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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77644 ***
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE TROUBADOURS
+
+ O for a draught of vintage that hath been
+ Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
+ Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
+ Dance and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
+
+ KEATS
+
+
+
+
+ THE TROUBADOURS
+
+ A HISTORY OF
+ _PROVENÇAL LIFE AND LITERATURE IN
+ THE MIDDLE AGES_
+
+ BY
+ FRANCIS HUEFFER
+
+ [Illustration]
+
+ London
+ CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
+ 1878
+
+ [_The right of translation is reserved_]
+
+ LONDON: PRINTED BY
+ SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
+ AND PARLIAMENT STREET
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+Articles by the present writer on the subject of Provençal life and
+literature have appeared off and on in the ‘New Quarterly Magazine,’
+the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine,’ ‘Macmillan’s Magazine,’ and the late ‘North
+British Review.’ But this book is not a reprint of essays, although
+some of the materials formerly used have been re-embodied in it. It
+claims on the contrary to be the first continuous and at all adequate
+account in the English language of the literary epoch which forms its
+subject. For I cannot concede that name to a book on ‘The Troubadours,
+their Loves and Lyrics,’ published some years ago; for reasons which it
+is not my province here to state. And yet, excepting only the English
+version of the unsatisfactory book which the Abbé Millot compiled from
+St. Palaye’s excellent materials, by that indefatigable translator and
+abridger in the last century, Mrs. Dobson, that volume is the only work
+on the Troubadours which England can boast of, at least as far as I am
+aware,—and of any important contribution to the subject I should be
+aware. By the side of the admirable criticisms of old French literature
+which we owe to English authors from the days of Cary and the ‘London
+Magazine’ to those of Mr. Andrew Lang and other gifted writers of the
+present time, this neglect of the _langue d’oc_ appears all the more
+glaring, especially when one considers the further fact that many of
+the districts in which the troubadours flourished were at the time when
+they flourished attached to the English crown. The amount of historical,
+and more especially English historical, material to be gleaned from the
+biographies and the works of the troubadours is indeed of the utmost
+value to the student.
+
+In the composition of this book I have chiefly depended on the original
+poetry of the troubadours, but it is far from my wish to deny the
+services I owe to the works of French and German scholars, such as
+Raynouard, Francisque Michel, Dr. Mahn, and Diez, the founder of the
+modern school of Romance philology, a school which counts amongst its
+members Professors Bartsch, Tobler, Holland, in Germany, and MM. Paul
+Meyer and Gaston Paris in France; to mention only a few of the most
+distinguished names. Monographs of single troubadours, especially those
+of Peire Vidal by Professor Bartsch, and of the Monk of Montaudon by
+Dr. Philipson, have been of great use to me. I may also refer to my own
+critical edition of Guillem de Cabestanh’s works. Beyond this general
+acknowledgment I have not thought it necessary to encumber these pages
+with continuous notes of reference.
+
+For my book is not intended as a scientific and exhaustive treatment of
+the subject. The time for that has not yet come in England. My present
+purpose was rather to attract learners than to teach more or less
+proficient students. In plain language I wished, in the first instance,
+to write a readable book, and according to general prejudice such an
+achievement is impossible on the scientific principle. For scholarly
+purposes, I have, however, added a technical portion, chiefly concerned
+with metrical questions, in which the importance of Dante’s scientific
+treatise for the classification of Provençal metres, pointed out by
+Professor Boehmer, has been for the first time proved by systematic
+application. The style and manner of this purely scientific portion
+sufficiently distinguish it from the remainder of the book. Still an
+additional warning to the unwary reader may not seem superfluous.
+
+As another warning rather than encouragement to the same ingenious
+person I have added some interlinear versions of Provençal poems. It is
+addressed to those easy-going amateur philologists who believe themselves
+able to master a language by simply plunging into its literature without
+any previous study of grammar or dictionary. The similarity of Provençal
+to the Latin and the more familiar Romance languages offers especially
+dangerous temptations in that respect. To test the truth of my remarks,
+I would ask the reader to attempt one of the poems at the end of this
+book with the sole aid of intelligent ‘guessing,’ and afterwards to
+compare the result of his conjecture with the literal version. He will
+then come to the conclusion that the _langue d’oc_, owing chiefly to the
+number of its homonymous words and the somewhat unsettled condition of
+its grammatical structure, is the most difficult, as it is the earliest,
+amongst languages sprung from the Latin stock.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+ PAGE
+
+ PART I.
+ _GENERAL._
+
+ CHAPTER I.
+ THE LANGUE D’OC.
+
+ Decline of classic language 3
+
+ Its mixture with German dialects 3
+
+ Derivation of Romance languages 4
+
+ Provençal branch 5
+
+ Its limits 5
+
+ Its relations to the sister languages 6
+
+ Its dialects 7
+
+ Its perfection by the Troubadours 8
+
+ Its decline 8
+
+ CHAPTER II.
+ EARLY POPULAR EPICS.
+
+ The North-French epic 10
+
+ The cycles of Arthur and Charlemagne 11
+
+ The popular epic chanted 11
+
+ Ferabras 12
+
+ Girart de Rossilho 12
+
+ CHAPTER III.
+ THE ARTISTIC EPIC.
+
+ Roman de Jauffre 14
+
+ Flamenca 15
+
+ CHAPTER IV.
+ OTHER NARRATIVE AND DIDACTIC POEMS.
+
+ Castia-Gilos 27
+
+ Lay of the Parrot 27
+
+ Essenhamen de la Donzela 28
+
+ Rhymed chronicle of Navarre 28
+
+ The Song of the Crusade 30
+
+ Tale of the Heretic 31
+
+ Legends 35
+
+ Boethius 35
+
+ Corbiac’s Tezaur 37
+
+ Breviari d’Amor 37
+
+ The biographies of the Troubadours 39
+
+ Their authors 39
+
+ CHAPTER V.
+ APOCRYPHA.
+
+ Provençal literature chiefly lyrical 42
+
+ Fauriel’s theory 42
+
+ Aversion to epic poems 42
+
+ Arnaut Daniel an epic poet 43
+
+ His praise by Dante 45
+
+ His lost epic of ‘Lancelot’ 47
+
+ His obscurity 48
+
+ An anecdote from his life 49
+
+ CHAPTER VI.
+ SOCIAL POSITION OF PROVENÇAL POETS.
+
+ Joglars and Troubadours 52
+
+ Troubadours exclusively lyrical poets 52
+
+ Their social origin 53
+
+ The sons of citizens 54
+
+ Priests 55
+
+ Reigning Princes 55
+
+ Richard I. of England 56
+
+ William IX. of Poitiers 57
+
+ Protectors of the Troubadours 58
+
+ Reward of the Troubadours 59
+
+ Their friendship with princes 60
+
+ Intercourse with noble ladies 60
+
+ Frequently innocent 61
+
+ CHAPTER VII.
+ THE JOGLAR.
+
+ Singers and musical composers 63
+
+ Distinction between troubadours and joglars 64
+
+ Joglars chiefly narrative poets 67
+
+ Guiraut Riquier’s attempted reform 68
+
+ His ‘Suplicatio’ 71
+
+ CHAPTER VIII.
+ TRACES OF POPULAR SONG—THE PASTORELA.
+
+ Guiraut Riquier’s pastorelas 77
+
+ Gui d’Uisel’s pastorelas 84
+
+ Marcabrun’s pastorelas 85
+
+ CHAPTER IX.
+ OTHER POPULAR FORMS.
+
+ The alba 86
+
+ Its oldest form dramatic 87
+
+ Guiraut de Bornelh’s alba 87
+
+ The common form of the alba 88
+
+ Alba by an anonymous poet 91
+
+ The serena 93
+
+ CHAPTER X.
+ THE BALADA.
+
+ Its age 94
+
+ Artistic and popular 95
+
+ Subject of the balada love 96
+
+ Its musical accompaniment 97
+
+ ‘Coindeta soi’ 98
+
+ The dansa 99
+
+ CHAPTER XI.
+ ARTIFICIAL FORMS OF POETRY.
+
+ Comparative simplicity of North-French forms 100
+
+ Arnaut Daniel inventor of the sestina 102
+
+ Imitated by Dante 103
+
+ Metrical scheme of sestina 103
+
+ Modern imitations 105
+
+ Origin of the sonnet 105
+
+ The descort 106
+
+ Prose interludes 106
+
+ The breu doble 109
+
+ The retroensa 110
+
+ CHAPTER XII.
+ THE TENSO.
+
+ Form of the tenso 112
+
+ Definition of the Leys d’Amors 113
+
+ ‘Turn and turn about’ 114
+
+ Actual discussions 115
+
+ Fictitious disputants 115
+
+ Topics of discussion 116
+
+ Tenso between Bernart de Ventadorn and Peirol 117
+
+ Triple tenso 121
+
+ Savaric de Mauleon 122
+
+ Personal tenso 124
+
+ CHAPTER XIII.
+ THE SIRVENTES.
+
+ Its want of formal distinction 127
+
+ Its influence on men’s minds 128
+
+ General remarks on its tone 128
+
+ Etymology of the word 133
+
+ Chief divisions of the sirventes 134
+
+ The planh 134
+
+ Crusader’s song 136
+
+ CHAPTER XIV.
+ THE CANZO.
+
+ The canzo representative of Provençal poetry 142
+
+ Its frequent monotony 143
+
+ Owing to over-elaboration 144
+
+ Its beauties 145
+
+ Its spontaneity 146
+
+ The vers 146
+
+ PART II.
+ _BIOGRAPHICAL._
+
+ CHAPTER XV.
+ GUILLEM DE CABESTANH.
+
+ His Provençal biography 152
+
+ Discrepancies of other accounts 159
+
+ Historical identity of Guillem de Cabestanh 160
+
+ The origin of fictitious additions 160
+
+ The fatal canzo 161
+
+ The story of the eaten heart possibly of mythical origin 162
+
+ Morals and manners of medieval Provence 163
+
+ One of Guillem’s canzos 165
+
+ CHAPTER XVI.
+ PEIRE VIDAL.
+
+ His Provençal biography 169
+
+ His eccentricities 170
+
+ His love for Viscountess Azalais 171
+
+ His journey to Palestine 174
+
+ A canzo written during the journey 174
+
+ His love for Loba 176
+
+ ‘Emperor of Greece’ 178
+
+ His friendship with King Alfonso 179
+
+ A crusader’s song by Peire 182
+
+ His death 183
+
+ CHAPTER XVII.
+ BERTRAN DE BORN.
+
+ A type of the warlike baron 184
+
+ Historic retrospect 185
+
+ Bertran’s attachment to Prince Henry of England 187
+
+ He instigates the Princes to rebellion against Henry II. 188
+
+ CHAPTER XVIII.
+ BERTRAN AND RICHARD COUNT OF POITOU.
+
+ The causes of their quarrel 191
+
+ Bertran’s brother Constantine 192
+
+ A sirventes by Bertran 193
+
+ His connection with the rebellion of Henry II.’s sons 195
+
+ Young Henry’s death 199
+
+ Bertran’s ‘Complaint’ 200
+
+ CHAPTER XIX.
+ SIEGE OF AUTAFORT—BERTRAN’S DEATH.
+
+ King Alfonso’s treachery 203
+
+ Fall of the castle 204
+
+ Bertran’s meeting with King Henry 204
+
+ His friendship with Richard Cœur de Lion 206
+
+ Bertran’s canzos 207
+
+ His love affairs 208
+
+ His death 211
+
+ CHAPTER XX.
+ THE MONK OF MONTAUDON.
+
+ His youth 213
+
+ His worldly life 214
+
+ His office at Puy Ste. Marie 215
+
+ His ‘likes and dislikes’ 215
+
+ His satires on women 218
+
+ His cynicism 220
+
+ His satire on the poets 222
+
+ CHAPTER XXI.
+ THE REFORMATION OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
+
+ Wide-spread heresy 228
+
+ Its chief seat in the South of France 229
+
+ The Albigeois and Vaudois 230
+
+ The Noble Lesson 232
+
+ Doctrines of the Albigenses 232
+
+ Great teachers amongst them 235
+
+ Noble converts to their sect 235
+
+ Raimon VI. of Toulouse 236
+
+ Pope Innocent III. his antagonist 236
+
+ The first crusade 239
+
+ Victory of the Church 239
+
+ CHAPTER XXII.
+ THE EPIC OF THE CRUSADE.
+
+ Its authorship 242
+
+ Discrepancies between the two parts 243
+
+ Description of Simon de Montfort’s death 245
+
+ Council of the Lateran 247
+
+ The Battle of Muret 249
+
+ CHAPTER XXIII.
+ FOLQUET OF MARSEILLES.
+
+ Most troubadours anti-Papal 254
+
+ Folquet’s birthplace 255
+
+ His love for Azalais 256
+
+ A canzo addressed to her 257
+
+ Her jealousy 258
+
+ Her death 260
+
+ He enters the order of Citeaux in consequence 260
+
+ His fanaticism 261
+
+ CHAPTER XXIV.
+ GUILLEM FIGUEIRA AND PEIRE CARDINAL.
+
+ Guillem Figueira ‘the hater of priests’ 263
+
+ His cynicism and love of low life 263
+
+ His sirventes against ‘Rome’ 264
+
+ Peire Cardinal represents a higher type 265
+
+ His life 265
+
+ His high moral tone and pessimism 266
+
+ A fable 266
+
+ His praise of Raimon VI. 268
+
+ His accusations of the priests 268
+
+ A theological sirventes 270
+
+ CHAPTER XXV.
+ LADIES AND LADY TROUBADOURS.
+
+ The lady of Provence 273
+
+ Her polite education 274
+
+ Her position in society 277
+
+ Eleanor, wife of Henry II., the patroness of Bernart de Ventadorn 279
+
+ The poems of lady troubadours subjective 282
+
+ CHAPTER XXVI.
+ BEATRICE DE DIE.
+
+ The representative lady troubadour 283
+
+ Her love for Rambaut of Orange 283
+
+ She imitates his style 284
+
+ Her tenso written in conjunction with Rambaut 286
+
+ Her song of resignation 288
+
+ CHAPTER XXVII.
+ THE COURTS OF LOVE.
+
+ Their fictitious character 291
+
+ Raynouard’s theory untenable 292
+
+ Andreas Capellanus 294
+
+ PART III.
+ _TECHNICAL._
+
+ CHAPTER XXVIII.
+ THE ORIGIN OF RHYME.
+
+ Definition of rhythm 299
+
+ Metrical system of Greek, of Roman, and of early Teutonic poems 300
+
+ Different meanings of arsis and thesis 300
+
+ The leonine hexameter 302
+
+ Rhyme independent of metrical accent 303
+
+ Known to ancient poets 303
+
+ Wilhelm Grimm’s history of the rhyme 303
+
+ Examples from Virgil and Horace 304
+
+ Rhyme destructive of the rhythmical principle 306
+
+ Influence of rhythm on Provençal poetry 308
+
+ CHAPTER XXIX.
+ RHYTHM.
+
+ Stability of metrical rules in Provençal poetry 311
+
+ Las Leys d’Amors 311
+
+ Dante’s ‘De Vulgari Eloquio’ applicable to Provençal poems 313
+
+ The limits of the length of a verse 313
+
+ Verses most frequently used 316
+
+ The decasyllabic verse (endecasyllabus) 318
+
+ The cæsura 318
+
+ In ‘Boethius’ and epical poems 320
+
+ The lyrical cæsura 323
+
+ CHAPTER XXX.
+ RHYME.
+
+ Definition of the Leys d’Amors 326
+
+ Accordansa sonan, consonan, and leonisme 326
+
+ Rime riche 328
+
+ The position of rhyme (‘rims ordinals’) 330
+
+ Artificialities 331
+
+ Connection of stanzas by means of rhyme 333
+
+ The ‘clavis’ 335
+
+ Guillem de Cabestanh’s canzo ‘Li douz cossire’ 336
+
+ Further artificialities 337
+
+ CHAPTER XXXI.
+ THE STANZA.
