1 FEBRUARY 1957, Page 27

Woman, War and Wine

The usual prize of six guineas was offered for a translation of Ronsard's sonnet: Le Julie m'a trompe; ma Maitresse m'enserre Si fort en sa prison que fen suis tout transit

La guerre est a mon buys. Pour charmer mon souci, Page, verse a longs traits du yin dedans mon verre. Au vent aille l'amour, le procez et la gUerre,

Et la melancholic au sang froid et noirci.

Adieu, rides, adieu; je ne vy plus ainsi: Vivre sans volupte, c'est vivre sous la terre.

La Nature nous donne assez d'autres malheurs Sans nous en acquerir. Nud je vins en ce monde, Et nud je m'en fray. Que me servent les. pleurs, Sinon de m'attrister d'une angoisse profonde? Chassons avec le vin le soin et les malheurs;

Je combas les soucis quand le vin me seconde.

Ronsard's theme was no new one, but a classi- cal commonplace; and a number of competitors who, with varying degrees of licence, translated it into modern terms of police-courts, jiltings and the Suez affair, at least proved that it is up to date, even though they threw away their chances of a prize. A good translation, must of course be fresh in language; 'durance vile'—nobody actually perpetrated the phrase—debars a poem immediately, but the following lines, from a second solution by G. H. S. Jackson, while delighting the judge, can only be described, in Aldous Huxley's phrase, as criticism by parody:

The judge gave me probation. Now my girl Keeps nattering she's in the family way.

My call-up paper's come. Let's have a whirl, And celebrate on gin-and-lime today.

This is more like mock-Villon than mock- Ronsard. Ronsard will be solemn and stoical in his cups; the contemporary attitude, if I may take a half-dozen parody solutions as evidence, is ribald with a touch of self-pity.

Freshness of language wins the first prize of three guineas for P. A. T. O'Donnell, whose choice of words is pleasantly timeless, though his last two lines, since he uses the Shakespearian form, suggests the Elizabethan, and is therefore a little more resolute than Ronsard's original. A. M. Sayers, who takes the second prize of two guineas, seems to me rather too free in his final couplet, which is also somewhat over-determined. The third place, with a guinea, was harder to decide on, since a number of good solutions bad to be passed over as on the whole less dis- tinguished to reward Hilary Corke for a number of very good lines partnered by others which are almost flippant. 'Bilked,' for instance, is a curious choice. Ronsard's suggestion is, surely, that he had the judge squared, and was let down. Neither of the other winners catches this implica- tion. But 'bilking' suggests a failure to pay, which comes no nearer. 'The judge has played me foul,' R. Kennard Davis's solution, is a little better, though, to my mind, too literary. Again Mr. Corke's 'bridewell' has a sophisticated ring quite foreign to Ronsard. Yet from his third line to his ninth I feel that he catches the tone of his original, and writes much as Ronsard might, had he the dubious luck to be reborn today. Honour- able mention goes to Kenneth Kitchin for a Spenserian solution—and I believe the Spenserian form was the right one to choose—to R. Kennard Davis, to R. J. P. Hewison, and to H. A. C. Evans.

I am grateful also to Mrs. D. W. Boileau for a version in the language of Peter Cheyney. I will remember, though with no thought of Ronsard, her calendar-motto for 1957:

Me I don't worry any. Ain't no dice Lookin' like stale hamburgers chewed by rats. PRIZES (P. A. T. O'DONNELL)

Justice forsakes me. In my Mistress' cell So straightly locked, I pine till all grows dim. War's at my gate. To lift the sombre spell, Wine, Page, and let it bubble to the brim! So to the winds with lawsuits, love and war And, ere blood freeze to gall, away with gloom. Unravel, brows; thus shall I live no more : Abandon pleasure and you haunt the tomb. Nature sends ills enough. Why add to these? Naked I came to life, and so shall leave. What is the use of tears, but to increase The load of sorrow under which we grieve?

Come, Wine, and let us put all cares to flight; With such an ally I can stand and fight.

(A. M. SAYERS)

My suit has failed. My mistress has me bound So dungeon-deep that all my wits are dim; War's at the gate. But let all care be drowned! Page, fill my glass with vintage to the brim!

Cast to the winds love, Justice and the War, Tranquillity shall vanquish spleen and gloom : Crow's-feet, begone, I say ! I'll frown no more; Life without joy's mere living in a tomb.

Nature supplies full measure of distress

Without vain seeking. Naked forth I came, And naked go. Why add th'unhappiness

Of idle tears, such anguish to inflame?

Nay come, with wine we'll put our ills to route; Care shall be banished in a drinking bout.

(HILARY CORKE)

The judge has bilked me; and my girl immured Me in her bridewell deep to pine away; The war is at my door. Yet all is cured, Page, by this wine you pour me without stay. The hell with love, the law, and the war too; With cold-black-blooded melancholy speed! I'll not live so. Adieu, wrinkles, adieu! Unpleasured life is a grave-life indeed. Since nature deals us ills for all our years, Why add to them? Naked upon this scene

I came, will naked go. Then wherefore tears Except to keep my sorrows evergreen? With Wine I'll chase Vexation out of town,

And squired by him tilt old Sir Trouble down.