnets of the Second Book._)

Helene was very real. A young Maid of Honour to Catherine de Medicis; Spanish by blood, Italian by breeding, called in France "de Sugeres,"

she was the gravest and the wisest, and, for those who loved serenity, the most beautiful of that high and brilliant school.

The Sonnets began as a task; a task the Queen had set Ronsard, with Helene for theme: they ended in the last strong love of Ronsard's life.

A sincere lover of many women, he had come to the turn of his age when he saw her, like a memory of his own youth. He has permitted to run through this series, therefore, something of the unique illusion which distance in time or s.p.a.ce can lend to the aspect of beauty. An emotion so tenuous does not appear in any other part of his work: here alone you find the chast.i.ty or weakness which made something in his mind come near to the sadder Du Bellay's: his soul is regardant all the while as he writes: visions rise from her such as never rose from Ca.s.sandra; as this great picture at the opening of the 58th Sonnet of the Second Book:

Seule sans compagnie en une grande salle Tu logeois l'autre jour pleine de majeste.

These "Sonnets for Helene" should be common knowledge: they are (with Du Bellay's) the evident original upon which the author of Shakespeare's Sonnets modelled his work: they are the late and careful effort of Ronsard's somewhat spendthrift genius.

Here are two of them. One, the second, most famous, the other, the first, hardly known: both are admirable.

It is the perfection of their sound which gives them their peculiar quality. The very first lines lead off with a completed harmony: it is as thoroughly a winter night as that in Shakespeare's song, but it is more solemn and, as it were, more "built of stone...."

"La Lune Ocieuse, tourne si lentement son char tout a l'entour", is like a sleeping statue of marble.

To this character, the second adds a vivid interest of emotion which has given it its special fame. Even the populace have come to hear of this sonnet, and it is sung to a lovely tune. It has also what often leads to permanent reputation in verse, a great simplicity of form. The s.e.xtet is well divided from the Octave, the climax is clearly underlined. Ronsard was often (to his hurt) too scholarly to achieve simplicity: when, under the clear influence of some sharp pa.s.sion or gaiety he did achieve it, then he wrote the lines that will always remain:

A fin qu'a tout jamais de siecle en siecle vive, La Parfaicte amitie que Ronsard la portait.

_THE "SONNETS FOR HeLeNE."_

XLII

_Ces longues nuicts d'hyver, ou la Lune ocieuse Tourne si lentement son char tout a l'entour, Ou le Coq si tardif nous annonce le jour, Ou la nuict semble un an a l'ame soucieuse: Je fusse mort d'ennuy sans ta forme douteuse Qui vient par une feinte alleger mon amour, Et faisant toute nue entre mes bras sejour Me pipe doucement d'une joye menteuse.

Vraye tu es farouche, et fiere en cruaute: De toy fausse on jouyst en toute privaute.

Pres ton mort je m'endors, pres de luy je repose: Rien ne m'est refuse. Le bon sommeil ainsi Abuse pour le faux mon amoureux souci.

S'abuser en Amour n'est pas mauvaise chose._

XLIII

_Quand vous serez bien vieille, au Soir a la chandelle, a.s.sise aupres du feu, devidant et filant, Direz chantant mes vers, en vous esmerveillant, Ronsard me celebroit du temps que j'estois belle.

Lors vous n'aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle Desia sous le labeur a demy sommeillant Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s'aille resveillant, Benissant vostre nom de louange immortelle._

_Je seray sous la terre et fantome sans os Par les...o...b..es myrteux je prendray mon repos.

Vous serez au foyer une veille accroupie, Regrettant mon amour et vostre fier desdain.

Vivez, si m'en croyez; n'attendez a demain.

Cueillez des aujourdhuy les roses de la vie._