+
+ Its formation 340
+
+ Dante’s work of great value 340
+
+ Definition of Leys d’Amors unsatisfactory 341
+
+ Musical considerations 342
+
+ Pedes and cauda 344
+
+ Frons and versus 345
+
+ Pedes and versus 347
+
+ Frons and cauda 347
+
+ Concatenatio 348
+
+ The tornada 351
+
+ Metrical analysis of a canzo by Bernart de Ventadorn 353
+
+ CHAPTER XXXII.
+ SOME INTERLINEAR VERSIONS.
+
+ Canzo by Guillem de Cabestanh (‘Li douz cossire’) 358
+
+ Idyll by Marcabrun (‘A la fontana’) 364
+
+
+
+
+_PART I._
+
+GENERAL
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+THE LANGUE D’OC.
+
+
+When about the end of the fourth century (A.D.) Germanic and Asiatic
+hordes began to invade the Western Empire with more and more irresistible
+force, the refined voice of Roman eloquence and poetry was soon drowned
+by the noise of barbarous tongues. Even before this irruption of new
+elements the language of the Romans had lost much of its classic purity.
+It was no longer the idiom of Cicero and of Horace. Familiar phrases,
+provincialisms and barbarisms had found their way into the written
+language. Thence it is that we find the illiterate expressions of the
+comic characters in Plautus and Terence occupying a place as legitimate
+words in the dictionaries of the Romance idioms.
+
+When with the already decaying language of the fourth and fifth centuries
+the variegated dialects of the conquering barbarians were mingled,
+confusion became worse confounded and linguistic chaos seemed at hand.
+It need not be said that for artistic purposes this mongrel type of
+speech became totally unfit. But in the same measure as the healthy,
+though uncultured, peoples of the North were destined to revivify the
+old institutions of Roman political life, their languages also added
+new vitality to the decaying forms of Roman speech. The chaos was a
+preparatory stage of amalgamation and new development. For the formation
+of languages, like any other natural process, is ruled by a strict law of
+decay and growth.
+
+In the derivation of the Romance dialects from the common Latin
+mother-tongue, two main principles are observable. The German invaders,
+like all barbarous conquerors, soon adopted the speech of their more
+civilised subjects; but they adhered to certain terms and denominations
+of objects particularly familiar or dear to them. Thus the terms for
+warfare and many of its chief implements were characteristically retained
+by them. The French _guerre_ and the Italian _guerra_ are identical
+with the old High German _werra_, our _war_; and the title of highest
+dignity in the French army of the present day, _Maréchal_ (mediæval Latin
+_mariscalcus_), means nothing but _shalc_ (groom) of the mares.
+
+The second cause of transformation and re-formation already inherent
+in the Latin language of the second and third centuries (A.C.) is what
+philologists term the analytic or dissolving principle. Synthetic or
+primitive languages indicate the declension of a noun or the conjugation
+of a verb by a modification of the word itself; analytical languages by
+the addition of other words. Thus, _patris_ in Latin answers to our
+three words _of the father_, or to the French _de le_ (contracted _du_)
+_père_. The addition of the article subsequently makes the modification
+of the noun itself superfluous; hence _père_ answers to the four
+modifications of the Roman _pater_. But the same tendency existed in the
+late-Latin speech itself, and the _de le père_ presupposes a _de illo
+patre_. In an analogous manner, the _j’ai fait_ or _ho fatto_ of the
+French and Italian languages is beyond doubt derived from a Latin _habeo
+factum_, instead of the simpler and older _feci_.
+
+Of the various languages of Latin growth, the Provençal was the first to
+attain to an independent characteristic type of expression. The limits of
+its domain have been variously defined; but it extended far beyond the
+boundaries of the later Provence, even beyond those of modern France,
+comprising, for instance, parts of Spain, such as Aragon, Valencia,
+Catalonia, and the Balearic Islands. Its northern limit may be roughly
+stated to be the line drawn from the mouth of the Gironde to that of the
+Saone. The political autonomy of the south of France, which secured it
+from the international and national troubles of its northern neighbour,
+greatly favoured peaceful progress and enjoyment of life. Moreover,
+the rich, bountiful soil, and the prosperity and natural gaiety of the
+inhabitants, were conducive to the early growth of poetic feeling; and
+it may be assumed that long before the time of the Troubadours, rustic
+lays, accompanied by the sounds of the viola, used to enliven the harvest
+homes of Provençal villages. Of this popular epoch no record now
+remains, except the language itself—at once the result and embodiment
+of a nation’s longing for utterance. The generic term applied to the
+language of southern France seems to have been ‘Provençal,’ in allusion
+no doubt to the Provincia Romana of the Cæsars. For this term we have
+the weighty authority of Dante, also that of an old Provençal grammar
+called ‘Donatus Provincialis.’ The Troubadours themselves, however, never
+use this perhaps more scientific denomination. They generally speak of
+Lengua Romana, a term which of course applies with equal propriety to
+all the languages derived from the Latin. But what do poets care about
+philological distinctions? Another term, _langue d’oc_, afterwards
+transferred to a province of France, was undoubtedly known in the middle
+ages. It is derived from the affirmative particle _oc_, i.e. ‘yes,’ and
+chiefly used to distinguish Provençal from its sister-languages, the
+_lingua di sì_ (Italian) and the _langue d’oïl_, (northern French, _oïl_
+= _oui_). From the latter it was a totally distinct language both in
+grammar and pronunciation, quite as distinct, for instance, as Portuguese
+from Spanish, or Dutch from English. On the strength of the latter
+parallel the much-mooted question as to the possibility of conversation
+between Trouvère and Troubadour may perhaps receive some new light from
+an adventure of the late Mr. Buckle, who, while travelling in a railway
+carriage in Holland, addressed a gentleman in the language of the
+country, but received after a time the polite answer that he, the Dutch
+gentleman, was sorry he did not understand—Italian.
+
+The _langue d’oc_ was again subdivided into numerous provincial dialects,
+but of these little or no trace appears in the songs of the Troubadours.
+For they were court poets, and the idiom they used a court language,
+spoken in its purity by no one beyond the magic circle of polite society.
+It seems, however, that the dialects of Limosin and the neighbouring
+districts, and of Provence proper, showed the nearest approach to this
+language of poets and courtiers. Such at least is the decided opinion
+of the grammarian and poet Raimon Vidal, not himself a native of those
+parts. ‘Every person,’ he says, ‘who wants to produce or understand
+poetry, ought to know, first of all, that none is the natural and proper
+accent of our language but that of Limosin, Provence, Auvergne, and
+Quercy. Therefore I tell you, that when I speak of Limosin, you must
+understand all these countries and those that are near them or lie
+between them; and all people born or brought up in those parts have the
+natural and correct accent.’
+
+The origin of the Provençal language can of course not be referred to a
+particular year nor even to a particular century. Its development was
+gradual and slow. But it is a remarkable fact, that after it had once
+taken literary form and substance, no signs of change or further growth
+are noticeable. Two centuries in the German or English, or indeed any
+living language, constitute enormous differences as regards phraseology,
+orthography, and grammatical structure. Johnson had difficulties in fully
+understanding Shakespeare, a modern German is puzzled by many expressions
+in Luther’s Bible; and this, after these languages had become fixed by
+the introduction of printing, and a generally acknowledged standard of
+grammatical regularity. But the first troubadour known to us, Guillem of
+Poitiers, born in 1071, uses exactly the same grammar, the same structure
+of sentences, and even in all essential points the same poetic diction,
+as his last successor two hundred years after him.[1] The cause of this
+unusual stability must be looked for in the fact already pointed out,
+that the Provençal was not, strictly speaking, a living language used
+by all, and for all purposes, but the exclusive speech of an exclusive
+class, reserved moreover for the expression of courteous love and
+chivalry. Even where, for the purposes of satire and personal invective,
+the terms of low life are introduced, they have to submit to the strict
+rules of grammar and metre.
+
+At the end of the thirteenth century the _langue d’oc_, as a means of
+poetic utterance at least, disappears again, as suddenly almost as it
+had emerged from obscurity. Learned societies and scholarly poets and
+writers vainly tried to keep alive the interest which had vanished with
+the last of the knightly singers. _Jeux floraux_ were started, and golden
+primroses rewarded the successful efforts of learned competitors. But
+the true life of poetry was gone. By the crusade against the Albigeois
+and the subsequent conquest of the French south by the north, the spirit
+of the Provençal nobility had been broken. No lordly castles invited,
+no gifts encouraged the Troubadour, and by his silence all vitality and
+zest was lost to the _langue d’oc_, which henceforth degenerated into a
+common patois; the rapid intrusion of northern French idioms consequent
+on the political events alluded to accelerating its final doom—final,
+for all the attempts at reviving the old splendour of the _langue d’oc_
+have as yet proved abortive. The patois of Mistral’s _Mireïo_ has little
+in common with the language of the mediæval singers, and his gifted
+disciples’ strenuous efforts stand little chance against the crushing
+influence of an idiom formed by Voltaire’s prose and Alfred de Musset’s
+poetry.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+EARLY POPULAR EPICS.
+
+
+The north of France was the birth country and chief seat of epic poetry
+in the Middle Ages. The _chanson de geste_, the _roman_, the _fabliau_
+frequently bear witness of a consummate grace of narrative diction.
+Even the lyrical effusions of the Trouvère not seldom take the form of
+the monologue or dialogue. The poet loves to hide his personality under
+the mask of a fictitious character. Sometimes he is the maiden longing
+for love and spring, who from the seclusion of her cloister raises her
+voice against the robbers of her liberty, _malois soit de deu ki me fist
+nonnete_; sometimes, like Rutebœuf, he listens to the vulgar quarrels
+of ‘Charlie and the barber,’ or, like Charles d’Orleans, the sweet
+chansonnier in French and English, holds converse with
+
+ ... l’amoureuse deesse
+ Qui m’apela demandant ou j’aloye.
+
+The narrative and dramatic instincts of modern French writers are
+distinctly manifest in their mediæval _confrères_.
+
+This is different with the Troubadour, the poet of Southern France. He
+is the lyrical singer _par excellence_, speaking in his own undisguised
+person and of his own subjective passion. Hence the truth and intensity,
+but hence also the monotonousness and conventional phraseology of
+passion, alternately characteristic of the Provençal love-song. But the
+narrative instinct was not entirely wanting in the poets of the _langue
+d’oc_. The great wave of epic song which kept continually crossing the
+Channel from the Celt to the French Norman, and back again to the Saxon
+and Anglo-Norman, left its flotsam on the shores of Southern France.
+Neither did the half-mystic glory of Charlemagne and his peers fail
+to impress the imagination of the chivalrous Troubadours. We possess,
+or at least know of the existence of, Provençal epics from both the
+Carlovingian and Arthurian circles. Although comparatively small in
+number and importance, these deserve a passing mention.
+
+The epic poetry of southern, like and on the same principle as that
+of northern France, may be broadly divided into the popular, and the
+artistic or individual narrative. The two classes differ as widely as
+possible both as regards metrical form and poetical treatment. The
+popular epic was sung or chanted to a monotonous tune, the artistic
+recited. The former uses frequently the assonance (identity of vowels,
+but difference of consonants) in strophes or tirades of varying length;
+the latter, exclusively rhyme in couplets. The popular epic is fond
+of introducing standing formulas and epithets, and the recurrence of
+similar situations or motives is marked by the naïve repetition of the
+identical phrase. The poet himself disappears behind his work; he is
+nothing but the mouthpiece of popular feeling and tradition. Different
+from this, the artistic poet takes individual shape in his work. He
+groups his material with conscious study of narrative effects, frequently
+adds new inventions to the legend he treats, and is fond of interrupting
+the narrative by reflections of his own, moral or otherwise as the case
+may be.
+
+Of the popular epic very few specimens remain, and of these few one at
+least, the ‘Ferabras,’ seems a translation from the North-French. The
+representative poem of the class is the old Provençal epic, ‘Girart
+de Rossilho,’ a splendid example of early mediæval spirit, crude in
+sentiment and diction, coarse and irregular in its metrical structure,
+but powerful and of sterling quality, like the hero it celebrates. Like
+the ‘Chanson de Roland’—the representative epic of Northern France—Girart
+de Rossilho belongs to the Carlovingian circle of legendary lore. But
+there is a considerable difference between the two poems as regards the
+conception of the Carlovingian idea, if that modern term may be allowed.
+The older French poem shows the great Emperor in full possession of his
+power, and surrounded by his loyal Peers. The younger Provençal epic
+reflects the revolutionary spirit of the great vassals under the weak
+descendants of the great Charles. Its hero, indeed, Girart of Rossilho,
+is the head of these rebellious barons, and his brave deeds in the wars
+with his feudal lord are held up to admiration, while, on the other
+hand, the Emperor Charles Martel (evidently a mistake on the part of the
+minstrel for Charles the Bald, correctly reintroduced in a later French
+version) is made the embodiment of meanness and treachery. After perusing
+Girart’s exploits, some of them of a rather doubtful character according
+to our notions, it is satisfactory to know that he at least departed life
+with a clean bill of morality. The author himself seems to feel somewhat
+uneasy on the subject. ‘But,’ he argues, ‘if Girart did great evil at
+first, he made full and speedy compensation at last, for he did great
+penance in a cloister—which he himself built beautifully and at great
+cost.’ There he is said to have supported amongst other pious personages
+‘one hundred maidens.’ ‘And the priests,’ the manuscript continues,
+‘do nothing but pray God for him and the Lady Bertha his wife. And he
+gave them a thousand marks free of taxes; and one can see well that he
+means to go there.’ Thus the Holy Church was the gainer, and having, as
+Mephistopheles says, ‘a good stomach able to digest ill-gotten pelf,’
+she may, for all we know, have long rejoiced in the prosperity of the
+holy damsels. Whether Girart actually entered his pious institution the
+manuscript does not say; but such a close of such a career was by no
+means rare in the middle ages.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+THE ARTISTIC EPIC.
+
+
+The remains of the artistic epic, although scanty, are more numerous
+than those of popular origin. They were held in greater estimation, and
+therefore naturally had a better chance of being saved from oblivion.
+Moreover, the fact of their being recited without the aid of music
+made the reference to a written text more desirable than was the case
+with the popular tales which were chanted to popular tunes, and for
+the sole enjoyment of popular and uncritical audiences, not likely
+to resent arbitrary variations or slips of memory. Amongst courtly
+productions might be named the celebrated ‘Roman de Jauffre,’ describing
+the love-affair of that knight with the beautiful Brunesen, and other
+adventures, also the story of Guillem de la Bar, not long ago made
+public by M. Paul Meyer, from the sole manuscript in the possession of
+the Marquis de la Grange. The author of the latter poem is Arnaut Vidal,
+remarkable as the first winner of the golden violet at the ‘Jeux Floraux’
+of Toulouse; the prize being justly awarded to him for a sweet song in
+praise of the Virgin, still extant.
+
+But all these attempts are thrown into the shade by a work which, quite
+apart from its philological and literary interest, is invaluable to the
+student of mediæval manners and customs. This is ‘Flamenca,’ a narrative
+poem in octosyllabic couplets, dating most likely from the first half
+of the thirteenth century. Copious extracts, and an analysis of the
+work, have been given by Raynouard in the first volume of his celebrated
+‘Lexique Roman,’ and the whole has since been edited from the only
+manuscript in existence at Carcassonne, by M. Paul Meyer, who has added a
+translation into modern French (Paris, 1865). Unfortunately the beginning
+and the end of the poem are missing, and with the former the name of
+the author, frequently mentioned in the introductory lines of mediæval
+romances, has most probably been lost. It is therefore to an anonymous
+entity alone that we are able to concede the attributes of a scholar well
+versed in antique and contemporary literature, of a man of the world who
+knew the manners and morals of good society, and of a poet of genius.
+
+The technical Provençal name of a poem like ‘Flamenca’ would be _nova_,
+and with a slight variation of the final syllable the word will serve
+the same turn in our language. For ‘Flamenca’ in all essential points
+answers to the definition of a novel. It is a picture of contemporary
+society in the same sense, and quite as close, as is ‘Tom Jones’ or
+‘Vanity Fair.’ From the popular epic it naturally differs as widely as
+can be imagined, but even with the other artistic romances of the same
+period it has little in common. These latter depend for their interest
+chiefly on a number of adventures more or less loosely strung together;
+in ‘Flamenca’ there is a plot in our modern sense, artistically worked up
+to a climax and illumined by cleverly drawn characters and psychological
+observations. It is indeed evidently the author’s intention to delineate
+and point out the evil consequences of certain psychological phenomena,
+and in this respect ‘Flamenca’ might indeed almost be described as a
+‘novel with a purpose,’ the ‘purpose’ leading the poet much beyond the
+limits of probability and narrative economy, as ‘purposes’ are apt to do.
+The plot of ‘Flamenca,’ moreover, is evidently a pure invention, while
+the poets of ordinary chivalrous romances always rely more or less on
+legendary sources.
+
+Flamenca, the lovely daughter of Count Gui de Nemours, is wooed by the
+King of Hungary and by Lord Archimbaut Count of Bourbon. Her father
+prefers the latter suitor, who is said to be one of the best and most
+valorous knights in the world; an important circumstance which the reader
+is asked to remember. Count Archimbaut, on being told of the decision in
+his favour, makes preparations on the grandest scale to visit his bride,
+whom he has never seen, but of whom the descriptions of her beauty given
+by his messengers have deeply enamoured him. The festivities arranged for
+his reception at the court of Nemours are described at some length, and
+give the poet an opportunity of deploring the decay of liberality amongst
+the great nobles, of courtesy, of love, and of chivalry in his own time,
+a complaint frequently met with in the works of the later troubadours.
+
+Early on a Sunday morning Count Archimbaut is introduced by her father
+to Flamenca, who, like a well-educated young lady, ‘did not pretend to
+be doleful, but was a little shamefaced.’ ‘Here is your bride,’ Count
+Gui says; ‘take her if you like.’ ‘Sir,’ answers the bridegroom, ‘if she
+does not gainsay it, I never was so willing to take anything in my life.’
+Then the lady smiled, and ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘one can see that you hold
+me in your power, as you give me away so easily; but as it is your will
+I consent.’ This ‘I consent’ throws Archimbaut into a transport of joy,
+and he presses her hand passionately. But here the interview ends. The
+gentlemen retire, Archimbaut taking leave of her with his eyes at the
+door, while Flamenca did not show pride, but gave him good countenance,
+frequently saying, ‘God be with you!’
+
+What can be prettier than this quaint picture of mediæval wooing, and
+what more magnificent than the wedding ceremony performed in the presence
+and with the assistance of five bishops and ten abbots, and lasting much
+too long for the impatience of Archimbaut, ‘for it was past the sixth
+hour (noon) before he had married her’? At the banquet the bridegroom
+and the father of the bride have to wait at table according to ancient
+custom; but the eyes of the former continually go where his heart is,
+and inwardly he curses the appetite of the guests and the long-winded
+songs of the joglars. After nine days’ feasting he hurries home to
+prepare his house for his bride. All this looks auspicious enough for the
+happiness of the couple. But this bright beginning is but a clever trick
+on the narrator’s part to show in its darkest dye the monstrous vice
+which turns brightness itself into night. This vice is jealousy.
+
+The King of France, to do honour to his trusty baron Gui of Nemours,
+escorts Flamenca to her husband, and attends with his wife and his court
+the festivities arranged by Archimbaut to celebrate the occasion. At
+the tournament which takes place the king carries on the point of his
+lance, by way of _gage d’amour_, the sleeve of a lady’s dress. ‘I don’t
+know whose it was,’ the poet adds diplomatically. The queen’s jealousy
+suggests Flamenca, and she loses no time to impart her suspicion to
+Archimbaut, who immediately takes fire at the thought. He keeps his
+countenance while his guests are present, but inwardly he feels sad, and
+tormented by ‘a burning sickness called jealousy.’ ‘What was I thinking
+of,’ he frequently says to himself, ‘when I took a wife? God! I was mad.
+Was I not well off and happy before? Evil befall my parents that they
+should have counselled me to take what did never good to any man!’
+
+The symptoms of the ‘burning sickness’ are described with graphic
+vivacity. Archimbaut shuts himself up; in every visitor he suspects a
+suitor of his wife; he pretends to be very busy, and adds, in a whispered
+aside, ‘I should like to kick you out head foremost.’ He then calls to
+his servants for water, to wash for dinner, in order to make people
+go, and if this does not avail he will say, ‘Dear sir, will you have
+dinner with us, for it is time? I hope you will. There will be a good
+opportunity for flirting’—looking all the while like a dog who shows his
+teeth.
+
+So far so good; but we can hardly believe that a noble and gallant knight
+should lose all sense of decency so entirely as to go about unwashed and
+unshaven, letting his beard grow long and matted ‘like a badly made sheaf
+of oats,’ except in places where he had torn out the hair and stuffed it
+in his mouth. The poet here decidedly makes a concession to his courtly
+audience, who naturally were delighted to hear a jealous husband likened
+to a ‘mad dog.’
+
+At last Archimbaut resolves to keep his wife a close prisoner in a tower,
+and ‘May I be hanged by the throat,’ he says, ‘if ever she go out without
+me even to church, to hear mass, and that only on high feast days!’ So
+poor Flamenca is shut up in the tower with only two devoted maidens,
+Alice and Margarida, to comfort her in her misery. And here the poet
+takes the opportunity of indulging in a psychological excursion which one
+would expect in Feydeau or the younger Dumas rather than in a _romancier_
+of the thirteenth century. As she could not love her husband and had
+no child to be fond of, he suggests, it was a blessing, or ‘a great
+favour of God,’ as he puts it, for Flamenca, that the feeling of love
+entirely ceased in her for a season. For if she still had had love in her
+heart with no object to centre it upon, her condition would have been
+infinitely more unhappy.
+
+But Flamenca’s fate is not to last, nor are Archimbaut’s misdeeds to be
+left unpunished for ever. The avenger is nigh. He takes the form of a
+perfect beau of the period, described by the poet in the most glowing
+colours; with his riches, his valour, his courteous demeanour, his love
+of poetry and song, his scholarship—for he has gone through his _trivium_
+and _quadrivium_ at the University of Paris—and last, not least, his
+beauty, down to the whiteness of his skin and the very shape of his mouth
+and ears. Guillem de Nevers, for such is his name, hears of Archimbaut’s
+jealous atrocities, which have become the butt of all the gay troubadours
+of the country, and at once resolves to comfort the lady and punish the
+monster. The question is, how to baffle the watchfulness of this Argus
+and Cerberus combined. The manner in which this question is solved is a
+marvel of ingenuity.
+
+The first and greatest difficulty is to establish communication with
+the imprisoned lady. The tower is watched against any possibility of
+approach, and she never leaves it except to go to church. The church,
+therefore, must be the scene of operations.
+
+Guillem de Nevers ingratiates himself with the priest, who accepts him
+as his clerk, and in this disguise the lover succeeds in entering the
+private pew, from which, thickly veiled and concealed by a trellis work,
+Flamenca is allowed to attend mass. When the clerk approaches the lady to
+let her kiss the mass-book according to sacred rite, she is struck with
+his beauty, and still more astonished when, instead of a sacred formula,
+he breathes a suggestive _Ailas_! (alas). More than these two syllables
+he dares not utter in the presence of the watchful Archimbaut. Flamenca,
+on her return home, begins to muse on the strange behaviour of the clerk.
+At first she feels almost aggrieved by his exclamation. ‘What right has
+he,’ she says, ‘to be miserable? he is strong, and free, and happy. Maybe
+he is mocking my own suffering. And why should he be so cruel as to add
+to my grief? Tears and sighs are my lot. A slave compelled to carry wood
+and water is enviable compared with me. My fate could not be worse even
+if I had a rival and a mother-in-law.’ But the two chambermaids know
+better. With the sagacity of their class they at once fathom the mystery.
+‘Your beauty,’ Margarida suggests, ‘has ravished his heart, and, as he
+has no other way of speaking to you, he has exposed himself to great
+peril to let you know the state of his feelings.’
+
+An answer has now to be thought of, and the united wisdom of the three
+fair conspirators decides upon the query _Que plans?_ (what is your
+complaint?) and these two syllables, softly whispered, gladden the heart
+of Guillem on the ensuing Sunday. His immoderate rapture on seeing his
+passion noticed by its fair object gives rise to a remark on the part
+of the poet which strangely foreshadows the celebrated dying speech of
+Cardinal Wolsey. ‘If Guillem,’ the passage runs literally, ‘had served
+God as he served Love and his lady, he would have been lord of Paradise.’
+
+Flamenca on her part is most anxious to be certain that her frightened
+whisper has been understood, and the poet describes with masterly touches
+a charming scene in the lady’s closet, when Alice has to take a book—it
+is the romance of Blanchefleur—and hold it exactly in the position and
+at the distance that Guillem has presented the missal. The lady then
+bending over the pages whispers the two syllables, and inquires whether
+she has been heard, which question the obliging chambermaid answers with
+an ‘Oh, certainly, Madam! if you have spoken in such a tone, he must have
+understood you.’
+
+In this manner the lovers continue to correspond, a week elapsing
+between each question and answer, unless a devoutly wished-for saint’s
+day shortens the interval. A lover who for months feeds his passion on
+dissyllables, sweetened only by an occasional lifting of Flamenca’s
+veil or a furtive touch of her finger, deserves at any rate the praise
+of constancy. Does the reader care to hear the dialogue in which this
+extraordinary intrigue is carried on? Here is the series of questions and
+answers, divided, it must be remembered, by an interval of several days,
+and exchanged under the very eyes of the jealous husband, who mistakes
+for pious mutterings of the Catholic ritual what in reality is offered at
+a very different shrine:—
+
+Guillem, in answer to Flamenca’s question above cited: _Muer mi_ (I die).
+Flamenca: _De que?_ (what of?) G.: _D’amor_ (of love). F.: _Per cui?_
+(for whom?) G.: _Per vos_ (for you). F.: _Quen puesc?_ (how can I help
+it?) G.: _Garir_ (heal me). F.: _Consi?_ (how?) G.: _Per gein_ (by subtle
+craft). F.: _Pren li_ (use it). G.: _Pres l’ai_ (I have). F.: _E cal?_
+(what craft?) G.: _Iretz_ (you must go). F.: _Es on?_ (where to?) G.:
+_Als banz_ (to the baths).
+
+This requires a word of explanation. Bourbon in Auvergne, the seat of
+Count Archimbaut, was then, as it is now, a well-known spa, of the
+arrangements of which the author gives rather a curious description.
+‘Here,’ he says, ‘every one, stranger or native, can bathe in excellent
+fashion. In each bath-room you can see written up for what malady it is
+good. No lame or gouty person would come there but he would go away quite
+cured, provided he stopped long enough. Here one can bathe when he likes,
+provided he have come to terms with the landlord who lets the bath. And
+in each of the cells there is to be found boiling water, and in another
+part cold.... Adjoining these baths are rooms where people can lie down
+and rest and refresh themselves as they like.’ There is also a capital
+portrait of the typical lodging-house keeper, who—wonderful touch of
+nature which makes Margate and Bourbon kin—recommends a particular room
+‘because Count Raoul takes it every time he comes to Bourbon.’
+
+With this worthy and his wife, dame Bellepille, Guillem has made himself
+exceedingly popular. He has paid his bills without haggling, has dined
+at their table, and taken absinthe (_de bon aluisne_) with the husband.
+At last he has persuaded the couple to decamp for a season and leave him
+in sole possession of their house—for a consideration, it need hardly be
+added. This house he has had connected by a subterraneous passage with
+one of the bathing cells, and to the latter Flamenca is summoned by the
+mysterious phrase alluded to. The lady understands the hint, and at once
+takes the necessary measures for carrying out the scheme. She feigns
+sleeplessness and pain—nothing but a bath can cure her. Archimbaut,
+anxious for her safety, gives his consent, and himself conducts her to
+the arms of her expectant lover, who receives her with knightly courtesy
+and leads her, together with the two faithful damsels, through his
+subterraneous passage to a room splendidly adorned to receive such a
+visitor. The jealous husband in the meantime keeps watch before the door
+of the bath-room, with the key in his pocket, while the careful damsels
+have not forgotten to bolt the door inside.
+
+Such is the just and inevitable punishment of jealousy according to the
+doctrine of the Troubadours. But, strangely enough, this punishment,
+unknown to himself though it be, ultimately works Archimbaut’s cure. He
+notices the change in his wife’s manner; she shows no affection for him,
+and even neglects the ordinary forms of politeness. At last he gets tired
+of his suspicions, and accepts a compromise proposed by his ill-treated
+wife to the effect that the lady is to be restored to liberty on her own
+solemn promise of faithfulness to her husband. And here I fear that poor
+Flamenca will forfeit the claim to the reader’s lenient sympathy to which
+the cruelty of her husband has hitherto entitled her. With a virtuosity
+of mental reservation worthy of any Jesuit she swears by all the saints
+and in the presence of her inwardly chuckling damsels that ‘henceforth I
+will guard myself quite as well as you (Archimbaut) have hitherto guarded
+me.’ On this happy turn in her affairs the lady takes leave of her lover
+for a season. He must resume his rank and add to his fame by new deeds of
+valour. But she agrees to see him again at a tournament which Archimbaut
+proposes to hold in celebration of his happy recovery. In answer to his
+lady’s command, Guillem goes to the war and makes the country ring with
+his prowess. Archimbaut becomes acquainted with him and eagerly invites
+him to attend at his feast, where he himself introduces the valorous and
+renowned young knight to his wife. The lovers keep their countenance and
+greet each other in distant politeness, but in secret they meet again and
+renew their bliss. At the tournament Guillem carries all before him, but
+second to him alone shines Archimbaut, who has become again the valorous
+and accomplished knight he was before the fell disease attacked him. In
+the midst of their joustings and feastings the manuscript breaks off,
+evidently not long before the end of the poem.
+
+Such is the story of Flamenca. Its moral tone is not very high, although
+certainly not worse than that of the typical French novel. But few modern
+novelists would successfully compete with the natural grace and perfect
+workmanship of the mediæval poet. The plot, although simple, is well
+constructed, and the story developes itself rapidly and consistently.
+The characters also are drawn with consummate skill. They are both types
+and individuals, one of the chief criteria of high art-creation. It is
+true that the effects of jealousy on Archimbaut are exaggerated to the
+verge of caricature: the poet here bowed to the prejudice of his age. At
+the same time the minutest symptoms of the disease are laid bare with
+an astounding acuteness of psychological diagnosis. But, more than all,
+there is true passion in the work in spite of occasional concessions to
+the allegorical and hyperbolical tendencies of romantic feeling. And the
+whole is transfused with the splendour of southern sunshine, the joy and
+life and love of beautiful Provence.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+OTHER NARRATIVE AND DIDACTIC POEMS.
+
+
+‘Flamenca’ is unequalled in mediæval literature for natural eloquence
+of diction and psychological subtlety; in the _langue d’oc_, more
+especially, there is nothing worthy of being mentioned by the side of it.
+We possess, however, some shorter stories well invented and gracefully
+told, as for instance an amusing novelette in verse by Raimon Vidal
+of Besaudun, the tendency of which may be easily guessed by its title
+‘Castia-Gilos,’ or ‘Jealousy Punished.’ Another quaint story, the ‘Lay
+of the Parrot,’ by Arnaut de Carcasse, also deserves mention. A poem
+called by its anonymous author a ‘roman’ would answer better to our
+term ‘allegory.’ It contains an elaborate description of the abode of
+Love, at whose court Joy, Comfort, Hope, Courtesy, and other symbolical
+personages, collectively described as the ‘Barons of Love,’ make their
+appearance. A hundred beautiful damsels, each with her lover, enliven the
+scene, and to this gay parliament the god holds forth in a long speech
+full of wholesome information and counsel in accordance with the most
+approved code of Provençal gallantry.
+
+This work marks the transition from the story to the didactic poem,
+of which latter class the ‘Essenhamen de la Donzela,’ or ‘Advice to a
+Young Lady,’ by Amanieu des Escas, is the most celebrated specimen.
+The teaching of good manners is not a very lively task, and it must
+be admitted that the Troubadours have at least shown considerable
+ingenuity in hiding the pedantry of their rules and prescripts under a
+whole flower-bed of pretty allegorical devices. Of Amanieu des Escas
+we shall hear again. It need hardly be added that these codifications
+of good manners, just like the grammatical and metrical treatises of
+which Provençal literature can show a respectable number, belong to a
+comparatively late period, when courtesy and refined speech began to fade
+from the living intercourse of men.
+
+The next section of narrative poetry to which brief reference must
+be made differs widely from the works hitherto mentioned. It is the
+historic epic or rhymed chronicle, two specimens of which, important
+alike from the literary and the historic point of view, are extant. The
+first gives an account of a war waged in the kingdom of Navarre between
+1276-77. It has been edited from the only existing manuscript, with
+excellent notes, by M. Francisque Michel in 1856. A Spanish edition was
+published seven years previously at Pampeluna. The author is one Guillem
+Auclier, of Toulouse in Languedoc, as stated at the beginning of the
+poem. He was himself an active partisan in the war, and gives a lively
+description of the events he witnessed. Frequent episodes relating to
+contemporary events, such as the expedition of St. Louis against Tunis,
+furnish details of great historic interest. The literary character of
+the poem, however, does not essentially differ from similar mediæval
+productions, and a detailed analysis may therefore be dispensed with.
+Metrically it is interesting as an early specimen of the Alexandrine or
+dodecasyllabic verse, which appears here in so-called ‘tirades monorimes’
+of fifty lines, a shorter verse at the end of each tirade serving to
+connect it with the following strophe. At other times this shorter
+line is literally repeated at the commencement of the next tirade—an
+interesting peculiarity, characteristic of Provençal poems of this class,
+which betrays strong feeling for metrical continuity. It is, however,
+not improbable that the musical accompaniment to which these poems
+were chanted made a repetition of the final cadence desirable. A not
+uninteresting literary controversy has been raised as to the identity
+of the author of the present poem with a troubadour of the same name
+and birthplace of whom we possess four political songs of considerable
+power. Millot doubts this identity on account of a passage in one of the
+songs which speaks of a young Englishman desirous to regain all that
+the valiant Richard had possessed in France. Millot, who knew little
+Provençal, misunderstands the passage in the sense of Richard being
+mentioned as still alive; in which case the author of the song could
+of course not have described, and been eye-witness of, events which
+took place nearly a century after the death of the lion-hearted king.
+But Millot’s supposition is quite erroneous, and the young Englishman
+alluded to is evidently King Edward I., whose accession (1272) seems to
+have roused expectations to be temporarily realised under his grandson.
+That the aspirations of the Black Prince, and later on of Henry V.,
+should have been foreshadowed at this early period, is undoubtedly an
+important fact to the student of English history—one of the numerous
+important facts, indeed, which might be gleaned from the works of the
+Troubadours, and which make the total neglect of these works amongst us
+so unaccountable.
+
+Of much greater importance than the Navarrese chronicle is the celebrated
+song of the crusade against the Albigeois heretics and their chief
+protector, Count Raimon of Toulouse. The author or authors (for most
+probably there were two) of this poem also were contemporaries and
+eye-witnesses of many of the incidents of this cruel war, the ultimate
+issue of which proved fatal to the literary and political independence of
+the south of France. A fuller account of this work will be found where we
+come to consider the prominent part taken by the Troubadours in the vital
+struggle of their country.
+
+In connection with the chronicle of the Albigeois crusade may be
+mentioned the only poem of importance which the _langue d’oc_ contributed
+to the spirited dogmatic controversy incessantly carried on between
+the heretics and the champions of the Church. The little interest taken
+by the Troubadours in the doctrinal aspect of the case may account for
+this paucity of documents.[2] A great number of heretical writings
+have undoubtedly been destroyed by the intolerant rage of monks and
+inquisitors, but it is by no means certain that many, or indeed any, of
+these were written by, or in the language of, the Troubadours. If so, one
+cannot but wonder why the violent attacks on the moral depravity of the
+clergy, with which Provençal literature is teeming, should have escaped
+the same fate.
+
+The poem I am speaking of certainly leaves nothing to be desired as
+regards orthodoxy. It is written by Izarn, a monk, and a more striking
+specimen of monkish effrontery would be looked for in vain in any
+literature. So grotesque indeed is the cynicism displayed, that one
+almost suspects an ironical sceptic cleverly disguised in the mask of
+the zealot; but there are other features of the poem—little touches,
+for instance, of vanity and unctuous self-laudation—which place the
+author’s real purpose beyond a doubt. The ‘Novas del Heretge,’ or ‘Tale
+of the Heretic,’ is written in the form of a dialogue between the author
+and one Sicart de Figueiras, apparently an important member, or, as he
+calls himself, a ‘bishop,’ of the Albigeois sect. The opening lines are
+important to the historian of theology. They prove that the Neo-Manichean
+heretics believed, or at least were said by the Catholics to believe,
+in something very like metempsychosis. ‘Tell me,’ the monk begins, ‘in
+what school you have learned that the spirit of man, when it has lost
+its body, enters an ox, an ass, or a horned wether, a hog or a hen,
+whichever it sees first, and migrates from one to the other until a new
+body of man or woman is born for it?... This thou hast taught to deluded
+people whom thou hast given to the devil and taken away from God. May
+every place and every land that has supported thee perish!’ This style of
+spiritual vituperation was likely to prove but too effective, being as it
+was enforced by very material means of coercion. For the conversation,
+as we gather from the next-following lines, takes place in one of the
+prisons of the sacred tribunal. ‘The fire is alight,’ Izarn continues;
+‘the people are assembled to see justice done, and if you refuse to
+confess you will certainly be burnt.’ Motives of much less force would
+be sufficient to overcome the resistance of the worthy Sicart. His
+conscientious scruples are indeed of the very slightest description; he
+is anxious only about the terms of his capitulation. ‘Izarn,’ he says,
+‘if you assure me and give securities that I shall not be burnt or
+immured or otherwise destroyed, I don’t care what other punishment you
+may inflict; only save me from that.’ But he knows his captors too well
+to expect his life from motives of pity. Treachery is the price of his
+safety, and of that commodity he offers liberal measure. ‘Berit,’ he
+says, ‘and Peire Razol’ (two other spies, it may be conjectured) ‘don’t
+know half of what I do. I will tell you everything you ask both about
+believers and heretics, but you must promise me secrecy.’ Next follows a
+somewhat rambling explanation of the cause of his desertion, in which the
+souls of five hundred people whom he claims to have rescued from eternal
+perdition play a principal part. But he is particularly anxious to
+impress upon the monk that poverty has not been the motive of his action.
+‘First of all,’ he says, ‘I want you to know that I have not presented
+myself to you owing to hunger or thirst, or from any need whatsoever;
+pray be aware of that.’
+
+The meaning of all this is that he wants to point out, as indeed he does
+afterwards in so many words, how valuable an acquisition he would be, and
+how glad the Church of Rome ought to be to receive him on terms however
+favourable. This seems reasonable enough, but the matter appears in a
+very different light when he begins to describe with glowing colours
+the treasures which his confidential position amongst the heretics has
+placed at his disposal. An account of the easy and luxurious life he
+led amongst the heretics is evidently inserted with a view to disparage
+and expose as hypocritical pretence the appearance of rigorous morality
+assumed, and in most cases no doubt justly assumed, by the elders of
+the dissenting churches. But all these comforts and enjoyments, Sicart
+declares, he has forsaken for the call of Heaven, interpreted to him
+by the eloquent voice of that chosen vessel, Izarn—the author, that is.
+The complacency with which the monk by the mouth of his convert pays a
+compliment to his own theological sagacity, mentioning especially ‘nine
+questions’ which have completely baffled the heretic, and not omitting at
+the same time an incidental reference to his poetical gift, is as amusing
+as it is characteristic. It furnishes, moreover, the best proof against
+the suspicion of a hidden satirical purpose, which the tone of the poem
+may have excited in the reader’s mind. The subtlest humorist could not
+artificially reproduce the naïve genuineness of this self-praise. No
+wonder that, convinced by such excellent argument, Sicart is willing to
+atone for former errors by the merciless persecution of his late friends
+and co-religionists. ‘Not twopennyworth of love or peace shall they find
+at my hands,’ he savagely exclaims, promising at the same time to betray
+to the Inquisition the most secret places where they and their treasures
+are hidden—all sentiments highly and unctuously approved of by the
+excellent Izarn, it need scarcely be added.
+
+No more barefaced disclosure of the vilest motives of the human heart
+can well be imagined than is to be found in this poem. ‘Mr. Sludge
+the medium’ himself would hesitate before entering into competition
+with the worthy monk and his no less desirable convert. If the utterly
+demoralising influence of religious persecution on both persecutors and
+at least the weaker part of their victims needed further proof in our
+days, this poem might be held up as a warning example.
+
+It is perhaps hardly fair to mention together with such a production
+other works by monkish authors sometimes replete with simple-minded
+piety and never without the quaint charm of mediæval narrative. Such
+are the paraphrases of Biblical and other religious legends of which
+Provençal literature shows a goodly array. None of them, however, calls
+for detailed notice, their character showing no essential deviation from
+similar works in other languages, and their subject and treatment being
+widely remote from the artistic poetry with which this book is chiefly
+concerned. Suffice it to mention the names of some of the saints chosen
+for treatment, such as St. Alexius, St. Honorat, and Sta. Fides, (the MS.
+of the last-mentioned legend dating, according to Fauchet, as far back as
+the eleventh century), also rhymed paraphrases of the apocryphal gospels
+of ‘St. Nicodemus,’ and the ‘Infancy of Christ.’
+
+Of much greater importance than any of these is a semi-religious
+didactic poem treating of that favourite hero of the pseudo-historic
+Muse in the middle ages, Boethius, and the spiritual comfort he derived
+in his worldly misfortune from what Shakespeare, perhaps with a faint
+reminiscence of this very man, calls ‘adversity’s sweet milk philosophy.’
+The goddess of that divine science appears to Boethius, ‘Count of Rome,’
+in prison, to which he has been sent by the Emperor Teiric (Theodoric),
+a usurper and unbeliever whose claims to the throne the single-hearted
+statesman refuses ta acknowledge, and whose vices he has publicly
+reprimanded. Boethius is condemned on a false charge of having invited
+the Greeks to invade Rome. In his dungeon he laments his fate and regrets
+his sins, an opportunity for moralising of which the poet avails himself
+by enforcing the didactic key-note of his poem: ‘The good and evil deeds
+of our youth find their just reward in advanced age.’
+
+The darkness of the prison is suddenly brightened by the appearance of
+a beautiful maiden clad in garments of resplendent richness. She is
+the daughter of a mighty king, and her own power and gifts are without
+measure. ‘Beautiful is the lady,’ the poet repeats, ‘although her days
+have been many; no man can hide himself from her glance.’ She herself has
+woven her gorgeous robes, ‘one fringe of which could not be bought for
+a thousand pounds of silver.’ At the bottom of her garment is inscribed
+the Greek letter Π, while her headdress shows a Θ, the former signifying,
+according to the poet, ‘the life which is entire,’ the latter ‘the just
+law of heaven.’ A number of birds ascending steps which are suspended
+between the two letters signify mankind in its struggle for divine
+righteousness. Some more allegory of the same kind finishes the poem,
+which is evidently the fragment of a much larger work, founded possibly
+on the celebrated ‘Consolatio Philosophiæ.’
+
+The value of the fragment as it stands is of a philological rather
+than of a literary kind, owing to the numerous archaic forms and words
+occurring in it, many of which have disappeared from the later Provençal.
+With the exception of a short hymn in praise of St. Eulalia (published
+by Diez in his admirable edition of the work under discussion),
+‘Boethius’ is generally considered to be the earliest poetic specimen
+of the _langue d’oc_, belonging, as it undoubtedly does, to the tenth
+century, and therefore preceding the first of the Troubadours by at least
+a hundred years. Of the remainder of the didactic poems the briefest
+notice must suffice. One class of them are large accumulations of human
+knowledge—encyclopædias in fact without the alphabetical arrangement—such
+as the ‘Tezaur’ (Treasure) by Master Corbiac, treating in Alexandrine
+lines of most known and unknown sciences, including geology, music,
+history, and necromancy; and the still more celebrated ‘Breviari d’Amor,’
+an enormous compendium of mediæval wisdom, and most probably one of the
+most ponderous books ever written in spite of its promising title. Two
+manuscripts of this work are in the British Museum. The author’s name is
+Matfre Ermengau, a monk of Beziers, and the poem was begun, according to
+a statement in the preface, in 1288. How long it took the laborious poet
+to compose his 27,000 lines, heaven only knows. A poem by Daude de Pradas
+on the birds used for falconry, belonging to this class, may be of some
+interest to historically minded lovers of sport.
+
+But of much greater importance, and indeed invaluable to the student of
+manners and customs, is a second category of didactic poetry, consisting
+of rules and precepts of demeanour for certain classes of society,
+young ladies, pages, joglars or minstrels, and others. Some of these
+‘ensenhamens,’ as they were called—for instance, that by Amanieu des
+Escas—have already been referred to in these pages. Others will be
+mentioned in due course.
+
+In the poems of the historic and didactic orders rhyme and metre were
+to a great extent mere accessories, and of many of them prose versions,
+made evidently for the sake of cheapness and convenience, are actually
+in existence, such as the transcription of the Song of the Albigeois
+Crusade, also of the Gospel of Nicodemus, and other legendary poems.
+These and numerous other prose works, theological, moral, medical, and
+juridical,[3] are entirely beyond the scope of the present work—with one
+exception. This is a curious collection of biographies of the principal
+troubadours found in several manuscripts, and varying from a few lines
+of matter-of-fact information to lengthy and circumstantial accounts
+of a suspiciously romantic character, including attempts at furnishing
+a commentary, critical and anecdotal, for single poems. In some cases
+several biographies of the same poet are found, one richer than another
+in interesting details, and showing evidently the desire on the part
+of later authors to improve upon an originally simple story. But in
+spite of this the immense value and general authenticity of this source
+cannot be denied, especially in cases where the author gives his name
+and declares himself an eye-witness of the events he describes. At the
+end of the biography of Bernard de Ventadorn, we read, for instance,
+the following interesting notice:—‘Count Eble de Ventadorn, the son of
+the viscountess whom Sir Bernard loved, told me Uc de St. Cyr what I
+have caused to be written down of Sir Bernard.’ The same Uc de St. Cyr,
+himself a well-known troubadour, also wrote (or at least composed, for
+his powers as a scribe may seem doubtful on his own showing[4]) the
+life of Savaric de Mauleon and probably of several other contemporary
+poets. Another biography is claimed by one Miquel de la Tor, and in many
+other instances references to eye-witnesses, or claims to personal and
+immediate knowledge, are made. Unfortunately accounts of only 104 out of
+about 400 troubadours of whose existence we know have been preserved.
+But even as it is we ought to be thankful to the mediæval scribes, who,
+as regards the Troubadours, have at least partially removed the darkness
+which overhangs, for instance, the personal histories of North-French
+Trouvères or German Minnesingers, not to name more recent and infinitely
+more important epochs of English literature.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+APOCRYPHA.
+
+
+Here the brief summary of the non-lyrical literature in the Provençal
+language comes to a close. In a work mainly devoted to the poetry of
+the Troubadours I have not thought it necessary to attempt anything
+like completeness of enumeration, my intention being mainly to give
+the reader some idea of the general aspect of a literary epoch almost
+entirely engrossed by one branch of art, the artistic song. A prevailing
+impulse of this kind is of course by no means unexampled in the history
+of poetry. The gregariousness of human beings in general is equally
+noticeable in the representatives of human thought and feeling. The age
+of Homer loved epic breadth, that of Elizabeth dramatic point and action;
+in our time the novel seems to rule the literary market. There were, of
+course, English romance-writers in the sixteenth century, just as there
+are English dramatists and lyrical poets of great power in the latter
+half of the nineteenth; but that does not in either case disprove the
+fact of a collective national instinct in the direction pointed out.
+
+In the same sense it may be said that narrative poetry in mediæval
+Provence occupied a decidedly subordinate position. This is, at least,
+what the facts we know and the documents we possess lead us to believe.
+But documents and facts are not always satisfactory materials to prop up
+a preconceived theory. Certain scholars have in the face of them supplied
+the _langue d’oc_ with an extensive and splendid epical literature, the
+treasures of which have unfortunately been lost to us, though why this
+loss should have fallen on the narrative in preference to the lyrical
+branch of poetry is not explained. The chief upholder of this opinion is
+the late M. Fauriel, the deservedly celebrated author of the ‘Histoire
+de la Littérature Provençale;’ but the foundation on which he rests his
+theory must be owned to be of the slenderest kind.
+
+Among the _ensenhamens_, or instructions to particular classes of
+society, already mentioned, there are two, by Guiraut de Calençon and
+Guiraut de Cabreiras respectively, addressed to joglars, a class of
+singers, and professors of other more or less dignified arts, of whose
+duties and position in society we shall hear more hereafter. Amongst
+other accomplishments they are exhorted to acquire familiar acquaintance
+with certain favourite subjects of romance and story, a full enumeration
+of which is given in each instance.[5] These two poems, together with
+a passage from ‘Flamenca,’ descriptive of a feast enlivened by song,
+give us a most welcome insight into the tales of woe and joy most apt
+to raise tears or merry laughter amongst the fair ladies of Provence.
+Here we meet with the names of many heroes of history and fiction.
+King Menelaus and his frail spouse, together with most of the renowned
+chieftains of the Greeks and Trojans, represent Homeric myth, Romulus
+and Remus prehistoric Roman tradition. Queen Dido, it need hardly be
+said, occupies a prominent place, as does also her singer Virgil, whom
+mediæval belief has surrounded with the necromancer’s mysterious halo
+in addition to his fame as a poet. Charlemagne and his champions—not
+forgetting Ganelon the traitor—were equally well known in Provence, while
+the influence of Celtic legendary lore, both with regard to poetry and
+music, is curiously illustrated by the mention in ‘Flamenca’ of a joglar
+who plays on the violin the _lais del cabrefoil_ (lay of the honeysuckle)
+popularly ascribed to Tristan, the lover of Iseult. In addition to these
+another Instruction may be mentioned, addressed by one Arnaut Guillem de
+Marsan to a young gentleman of noble lineage who comes from a distance to
+consult him about amorous matters. Here the knowledge of the favourite
+subjects of romance is recommended as an accomplishment most adapted to
+gain the favour of a lady.
+
+From such passages as these M. Fauriel concludes that of all the
+subjects mentioned in them elaborate treatments in the shape of epics
+or romances existed in the _langue d’oc_. But this supposition surely
+is quite unsupported by the evidence direct or indirect. The myths and
+semi-historic facts referred to, such as the deeds of Charlemagne or
+King Arthur, were the common stock of European nations in the Middle
+Ages, migrating from the Welsh shores of the Atlantic to the eastern
+confines of Germany, and back again to Saxo-Norman England. Trouvères,
+Troubadours, and Minnesingers were equally well acquainted with these
+inexhaustible sources of amusement, and a wayfaring minstrel was
+naturally expected to give a more or less original version of the
+familiar theme. But none of the passages mentioned above refers to any
+existing poem on the subjects it enumerates, or indeed to any written
+document at all, which latter, moreover, in nine cases out of ten would
+have been of little use to the popular singer. The existence, therefore,
+of an extensive epical literature in the Provençal language remains a
+mere conjecture in spite of M. Fauriel’s eloquent special pleading.
+
+There is, however, no reason to deny that more than one narrative poem
+may have fallen a victim to time, and in some instances at least we have
+strong circumstantial evidence pointing that way. One of these cases
+leads to considerations so interesting in other respects that a short
+statement of it may be welcome to the reader. It is well known that the
+works of the Troubadours were at an early period read and admired in
+the neighbouring country of Italy, and that the poets in the _lingua
+volgare_ recognised in them at once their models and allies in the
+struggle against the predominance of Latin scholarship. Students of the
+‘Divina Commedia’ or of Petrarch’s ‘Trionfi’ are aware of the prominent
+position assigned to the Provençal singers amongst the poets of the
+world, and they may also remember that of the Troubadours themselves
+none is mentioned with higher praise than Arnaut Daniel. Petrarch calls
+him _gran maestro d’amore_, the ‘great master of love, whose novel and
+beautiful style still (i.e. about the middle of the fourteenth century)
+does honour to his country;’ and Dante, in his philological and metrical
+treatise ‘De vulgari Eloquio,’ declares himself indebted to Arnaut for
+the structure of several of his stanzas. The ‘sestina,’ for instance, a
+poem of six verses in which the final words of the first stanza appear
+in inverted order in all the others, is an invention of this troubadour
+adopted by Dante and Petrarch, and, most likely through the medium of
+French models, by Mr. Swinburne, as we shall presently see.
+
+But another far more lasting monument has been erected to Arnaut in the
+immortal lines of the ‘Purgatorio,’ where Guido Guinicelli, in answer to
+Dante’s enthusiastic praise of his poetry, points to another shade, and
+
+ ‘O frate, disse, questi ch’io ti scerno
+ Col dito (ed additò uno spirto innanzi)
+ Fu miglior fabbro del parlar materno.
+ Versi d’amor e prose di romanzi
+ Soverchiò tutti ...
+
+ Canto xxvi., verses 115-119.
+
+ ‘O brother,’ cried he, pointing with his hand,
+ ‘This spirit whom I show far better knew
+ To weld the language of his native land.
+ In lays of love and in romances too
+ He bore the palm.’ ...
+
+ (CAYLEY’S translation.)
+
+This artful ‘smith of his mother-tongue’ is our troubadour, who, when
+addressed, replies in pure Provençal, a language evidently quite familiar
+to Dante. The above-cited lines are generally considered to be the clue
+to the apparently excessive admiration lavished on Arnaut by the Italian
+poets. There can indeed be no doubt that, in addition to his fame as a
+lyrical singer or troubadour proper, his equal excellence as a narrative
+poet is here referred to, the word ‘_prose_’ being used not in our modern
+sense, but for the rhymed couplets of the epic in contradistinction to
+the elaborate stanzas or _versi_ of the love-song.
+
+The further question arises, what were the works on which Arnaut’s
+reputation as an epical poet was founded, and for the answer to this
+question we again must look in the works of Italian poets. Pulci, the
+humorous author of the ‘Morgante Maggiore,’ mentions our troubadour twice
+amongst the writers of Carlovingian epics, explaining his statement
+by the further indication that he (Arnaut) ‘wrote most diligently and
+investigated the deeds of Rinaldo (i.e. Renaut de Montauban, the eldest
+of the _quatre fils Aimon_) and the great things he did in Egypt.’ This
+seems to prove conclusively that as late as the end of the fifteenth
+century, when Pulci wrote, an epic poem on ‘Renaut’ by Arnaut Daniel was
+known amongst scholars in Italy.[6]
+
+But a still later and in one sense still more important testimonial to
+Arnaut is found in Torquato Tasso, who, it appears, mentions him as
+the author of a poem on ‘Lancelot.’ For this enables us to connect our
+troubadour with a second and perhaps the divinest passage in Dante’s
+divine poem. The reader need scarcely be reminded that the story which
+kindles to open and conscious flame the silent passion of Francesca da
+Polenta and Paolo Malatesta is a romance of Lancelot—
+
+ Di Lancilotto come amor lo strinse;
+
+and nothing is more probable than that Dante should have thought of
+Arnaut Daniel’s lost epic when he wrote the inspired lines that are in
+everybody’s memory.
+
+ Per più fiate gli occhi ci sospinse
+ Quella lettura, e scollorocci ’l viso;
+ Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse;
+ Quando leggemmo il disiato riso
+ Esser baciato da cotanto amante,
+ Questi che mai di me non fia diviso
+ La bocca mi bacciò tutto tremante.
+ Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse;
+ Quel giorno più non vi legemmo avante.
+
+ More than one time that reading struck our eyes
+ Together, and discoloured us in face:
+ But it was only one point conquered us:
+ Whereas we read about the longed-for smile
+ How by so great a lover it was kissed,
+ This one, who from me ne’er shall be disjoined,
+ Trembling all over, kissed me on the mouth.
+ A Galahalt[7] was the book, and he that writ:
+ Further that day we read in it no more.
+
+ (W. M. ROSSETTI’S translation.)
+
+Many poets might wish to rest their posthumous fame on such lines rather
+than on their own works; but it may be inferred on the other hand that
+Arnaut Daniel (if he really be the author referred to) must have been
+a mighty mover of the heart to gain such a tribute from the lips of
+Francesca da Rimini.
+
+It may seem strange that the Provençal biography is completely silent
+with regard to Arnaut’s epical achievements. But, in the best times
+at least, the professional story-teller was strictly divided from
+the Troubadour, and the biographer may have thought it wiser to say
+nothing on the subject. With reference to the same matter it is perhaps
+significant that Arnaut is described as a ‘joglar’ in the Provençal
+notice of his life. In Italy this point of etiquette was, of course, of
+no importance; and hence most likely the indirect channel through which
+Arnaut’s fame as a writer of romance has reached posterity.
+
+It must be confessed, however, that the Troubadour’s lyrical efforts
+would hardly lead one to credit him with lucid exposition or narrative
+grace. Arnaut Daniel is the Browning of Provençal literature. He delights
+in ‘motz oscurs’ (dark words) and ‘rims cars’ (dear or scarce rhymes)
+and equally far-fetched similes. One of these latter, a symbol of
+unrequited love, became almost proverbially attached to his name. ‘I am
+Arnaut,’ it ran, ‘who loves the air, who hunts a hare with an ox, and
+swims against the stream.’ His intentional obscurity and his mannerism
+were largely imitated, but no less frequently attacked and travestied
+by contemporary poets and satirists. Petrarch’s allusions to ‘his novel
+speech,’ and Dante’s expression, ‘smith of his mother-tongue,’ evidently
+allude to Arnaut’s peculiarities of style. We can also quite understand
+how the great Florentine could admire a dark shade of melancholy, a
+bold originality of thought, and a hankering after scholastic depth,
+but too nearly akin to his own mental attitude; but how far these
+qualities would have fitted into the frame of a narrative, or whether
+the poet succeeded in dropping them for a season, must remain an open
+question. It is curious that one of the brightest and most amusing bits
+of literary gossip which Provençal biography can show is attached to the
+sombre figure of this troubadour. As there will be no occasion in the
+following pages to return to the biography of Arnaut, the clever little
+anecdote may follow here. It will serve at the same time as a specimen of
+Provençal prose. A literal translation is subjoined:
+
+‘E fo aventura qu’el fo en la cort del rei Richart d’Englaterra: et estan
+en la cort us autres joglars escomes lo com el trobava en pus caras rimas
+qe el. Arnautz tenc so ad escarn e feron messios cascus de son palafre
+qe no fera, en poder del rei. E’l reis enclaus cascun en una cambra.
+E’N Arnautz de fastic quen ac non ac poder qe lasses un mot ab autre.
+Lo joglars fes son cantar leu e tost. Et els non avian mas de X jorns
+d’espazi; e devia s jutjar per lo rei a cap de cinq jorns. Lo joglars
+demandet a’N Arnaut si avia fag; e’N Arnautz respos; “qe oc, passat a
+tres jorns.” E non avia pensat. E’l joglars cantava tota nueg sa canso
+per so qe be la saubes; e’N Arnautz pesset col traisset ad escarn, tan qe
+venc una nueg e’l joglars la cantava e’N Arnautz la va tota retener e’l
+so. E can foron denan lo rei, N’Arnautz dis qe volia retraire sa canso; e
+comenset mot be la canso qe’l joglars avia facha. E’l joglars can l’auzic
+gardet lo en la cara e dis q’el l’avia facha. E’l reis dis co s podia
+far? E’l joglars preguet al rei q’el ne saubes lo ver. E’l reis demandet
+a’N Arnaut com era stat. E’N Arnautz comtet li com era stat. E’l reis ac
+ne gran gaug e tenc so a gran escarn. E foron acquistat los gatges, et a
+cascun fes donar bels dos.’
+
+‘And it happened that he (Arnaut Daniel) was at the court of King Richard
+of England; and there being also at the court another joglar the latter
+boasted that he could invent rhymes as scarce as could Arnaut. Arnaut
+thought this good fun, and each gave his horse as a pledge to the king,
+in case he could not do it (viz. gain the bet). And the king locked them
+up each in a room. And Sir Arnaut, being tired of the matter, was not
+able to string one word to another; the joglar made his song with ease
+and speedily. And they had no more than a space of ten days allowed to
+them. And the king was to judge at the end of five days. The joglar then
+asked Sir Arnaut if he had done. “Oh yes,” said Sir Arnaut, “three days
+ago.” But he had not thought of it. And the joglar sang his song every
+night so as to know it well. And Arnaut thought how he could draw him
+into ridicule; so one night, while the joglar was singing, Arnaut took
+care to remember the whole song and the tune. And when they were before
+the king, Arnaut declared that he wished to sing his song, and began
+to sing in excellent style the song that the joglar had made. And the
+joglar, when he heard this, stared him in the face, and declared that
+he himself had made the song. And the king asked how this was possible,
+but the joglar implored him to look into the truth of it. The king then
+asked Sir Arnaut how this had happened, and Sir Arnaut told him how it
+had happened. And the king had great joy at this, and thought it most
+excellent fun. And the pledges were returned, and to each he gave fine
+presents.’
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+SOCIAL POSITION OF PROVENÇAL POETS.
+
+
+Sufficient has been said in the preceding pages to show the superiority
+of lyrical over epic poetry in Provence. This inequality of the two
+branches implied a commensurate difference of praise and social esteem
+awarded to those who excelled in either of them, and it is perhaps from
+this point of view that the two great divisions of poets in the _langue
+d’oc_, respectively described as ‘joglars’ and ‘trobadors,’ or, in the
+French and generally adopted form of the word, ‘troubadours,’ may be most
+distinctly recognised. The two professions were frequently united in the
+same person, and the duties belonging to either are in many respects
+identical, or at least similar to such a degree as to make strict
+separation almost impossible; but it seems sufficiently established that
+the verb ‘trobar’ and its derivative noun first and foremost apply to
+lyrical poetry. To speak therefore of the Troubadour as the singer of
+songs, of cansos and sirventeses and albas and retroensas, is a correct
+and tolerably comprehensive definition, borne out moreover by the
+historic fact that, with the sole exception of Arnaut Daniel (who, as
+was mentioned before, is in his biography called a joglar), none of the
+celebrated troubadours is known to have written narrative poems. These
+latter, on the other hand, are either, like ‘Flamenca’ and ‘Jaufre,’ by
+anonymous authors, or else by such men as Arnaud de Carcasses or Matfre
+Ermengau, who have acquired little or no fame as lyrical poets, and
+moreover belong to the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, when the
+song-tide of the earlier epoch was ebbing fast.
+
+To the Troubadour, the undisputed leader of the poetic profession, we
+must turn first. It has been at all times, and is still, an all but
+impossible task to define the social position of a literary man, _quâ_
+literary man. So much depends upon his success in his profession, his
+family, his personal bearing, that a general rule can never comprise
+all individual cases. The same applies to the Provençal poets of the
+middle ages. It would be absurd to say that differences of rank did
+not exist in that primitive republic of letters. The composite nature
+of a profession, the humbler associates of which were often fain to
+amuse popular audiences at wakes and fairs with rude songs or tricks of
+jugglery, entirely precludes the social equality of all its members. But
+in the art of poetry a common ground was at least established, where men
+of all classes met on equal terms, and where the chance of success was
+little if at all furthered by accidental advantages of birth. The maxim
+of _carrière ouverte au talent_ was fully carried out, and we find that
+the most celebrated troubadours were frequently men of low origin, who
+by mere dint of genius conquered fame and gain. Folquet for instance, the
+gay troubadour, subsequently Bishop of Toulouse, and zealous persecutor
+of the Albigeois heretics, was the son of a simple merchant, and the
+great Bernart of Ventadorn seems to have been of still humbler descent—at
+least, if we may believe the testimony of an amiable brother poet, who
+delights in informing the public that Bernart’s father was a common
+serving-man, good at shooting with the bow, and that his mother gathered
+brushwood to light the fire. Marcabrun, another celebrated and at the
+same time most eccentric troubadour, was, according to one account, a
+foundling left at the gate of a rich man, while another biography calls
+him the (apparently illegitimate) son of a poor woman of the name of
+Bruna, the latter statement being confirmed by the troubadour’s own boast:
+
+ Marcabrus lo filhs Na Bruna
+ Fo ergendratz en tal luna
+ Qe anc non amet neguna
+ Ni d’autra non fo amatz.
+
+In English: ‘Marcabrun, the son of Madame Bruna, was begotten under such
+a moon that he never loved a woman, and never was loved by one.’
+
+It has been computed that to the middle and lower classes twenty-two
+troubadours owe their origin, to which number probably many of those
+must be added of whose circumstances no record has been left. The
+clergy furnished no less than thirteen poets, some of whom confined
+themselves to religious and didactic subjects, and therefore, strictly
+speaking, ought not to be called troubadours. Others, however, had no
+such conscientious scruples, and one of the most daring and outspoken
+satirists in Provençal literature was a monk. Uc de St. Cyr, destined
+by his father for the clerical profession, escaped from the university
+of Montpellier and became a troubadour, while in other cases gay poets
+turned monks and closed a wild career with repentance and holy exercise.
+Of Gui d’Uisel, a canon of Brioude and Montferrand, it is told that he
+dutifully abandoned the muse by command of the Papal legate.
+
+By far the largest proportion of the troubadours known to us—fifty-seven
+in number—belong to the nobility, not to the highest nobility in most
+cases, it is true. In several instances poverty is distinctly mentioned
+as the cause for adopting the profession of a troubadour. It almost
+appears, indeed, as if this profession, like that of the churchman
+and sometimes in connection with it (see the Monk of Montaudon), had
+been regarded by Provençal families as a convenient means of providing
+for their younger sons. Bertran de Born, on the other hand, owed the
+successful enforcement of his claims to the heritage he held in common
+with his unfortunate brother Constantine as much to his song as to his
+sword.
+
+It remains to refer to no less than twenty-three reigning princes of more
+or less importance of whose poetic efforts we have cognisance. With a
+few exceptions the contributions to literature of these distinguished
+amateurs are but slight. But that does not diminish the significance of
+the fact of these powerful men entering into competition with the sons of
+tailors and pedlars.
+
+Richard I. of England occupies the foremost place amongst these princely
+singers. The beautiful canzo composed in his Austrian prison, and
+preserved in both the _langue d’oc_ and _langue d’oïl_, is deservedly
+popular. It is perhaps less generally known that Richard occasionally
+made his poetry the vehicle of political invective. There is extant by
+him a song in which he violently attacks the Dauphin, Robert of Auvergne,
+accusing him of venality and breach of faith. The Dauphin, nothing loth,
+meets violence with violence, using in his retort the same complicated
+metre in which the Prince had attacked him. The same Dauphin appears
+again in another poetical encounter of a rather less elevated kind. This
+time his antagonist is a homely citizen of the name of Peire Pelissier,
+who, combining the useful with the agreeable, had metrically reminded
+the Dauphin of a certain sum of money owing to him. The indignation with
+which the noble poet rejects the low demand is beautiful to see. But the
+very fact of his entering into such a contest with such an antagonist
+shows the equalising, not to say levelling, influence which the universal
+desire for poetic fame exercised on the minds of men in those days.
+
+By far the most important poet of this class, and one of the most
+remarkable, as he was chronologically the first, of all troubadours, is
+William IX., sovereign Count of Poitiers, a noble prince, well known in
+history. The time of his reign, about the end of the eleventh century,
+marks the commencement of Provençal poetry, and this sudden appearance
+of an accomplished poet, mastering the most intricate rules of rhyme and
+metre ever invented, is unique in the history of literature. It is indeed
+in this case also explainable only from the disappearance of previous
+stages of poetic development.
+
+William of Poitiers is an interesting character in many respects. He is
+the prototype of the Troubadour, the wayfaring singer, wandering through
+the beautiful land of Provence in search of praise and amorous adventure,
+the latter not always as strictly moral nor yet as sentimental as might
+be desired. Even in those gallant days his dangerous gift of captivating
+women’s affections seems to have attracted more than ordinary notice.
+‘The Count of Poitiers,’ says the Provençal biography, ‘was one of the
+most courteous men in the world and a great deceiver of ladies; and he
+was a brave knight and had much to do with love-affairs; and he knew
+well how to sing and make verses; and for a long time he roamed all
+through the land to deceive the ladies.’ The poems of the Count further
+illustrate these statements in a manner not always delicate, but always
+witty and amusing. It ought to be added that, before his end, William
+repented of his evil ways, in witness of which the last of his remaining
+songs gives utterance to regretful sorrow and anxiety.
+
+But the chief importance of William’s life and poetry for our present
+purpose lies in the light which these throw on the high esteem in which
+the poet’s art was held in those days. For it must be remembered that
+the man who proudly donned the Troubadour’s garb was the same Duke of
+Aquitain and Count of Poitiers whom William of Malmesbury mentions
+amongst the great warriors of his time, and who, in the unfortunate
+crusade of 1101, appeared at the head of three hundred thousand fighting
+men.
+
+Such were the princely amateurs in mediæval Provence. Turning from these
+to the Troubadours proper, that is to professional poets who owed their
+sustenance to their song, we find that they occupied an important and
+honoured position in fashionable circles. There is scarcely a noble
+family in the south of France whose name is not by one or more of its
+members connected with the history of the Troubadours. His love of
+poetry and poets is a redeeming feature in the lion-hearted Richard’s
+wild career, but he had inherited this feeling from his mother, the
+much-maligned Queen Eleanor, whom we shall meet again as the generous
+friend of a celebrated singer. The kingly house of Aragon vied with that
+of Anjou in its liberal protection of the gay science. The names of
+Alfonso II., Peter II., and Peter III. continually occur in the grateful
+acknowledgments of the Troubadours; and to another monarch of Spanish
+origin, King Alfonso X. of Castile, belongs the honour of having given
+shelter to the remnant of Provençal poets after the fall of their own
+country. At his court lived and deplored the decline of poetry the last
+of the Troubadours, the noble Guiraut Riquier. Many other protectors
+of the Troubadours, no less liberal though less illustrious, will be
+incidentally mentioned in these pages.
+
+At the courts of these princes and nobles the Troubadour was eagerly
+welcomed. Without any distinct charge or office he partook of the
+liberality of his protector, half guest, half courtier, but without any
+of the irksome duties of the latter, and free to come and go where his
+wayward mood attracted him. We hear of frequent and rapid changes of
+abode in the lives of many troubadours, mostly in consequence of some
+imbroglio with a lady. But Provençal poets were naturally a restless
+tribe, ever in search of new lands and new loves.
+
+The gifts with which the Troubadour’s song was rewarded varied in nature
+and value according to the wealth and liberality of the donor. Horses
+gaily caparisoned, rich vestments, and money are not unfrequently
+mentioned. The Monk of Montaudon rails at a brother poet for having
+accepted _manh vielh vestimen_ (many an old coat) previously worn to
+rags, we may suppose, by its economical owner. But other nobles showed a
+more generous appreciation of poetry, and in one case at least we hear
+of a liberal host who, enraptured by his poet-guest’s song, presents
+him with his own palfrey and dress. This instance at the same time
+illustrates the spontaneous nature of most of these gifts. The troubadour
+was not like an English poet laureate or the bard of a Welsh prince,
+receiving a yearly salary in money or kind, and bound for certain
+emoluments to accomplish a certain amount of verse. An engagement of
+this kind was as unsuitable to his disposition as it would have been
+inconsistent with the terms of equality on which he lived with his
+protector. The perfect ease of intercourse existing between poets and
+princes of the highest rank is indeed astonishing. Bertran de Born,
+a petty baron, called the sons of Henry II. of England by familiar
+nicknames, and Raimon de Miraval, a poor knight of Carcassonne, used
+the same liberty with the mighty Count Raimon VI. of Toulouse, with
+whom he was united by the bonds of tenderest mutual friendship. Even
+the powerful Raimon de Rossilho, proud by nature and further excited by
+jealous suspicion, has to treat a servant of his own household with the
+utmost consideration, merely because this retainer happens to be Guillem
+de Cabestanh, the author of some popular love-songs. Only when the
+poet’s guilt is established beyond a doubt does Raimon give way to his
+revengeful passion.
+
+Another privilege enjoyed by the troubadour, and prized by him much
+higher than all those previously mentioned, was the favour of noble
+ladies, granted to him as the guerdon of his impassioned song. The
+relation between lady and troubadour has been a favourite subject with
+writers of history and romance from the early middle ages to the present
+time, and it is to be feared that the popularity of Provençal poets rests
+quite as much on their love-affairs as on their literary achievements.
+From the story of Flamenca previously told and numerous other incidents
+to be mentioned in the following pages, the reader may form an idea
+of the laxity of morals in those days, especially as regards the
+marriage-vow. Considering this moral atmosphere and the free intercourse
+of the sexes existing in Provençal society, where the _dueña_ or any
+similar institution seems to have been unknown, the frequent occurrence
+of a guilty passion between a troubadour and a high-born lady—for
+instance, the wife of his protector—is intrinsically but too probable.
+But it is nevertheless an undoubted fact, although the old biographers
+are by no means prone to acknowledge it, that the homage offered by the
+troubadour and accepted by the lady did not necessarily imply guilty
+weakness on the part of the latter. This is sufficiently proved by the
+attitude of a third and strongly interested party, the husband. In many
+instances he thought himself honoured by the eloquent praise lavished
+on his wife, and was willing to make allowance for occasional outbursts
+of passion mixed with the more conventional terms of distant adoration.
+Count Barral de Vaux, the good-natured husband of Azalais, the lady whom
+Peire Vidal celebrated under the pseudonym of Vierna, went so far as to
+adjust little differences arising between his wife and that eccentric
+poet. Count Richard of Poitou also encouraged his sister Mathilda to
+accept the homage of Bertran de Born, which seems to establish the
+acknowledged possibility of a perfectly innocent relation of the kind
+alluded to beyond a doubt. The future King of England would hardly have
+exposed a lady of his house to ignominious suspicion for the sake of a
+vassal, much as he stood in dread of the dangerous gifts of that vassal.
+
+And this last remark indicates at the same time the clue to the whole
+extraordinary phenomenon of the privileged social position of the
+Troubadours. These poets were the stern censors of moral and political
+depravity as well as the singers of love. They possessed the public ear,
+and, conscious of their power, they wielded it, often no doubt to noble
+purpose, but no less frequently with a strong admixture of that personal
+bias which so few pamphleteers and party writers know how to eschew. The
+bitterness and rancour of the Provençal _sirventes_ are equalled by few
+satirists of other nations, surpassed by none; and many a noble—and many
+a lady too, for that matter—who might be comparatively indifferent to the
+Troubadour’s praise were fain to evade his blame by ministering to his
+comfort or his vanity.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+THE JOGLAR.
+
+
+The name ‘Troubadour,’ we have seen, is synonymous with our ‘lyrical
+poet.’ His office was, strictly speaking, limited to the writing, or at
+least producing, of songs. But for the publication of these poems two
+more cooperators were required—the musical composer and the singer or
+reciter. Frequently the Troubadour invented his own melodies, and takes
+pride in stating that fact; some even combined with these two faculties
+that of the executive musician; ‘Pons de Capduelh,’ we are told, ‘was a
+poet (_trobava_), and could play the violin and sing.’ Others, however,
+were not so variously endowed, and in that case they engaged the services
+of an assistant, technically called joglar. The joglar proper seems to
+be an exclusively Provençal institution. The necessities of musical
+composition and promulgation of course existed more or less in all poetic
+communities. Boccaccio says of Dante that he loved to associate with
+musicians who supplied his canzone and sestine with melodies, but we
+nowhere read that he kept a professional composer for that purpose.
+
+The exact border-line between troubadour and joglar cannot be drawn
+without difficulty. Sometimes, as we have seen, the two offices were
+combined in one person, at others the same individual rose from the
+lower to the higher class. Of Marcabrun, for instance, subsequently
+one of the most celebrated troubadours, we are told that he began his
+career as apprentice or joglar to another poet named Cercamon.[8] The
+safest distinction is arrived at by bearing in mind that the joglars were
+principally, though by no means exclusively, musicians and executants,
+the converse ratio of the creative and executive faculties obtaining
+amongst the superior class of poets. For that position the Troubadours
+claimed for themselves, and took good care to let the world know of their
+claim. Towards the joglars, immediately dependent on their productions,
+they frequently adopt the tone of haughty condescension. ‘Bayona,’ Raimon
+de Miraval addresses an unfortunate singer, ‘I know well it is for a
+_sirventes_ that you have come amongst us. And counting this there will
+be three; for two I have made already by which you have gained much gold
+and silver, Bayona, and many a worn coat, and other clothes good and
+bad.’ ‘Goodness! Bayona,’ he says in another poem, ‘how poverty-stricken
+do I see you! badly dressed in a mean gown! But I will draw you from
+your poverty with a sirventes which I offer you.’ In other places the
+troubadours express anxious doubts as to the memory and capacity of their
+interpreters, and seriously exhort the latter to adhere strictly to
+the original as transmitted to them by personal instruction. ‘My son,’
+Perdigo addresses his joglar, ‘on your honour, I charge you to take good
+care that you understand the work and do not deface it.’ Other poets
+sought safety from truncation in the well-knitted and compact woof of
+their stanzas, which would not allow of the omission of a single verse or
+rhyme without manifest detriment to the whole organism. ‘Marcabrun,’ that
+celebrated troubadour boasts of himself, ‘knows how to turn and interlace
+sense and verse in such a way that no other man can take away a single
+word;’ which precaution, by the way, answered against plagiarists as well
+as against slovenly reciters.
+
+But the same feeling of ill-disguised contempt which some troubadours
+betray for their immediate subordinates, others extend to the whole class
+of singers and performers, and especially the works of later poets are
+full of bitter invective against the meanness, vulgarity, and innumerable
+other vices and shortcomings of the joglars. The nobles are reproved for
+receiving them at their castles, and the decline of poetic art is not
+unjustly attributed to the growing taste for the buffooneries cultivated
+by the lower grades of the body poetic.
+
+All things considered, this antagonism was not wholly unjustified. It has
+already been said that the humbler members of the profession were fain to
+turn an honest penny by enlivening the feasts and fairs of villagers by
+ingenious tricks of jugglery, and whoever will consult the ‘Instructions
+to Joglars,’ above mentioned, will find a considerable portion of the
+modern _répertoire_ anticipated. Even dancing on the tight rope, and
+training and producing clever dogs and monkeys, were accomplishments
+not wholly beneath the dignity of the joglar. No wonder that noble
+troubadours shunned all contact with a profession comprehending such
+doubtful elements. But of course there were joglars and joglars, just
+as in our times there are artists and artists; and a man like Perdigo,
+who himself wrote beautiful songs, and kept a singer to sing them, and
+who was knighted by the Marquis of Montferrat on account of his poetic
+merits, would no more have considered a common trickster his equal than
+Mario or Faure would artistically fraternise with the ‘Great Vance.’
+
+And yet the old biographer calls Perdigo repeatedly and persistently a
+joglar. It is in such cases as this that the distinction between the
+two classes alluded to practically ceases. Joglars were received in the
+best society on the same terms of equality as were granted to the more
+exclusive brethren; the same gifts of horses and rich garments rewarded
+their efforts, and these efforts also were to a large extent identical
+with those of the troubadours, excepting perhaps the one circumstance
+that the joglars, although poets themselves, included the pieces of other
+authors in their _répertoire_, while the troubadours, if gifted with
+executive talents, always confined themselves to their own productions.
+
+But another line of distinction may be drawn from the purely literary
+point of view previously indicated. The Troubadours, it has been said,
+were lyrical poets, and seem to have looked upon romancers, novelists,
+_et hoc genus omne_ with all the superciliousness of a higher caste.
+Of one poet it is distinctly stated that he was _no bos trobaire mas
+noellaire_, ‘not a good troubadour, but a story-teller.’ The Joglars,
+on the contrary, as we know from the ‘Ensenhamens,’ were bound to know
+and reproduce the whole store of facts and fables more or less common
+to the mediæval literatures of Western Europe. The slight and temporary
+character of most of these reproductions, and the comparative neglect
+with which they were treated by Provençal literati, have previously
+been touched upon, the scarcity of epical manuscripts in the _langue
+d’oc_ being the natural corollary of these two causes. For the number of
+joglars capable of wielding the pen must have been very small, and the
+scribes and scholars to whom we owe the admirable and large collections
+of lyrical pieces were naturally much less anxious to preserve the
+humble productions of the narrative muse. Hence the astounding fact
+above referred to that even of the epics of so renowned a poet as Arnaut
+Daniel not a single specimen remains, and the other circumstance,
+no less surprising, that the Provençal biographer passes over these
+important and evidently most popular works with complete silence,
+saving his literary conscience by a cursory reference to Arnaut as a
+‘Joglar.’ It is a further significant fact that most of the narrative
+poems preserved—barring the scanty remains of the popular epic which
+belong to a separate epoch and circle of literary production—date from
+a comparatively late period when the all-engrossing sway of lyrical
+poetry, and with it the vitality of Provençal literature itself, began
+to dwindle. The social aspects of this decline and fall, its causes, and
+the vain efforts to check its detrimental force, are brought home to us
+in the stanzas of a noble-minded poet, Guiraut Riquier, justly called
+the Last of the Troubadours. For at his death, about the end of the
+thirteenth century, the final expiration of the literature and of the
+independent and artistically available idiom of Provence may be said to
+commence.
+
+Of the life of Guiraut Riquier comparatively little is known, his
+biography being, strange to say, not included in any of the Provençal
+collections. On the other hand we are more than usually well instructed
+as to the chronology of his works. For to almost every one of his
+poems the date of its production is affixed in the MS., which moreover
+expressly claims to be an exact copy of the poet’s original. From
+the latter statement we may at the same time infer the penmanship of
+Guiraut, which in those days was never unaccompanied by other literary
+attainments. But, besides this, the scholarly cast of his mind is
+sufficiently proved by the troubadour’s work. The wonder is how with
+this tendency could coexist in him the sweetest and freshest fragrance
+of poetic _naïveté_—a _naïveté_ and spontaneity all the more admirable
+as they are altogether rare amongst the Troubadours. To him Provençal
+literature owes perhaps its nearest approach to the unalloyed impulse of
+popular song. To this side of his creativeness we shall have to return on
+a later occasion.
+
+Guiraut’s lines had not fallen in pleasant places. The old times of glory
+and well-being for the Troubadours were past and gone, and although
+Guiraut found a protector and friend in Alfonso X., King of Castile,
+to whom, as he says in 1278, his poetic services had been devoted for
+sixteen years, this protection seems not to have been of a kind to exempt
+the troubadour wholly from the cares of existence. With a bitterness
+recalling Dante’s complaint of the steepness of strange stairs and the
+salt flavour of strange bread, Guiraut speaks of the _vergonha e paor_,
+the shame and fear with which he enters the presence of a noble lord _per
+demandar lo sieu_, to ask him for his property.
+
+To the above-named King Alfonso was presented a curious memorial or
+supplication, in which Guiraut Riquier deplores the degradation of his
+noble calling and at the same time suggests various remedies for the
+growing evil. This was not the only or the last time that the troubadour
+stood up in the defence of his art. In a powerful sirventes dated 1278,
+he refutes the attacks of fanatic priests on poetry—that is, poetry in
+the true and elevated meaning of the word. ‘So little,’ he complains, ‘is
+the noble science of poetry valued nowadays, that people scarcely desire
+or suffer it, or will listen to it.... And our preachers declare it to
+be a sin, and reprove every one bitterly for its sake.’ He fully admits
+the justice of these reproaches in many cases in which poets invent ‘vain
+things whence sin may arise or war and disunion.’ ‘But,’ he concludes,
+‘those who with mastership string together noble words, and with wisdom
+and knowledge teach the truth, can never find sufficient honour and
+reward.’
+
+The reader who might be inclined to see a tinge of scholastic pedantry
+in this passionate plea for ‘wisdom and knowledge,’ ought to consider
+the root of the evil combated by Guiraut. The long war with France and
+the crusaders had left its detrimental mark on the manners and morals of
+Provençal nobles. Their fortunes were wasted, their castles destroyed,
+and the new generation brought up in the camp knew little of the taste
+and refinement of previous ages. Hence the bitter attacks in the poems
+of the later troubadours directed against the vices of the nobles, their
+avarice, their stinginess, their coarseness of taste which delighted
+alone in the vulgar jests of the lowest joglars. It is especially
+against the encroachments of the latter on the domain of artistic poetry
+that Guiraut’s angry protest is directed. The mixing up of the two
+classes of Joglars and Troubadours he believes to be the first cause of
+the disease, and as the intellect of the time had grown too obtuse to
+draw the line, he demands an external sign of distinction. Hence the
+somewhat strange proposal laid down in his celebrated missive to the King
+of Castile.
+
+The ‘Suplicatio qe fes Guiraut Riquier al rey de Castela per lo nom
+del joglars l’an LXXIII.’ is a most curious document. Nothing would be
+easier than to draw into ridicule a man who intended to prop a tottering
+literature with a name, a title. But at the same time this man is so
+much in earnest himself, and his cause so noble, that one’s smile
+at his Quixotic notion involuntarily gives way to a feeling of deep
+sympathy. Guiraut begins his poem with a short exordium of complacent
+self-laudation, in which he dwells at some length on his competence to
+treat the subject:
+
+ Pus dieus m’a dat saber
+ Et entendemen ver
+ De trobar, etc.
+
+Next follow the usual compliments to his protector, and, this duty
+discharged, Guiraut begins to speak from the fulness of his heart. ‘You
+know,’ he says, ‘that all men live in classes differing and distinguished
+from each other. Therefore it seems to me that such a distinction of
+name ought also to be made amongst the Joglars; for it is unjust that
+the best of them should not be distinguished by name as well as they
+are by deed. It is unfair that an ignorant man of small learning, who
+knows a little how to play some instrument and strums it in public places
+for whatever people will give him, or one who sings low ditties to low
+people about the streets and taverns, and takes alms without shame from
+the first comer—that all these should indiscriminately go by the name of
+Joglars.... For joglaria was invented by wise men, to give joy to good
+people by their skill in playing on instruments.... After that came the
+Troubadours to record valiant deeds, and to praise the good and encourage
+them in their noble endeavour.... But in our days and for some time
+past a set of people without sense and wisdom have undertaken to sing
+and compose stanzas, and play on instruments ... and their jealousy is
+roused when they see honour done to the good and noble.’ Every one, he
+reasons, ought to be named according to the work he does, and it would be
+quite just, he characteristically adds, to apply the name of Joglars to
+all poets and singers indiscriminately if they were all more or less of
+the same kind and worth, like common citizens. This, however, is not the
+case, and the good suffer by being mixed up with the low and vulgar.
+
+To check this confusion by a tangible sign, to distinguish by an
+acknowledged name and title the trickster and player of instruments, who
+flatters the senses by momentary enjoyment, from the learned and serious
+poet whose works are graven on the memory and long survive their author,
+to do this and save poetry from impending ruin, Guiraut says, is a worthy
+task for the wise and noble King Alfonso.
+
+The king’s answer to this request is extant. It is written in verse,
+but otherwise composed with all the gravity of a state paper, and at
+the same time with a lucidity of argument rarely found in mediæval
+writings. ‘Although,’ the king justly remarks, ‘it is unwise and of
+dangerous consequence to speak about the affairs of strangers, yet he
+who holds honour dear, and possesses sense and wisdom and power withal,
+ought to consider the interests of others together with his own.’ After
+this cautious beginning, the king fully admits the reason of Guiraut’s
+complaint, and points out the injustice of comprising all the members of
+the poetic, musical, and histrionic professions under the common title
+of Joglar, a word which the king learnedly adds is derived from the
+Latin _joculator_, and therefore is wholly unfit to designate the higher
+branches of the art of poetry.
+
+In Spain, we are further told, these things are managed better; musicians
+and mountebanks and poets have each a name of their own, and nobody
+can mistake the one for the other. A similar distinction the king now
+proposes for the domain of the _langue d’oc_, and for that purpose
+divides the whole poetic community into three classes. First and lowest
+are named the people who would not dare to show themselves at court, and
+who hang about taverns and village-greens, showing off the tricks of
+learned dogs and goats, imitating birds’ voices, or singing coarse songs.
+These in future are to be called by the Italian word ‘_bufos_,’ ‘as is
+the custom in Lombardy.’
+
+Different from these are the musicians and reciters of stories who
+contribute to the amusement of the nobles by these arts or other
+agreeable pastimes. These, and these alone, ought to claim the name
+of ‘_joglars_,’ and they ought to be received at court and liberally
+remunerated according to their merits.
+
+The third and highest class comprises those who possess the gift of
+composing verses and melodies, and for that reason are entitled to the
+name of _inventores_, which, as the king remarks, is the Latin equivalent
+of the vernacular _trobadors_.
+
+But a last and highest distinction is reserved for those amongst the
+poets who combine the useful with the agreeable, and in the sweet rhymes
+of their canzos enforce moral and religious maxims. These are in future
+to be called _doctors de trobar_, doctors of poetry; for, adds the king,
+who is fond of etymology and not wholly averse to a pun:
+
+ ... Car doctrinar
+ Sabon ben qui’ls enten.
+
+Whether the degree was ever conferred remains uncertain. It is obvious
+that the creating of twenty doctors of poetry would not make one poet.
+At the same time if a man or men of high poetic gifts had arisen, the
+improved social position intended for them would have been a gain and
+an encouragement. But it is a melancholy fact that what seems most
+spontaneous and involuntary in man—genius—obeys, after all, the universal
+rules of supply and demand, and that when once literary vitality and
+literary interest are departed from a nation it is hopeless to galvanise
+the corpse with artificial life. Guiraut’s scheme in itself is therefore
+hardly worth mentioning. But it is interesting as a symptom of the same
+tendency of the age towards mixing up poetry with scholarship which soon
+afterwards led to the institution of Academies, and Jeux Floraux, and
+Poet-Laureateships, and traces of which have survived till the present
+day in Provence and elsewhere.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+TRACES OF POPULAR SONG IN THE POETRY OF THE TROUBADOURS.—THE PASTORELA.
+
+
+The Troubadours, it has been said more than once, were court poets,
+their songs a court literature, taking its theme from, and reciprocally
+appealing to, the upper classes of society. There was an advantage and
+a still greater drawback connected with this exclusiveness of culture
+and sympathies. In the early middle ages it was of the utmost importance
+to raise, and abide by, a standard of refinement in opposition to the
+prevailing coarseness of the age. But, on the other hand, the fresh and
+ever-bubbling source of spontaneous feeling was absent, which their
+_rapport_ with the people supplied to the French Trouvère, the German
+Minnesinger, and our own Elizabethan dramatists, court poets though
+all these were. Hence the monotony and laboured dryness of many of the
+troubadours’ songs, and the narrow range of thought covered by their
+works compared with the mediæval literature of other countries. There
+were, however, exceptions to the rule, and although not a particle of
+the presumably rich fund of Provençal folklore has been thought worth
+preserving,[9] still there is distinct evidence that its charms were
+appreciated by several of the knightly singers, in spite of prejudice and
+courtly superciliousness. The results of this appreciation are certain
+characteristic forms of song evidently derived from popular sources,
+although treated with artistic finish by the Troubadours. The tone of
+these poems differs so essentially from the ordinary bias of Provençal
+literature, that it seemed well to treat of them in separate chapters.
+
+No better sign of the sterling value of Guiraut Riquier’s talent could
+be required than the fact that the first name we meet with in this new
+field is his. The same troubadour who boldly protested against the
+increasing coarseness amongst the nobles was able to perceive in the
+natural artlessness of the people’s song a new element of refined poetry.
+It was perhaps from the infusion of this new life-blood that he expected
+the revival of his art quite as much as from the artificial safeguards
+of the poets’ social position which the King of Castile could grant.
+Guiraut Riquier is the Provençal representative of the ‘Pastorela,’ or
+‘Pastoreta,’ the shepherd’s song. The popular origin of this form of
+poetry cannot well be denied. There is about the life of the shepherd
+amongst hills and lonely places, the tending of his flocks, and the very
+knitting of his stockings, a touch of simple pensive poetry which has
+escaped few nations, and it may be asserted that in the primitive songs
+of every people on earth the pastoral idea is represented in one form
+or another. It is equally true that artistic and artificial poetry has
+taken up and remodelled the original subject in a somewhat arbitrary
+manner. From Theocritus and Virgil and Guarini and Tasso down to our
+modern operatic stage the shepherd with his pipe, the shepherdess with
+her crook and surrounded by snow-white lambkins, have been introduced
+in the most becoming poses. But the innate raciness of the theme could
+never be wholly obliterated. Adam de la Halle’s ‘Robin et Marion,’
+written in the fourteenth century, and justly claiming to be the first
+comic opera in France, is full of the life and the rollicking fun
+of the people; and the original features of broad Scotch humour and
+common sense may be discovered under the thin layer of rococo tinsel
+in Allan Ramsay’s ‘Faithful Shepherd.’ Guiraut Riquier belongs to the
+more realistic class of pastoral poets. He occupies an intermediate
+position between Adam’s broad out-spokenness and Tasso’s euphuism. His
+shepherdess—for a shepherdess and only one is the heroine of his six
+pastorelas—is evidently a real being taken from real life; at the same
+time the coarsenesses of this reality are sufficiently toned down to suit
+the fastidious taste of a courtly audience. Another uncommon feature,
+especially in a Troubadour’s creation, is the strenuous virtue with which
+the rustic beauty resists the most tempting offers of her knightly lover.
+She is meek and courteous and affable, but she knows exactly where to
+draw the line between innocent flirtation and serious passion. Whether
+such a character in such a sphere of life partakes more of idealism or
+of realism the ingenuous reader must decide. But it is most improbable
+that a Troubadour should have doubted, or allowed others to doubt,
+his absolute irresistibility unless convinced of the contrary by the
+most undeniable proof. We may therefore assume that Guiraut Riquier’s
+adventure with a shepherdess, if not absolutely copied from life, is at
+least partly drawn from autobiographical sources.
+
+The first of Guiraut’s six remaining pastorelas is dated 1260, and
+describes the poet’s meeting with the shepherdess. ‘The other day,’ he
+says, ‘I was walking by the side of a brook, musing and alone, for love
+led me to think of song, when suddenly I saw a sweet shepherdess, lovely
+and kind, watching her flock. I stopped before her, seeing her so comely,
+and she received me well.
+
+‘My question was: “Sweetheart, are you loved by some one, and do you know
+what love is?” “Certainly, sir,” she answered without guile, “and I have
+plighted my troth, there is no doubt on the subject.” “Maiden, I am glad
+to have found you, if it may be that I should please you.” “Sir, you have
+thought of me too much; if I were foolish I might fancy a great deal.”
+“Maiden, do you not believe me?” “Sir, I must not.”
+
+‘“Sweet girl, if you accept my love I am longing for yours.” “Sir, it
+is impossible; you have a sweetheart, and I a lover.” “Maiden, however
+that may be, it is you I love, and your love I would enjoy.” “Sir, look
+somewhere else for one who is more worthy of you.” “Better than you I do
+not wish for.” “Sir, you are foolish.”
+
+‘“I am no fool, sweet mistress. Love gives me leave, and I yield to your
+loveliness.” “Sir, I would I were rid of your wooing speech.” “Maiden,
+as I live, you are too coy. My prayer is humbly made.” “Sir, I must not
+forget myself so much; alas! my honour would be lost if I trusted too
+lightly.” “Maiden, my love compels me.” “Sir, it would little beseem you.”
+
+‘“Maiden, whatever I may say have no fear that I would dishonour you.”
+“Sir, I am your friend, for I see your wisdom checks your passion.”
+“Maiden, when I am in fear of doing wrong I think of ‘Beautiful
+Semblance!’”[10] “Sir, I much like your kind behaviour; for you know how
+to please.” “Maiden, what do I hear?” “Sir, that I love you.”
+
+‘“Tell me, sweet maiden, what has made you speak such pleasant words?”
+“Sir, wherever I go I hear the sweet songs of Sir Guiraut Riquier.”
+“Maiden, let us not cease to speak of what I ask you.” “Sir, does
+not ‘Beautiful Semblance’ favour you, she who guards you from loose
+flatteries?” “Maiden, she will not hear me.” “Sir, she is right.”’
+
+I have given the first pastoral _in extenso_, to convey an idea to
+the reader of the charming tone pervading the whole number. The idea
+is simple enough: an amorous knight, whose importunate offers to an
+unprotected girl are kept in check by mere dint of graceful, witty,
+sometimes tart reply. This motive is essentially the same in the five
+remaining pieces of the series. Several variations are, however,
+introduced with the aggregate result of a kind of plot or story. Two
+years are supposed to have elapsed between the first poem and the second.
+Again the pair meet; and again there are passionate importunities on the
+one, and graceful evasions on the other side. Remarkable is especially
+the sly humour with which the girl receives the knight’s excuses for his
+long absence. The first stanza, with a translation subjoined, may serve
+as specimen:—
+
+ L’autrier trobei la bergeira d’antan,
+ Saludei la, e respos mi la bella;
+ Pueis dis: ‘Senhor com avetz estat tan
+ Q’ieu nous ai vist? ges m’amors nous gragella?’
+ ‘Toza si fa mai qe no fas semblan.’
+ ‘Senhor, l’afan per qe podetz soffrir?’
+ ‘Toza, tals es q’aissi m’a fag venir.’
+ ‘Senhor et ieu anava vos cercan.’
+ ‘Toza, aissi etz vostres anhels gardan.’
+ ‘Senhor, e vos en passan so m’albir.’
+
+ My shepherdess I found of yester year,
+ And to my greeting she made meek reply:
+ ‘Sir, do you hold,’ she said, ‘my love so dear,
+ That year and day have passed since you were nigh?’
+ ‘I love you, maiden, more than may appear.’
+ ‘How could you bear the burden of your pain?’
+ ‘It is my love that brought me here again.’
+ ‘Sir, many a time I sought you far and near.’
+ ‘Your flock alone, O maiden, you hold dear.’
+ ‘Through many lands to wander _you_ are fain.’
+
+Nothing new occurs in the third pastoral. But in the fourth, dated three
+years after the third and seven years after the first poem, matters are
+considerably altered. The shepherdess has been united to her swain, and
+the knight finds her rocking a sleeping child in her lap. Time has worked
+its changes on the knight also, and at first she does not or pretends
+not to recognise him. To one of his amorous protestations she replies:
+‘That is just what Guiraut has told me, and yet I have not been deceived
+by him.’ ‘Girl,’ he answers, ‘Guiraut has never forgotten you, but you
+refuse to remember me.’ ‘Sir,’ the girl says, evidently in her old vein
+of mocking compliance, ‘his graceful bearing pleased me much better than
+you do, and if he came again I could not resist him.’ In the further
+course of the conversation Guiraut lays great stress on the fame the girl
+owes to his songs all over Provence. He also, by a very blunt question,
+elicits the fact that the father of the child is one ‘who has taken
+me to church,’ a circumstance which by no means abates the passionate
+ardour of the troubadour. But he finds the matron as inexorable as he
+had found the maiden, and at last has to depart on his way with the
+reluctant compliment: ‘I have tried you sorely, but have found you of
+unexceptionable conduct.’
+
+Another space of seven years is supposed to elapse before we hear
+anything more of the shepherdess. These long intervals give a strange
+touch of realism to the story; for one does not see why the poet should
+wilfully destroy the illusions of youth and beauty without some reason
+founded on fact and chronology. This time the shepherdess and her
+daughter are on their return from a pilgrimage to Compostella. They are
+resting by the roadside, when the knight riding past sees them, and asks
+for news from Spain. At first the conversation takes a political turn,
+quite in accordance with the mature age of the parties, one would think.
+But the troubadour is incorrigible. He soon relapses into love-making,
+and goes so far as to threaten the lady with satirical songs in case of
+non-compliance. Even an appropriate allusion to his grey hair cannot
+bring him to reason. He listens with an ill grace, and at last takes
+angry leave.
+
+The sixth and last scene of the drama is laid at an inn, where the knight
+has sought shelter from the rain. He notices that the buxom landlady and
+her daughter are whispering together, and after some time recognises
+in the former the shepherdess of auld lang syne; very lang syne, for
+again six years intervene between this and the last meeting. Guiraut at
+once broaches his favourite topic. Hearing that the lady is a widow, he
+gallantly suggests: ‘Surely a woman like you ought not to be without a
+lover!’ She frankly confesses that there is an aspirant to her hand, but
+she does not feel inclined to change her condition a second time, for the
+very sensible reason, amongst others, that her wooer has ‘seven children
+all under ten.’ ‘My only comfort,’ she adds, pointing to her daughter,
+‘the source of my joy, stands before you.’ This touching appeal draws the
+attention of the knight towards the girl, and immediately her youthful
+charms produce the usual effect on his inflammable heart. The sudden
+transfer of allegiance he excuses by the treatment he has received, and
+implores the daughter to make amends for the mother’s cruelty. But again
+he receives nothing but pretty speeches, and thus the adventure comes to
+a close.
+
+Another poet much connected with the pastoreta is Gui d’Uisel, a
+celebrated troubadour of Limousin, who belonged to the church, and
+ultimately is said to have abandoned his poetic pursuits by an express
+command of the Papal legate. In connection with two brothers and a
+cousin he seems to have formed a sort of co-operative society on the
+principle of divided artistic labour and accomplishment. ‘They were all
+four poets,’ the old biography says, ‘and made excellent songs. Elias
+(the cousin) wrote the good tensos;[11] Eble the wicked ones; and Peter
+sang what the other three had invented.’ Gui, as was said before, was
+famous for his pastoral songs, several of which are extant. They show
+little of Guiraut Riquier’s healthy realism, but are, on the other hand,
+full of quiet lyrical charm. In one of them he prettily describes the
+reconciliation between a shepherd and his lass, brought about by the
+troubadour’s own counsel. The opening stanza is perhaps unsurpassed in
+Provençal literature for gentle, melodious flow of verse:—
+
+ L’autre jorn cost una via
+ Auzi cantar un pastor
+ Una canson qe dizia,
+ ‘Mort m’an semblan traidor.’
+ E qant el vi qe venia
+ Salh en pes per far m’onor,
+ E ditz, ‘Deus sal, mo senhor,
+ Q’er ai trobat ses bauzia
+ Leial amic celador,
+ A cui m’aus clamar d’amor.’[12]
+
+Marcabrun also, the satirical poet, of whom more will have to be said
+hereafter, is amongst pastoral poets. He has little of Gui d’Uisel’s
+lyrical sweetness, and his discourse with a shepherdess—for his poem also
+takes the form of a dialogue—is not always over-refined. But here again,
+strange to say, the flatteries of the troubadour find no favour with the
+maiden—a circumstance the recurrence of which greatly tends to increase
+one’s belief in the virtue of Provençal shepherdesses.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+OTHER POPULAR FORMS.—THE ALBA AND SERENA.
+
+
+Songs of the morning and evening—_alba_ and _serena_—are amongst the
+most characteristic embodiments of Provençal poetry. To us these
+words come through the medium of northern French, and their original
+meaning has been lost on the way. _Aubade_ and _serenade_ mean amongst
+modern nations, from the shores of the Baltic to the shores of the
+Mediterranean, the musical entertainments performed or arranged by the
+lover under his lady-love’s window at morning or eventide. In music
+these words have received a still different technical meaning, founded,
+however, on the same peculiar significance of the term. For in their
+_serenades_ and _aubades_ the composers of the last century, at least,
+employ in preference such instruments as are most adapted for open-air
+effects.
+
+In modern poetry ‘Hark, hark, the lark!’ from ‘Cymbeline,’ may be
+regarded as the most perfect and typical specimen of the _aubade_. But
+the difference between this and the Provençal _alba_ is of a radical
+nature. The _aubade_ shows or implies the lovers to be divided; in the
+_alba_ they are united; as regards form, the first is an address,
+the second a dialogue, or, at least, the successive utterance of two
+persons. One of these speakers, and the principal of the two, is in
+most and, according to my opinion, in the oldest of these songs, not
+either of the lovers, but the faithful watcher or sentinel guarding them
+from intrusion. Hence we find that the wonderfully beautiful morning
+songs, evidently written in imitation of Provençal models by Wolfram
+von Eschenbach, the great mediæval German poet, are actually called
+‘Wächterlieder,’ or sentinel songs. Reminiscences of the same kind seem
+also to have inspired Brangaene’s warning, mingled with the love-songs of
+Tristan and Isolde, in Wagner’s opera.
+
+The purest and earliest form of the _alba_, like that of the Scotch
+ballad, was no doubt purely dramatic, the speaker or speakers beginning
+their monologue or dialogue without any previous introduction. The
+narrative stanza at the beginning, found in most of the existing _albas_,
+is evidently an after-thought. It became necessary, owing to the
+imagination of the hearers failing to supply the situation at a time,
+perhaps, when these hearers became partly readers, and the additional
+help of the joglar’s action and vocal flexibility ceased in consequence.
+This, however, is mere conjecture from analogy, for the dates of the
+Provençal specimens are difficult to determine. In the magnificent _alba_
+by Guiraut de Bornelh, a celebrated troubadour of the spring-time of
+Provençal literature, the introductory stanza has been dispensed with.
+‘Glorious King,’ is the watchman’s song, ‘true light and brightness,
+Almighty God and Lord, grant faithful help to my friend, for I have not
+seen him since the night came, and soon it will be dawn.’ ‘Sweet friend,
+be you awake or asleep, sleep no longer, but gently rise, for in the East
+I see growing larger the star which harbingers the morn; for well I know
+it. And soon it will be dawn.’ ‘Sweet friend, I call to you in my song;
+sleep no longer, for I hear the bird that goes seeking the day through
+the grove (_qe vai qeren lo jorn per lo boscatge_), and I fear that the
+jealous knight may assail you, and soon it will be dawn.’
+
+‘Sweet true friend,’ the lover replies, in the last stanza, ‘I sojourn in
+so glorious a place that I wish dawn and day might never appear; for the
+fairest lady ever born by mother I hold in my arm, and little do I heed
+the fell jealous knight or the dawn.’
+
+It is strange to note the coincidence of imagery and even of expression
+with which the same situation has supplied the troubadour, and
+Shakespeare in ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ The simplicity, one might almost say
+the obviousness, of all true poetry here finds a striking illustration.
+Given the parting of two lovers at early morn, and the ‘earliest cry
+of new-awakened birds’ heralding or seeking the day, the morning star,
+the dawn, and the defiance of its perils by the lover—all this suggests
+itself almost as a matter of necessity. To the same simplicity of motive
+we have to ascribe the freshness and beauty of many of the _albas_. In
+them the troubadours frequently display an intensity of language, an
+originality and picturesqueness of description, which we look for in vain
+in their more elaborate poems. What, for instance, can be more impressive
+in its striking symbolism than the opening address to the ‘Glorious
+King, the true light and brightness,’ or more subtle and poetic than the
+conception of the lark seeking or longing for the morn with its anxious
+cry? It is another proof of the enormous value of the popular element
+in artistic poetry. While in contact with this healthy spirit, the
+Troubadours held it unnecessary, perhaps beneath their dignity, to show
+the formal capabilities of their craft.
+
+At the same time the _alba_ was by no means without its formal rule or
+custom. This also is more or less strictly exemplified by the stanzas
+above quoted. The reader will notice the refrain or burden at the end
+of each stanza, another proof of the antiquity of the species; he will
+also remark the recurrence of the word ‘_alba_.’ This word is always
+found in the burden, or, where that feature is wanting, in the last line
+of every stanza, of which sometimes it is actually the concluding word.
+To this quaint and evidently very primitive device the name of these
+poems is owing. The only exception to this rule known to me is found in
+an anonymous _alba_ which in other important respects differs from and
+is inferior to the genuine poems of the class. For here, instead of an
+outpouring of feeling, we have a narration as of a past event suddenly
+interrupted by a violent diatribe against the sentinel for ‘hurrying
+on the day,’ and concluded as abruptly by an address of the lady to her
+‘friend Sir Stephen,’ probably the poet himself, warning him of his
+danger in tarrying with her.
+
+This arrangement is quite whimsical. But even within the limits of the
+regular _alba_, several variations are possible. Instead of the sentinel
+the lover or even the lady may be the speaker, the short reply at the
+end of the poem being in that case allotted to the faithful friend. To
+this, the second important division of the morning song, belongs an
+anonymous poem, which, as regards beauty of diction and sentiment, marks
+perhaps the acme of the power of the troubadours in this direction, and
+for that reason may be quoted in full. Here we find perfect euphony
+of language combined with a truth of feeling which, especially in the
+refrain—changelessly reiterated from the first stanza to the last—reaches
+a climax of passion. The subjoined translation will enable the reader
+to follow the original line for line. A few remarks as to form may
+be deemed necessary. The poem opens with the short narrative stanza
+already referred to. Then follow the words of the lady, partly spoken in
+soliloquy, partly addressed to her lover. In the last verse we suddenly
+come to a short laudation of the lady’s own merits, which is no doubt
+intended as a monologue of the watcher. From a purely poetic point of
+view these lines may appear an anticlimax, but they give a quaint archaic
+tinge to the whole conception.
+
+ ALBA SES TITOL.
+
+ En un vergier sotz fuelha d’albespi
+ Tenc la domna son amic costa si
+ Tro la gaita crida qe l’alba vi.
+ Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.
+
+ ‘Plagues a dieu ja la nueitz non falhis
+ Nil mieus amicx lonh de mi no s partis
+ Ni la gaita jorn ni alba no vis,
+ Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.
+
+ Bels dous amicx, baizem nos, ieu e vos
+ Aval els pratz on chantols auzellos
+ Tot o fassam en despieg del gilos.
+ Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.
+
+ Bels dous amicx, fassam un joc novel
+ Ins el jardin on chanton li auzel
+ Tro la gaita toque son caramel;
+ Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.
+
+ Per la douss’ aura q’es venguda lai
+ Del mieu amic bel e cortes e gai
+ Del sieu alen ai begut un dous rai.
+ Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.’
+
+ ‘La domna es agradans e plazens
+ Per sa beautat la gardon mantas gens,
+ Et a son cor en amar lejalmens.
+ Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.’
+
+ ALBA
+ BY AN ANONYMOUS POET.
+
+ Beneath a hawthorn on a blooming lawn
+ A lady to her side her friend had drawn,
+ Until the watcher saw the early dawn.
+ Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.
+
+ ‘Oh that the sheltering night would never flee,
+ Oh that my friend would never part from me,
+ And never might the watch the dawning see!
+ Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.
+
+ ‘Now, sweetest friend, to me with kisses cling,
+ Down in the meadow where the ousels sing;
+ No harm shall hate and jealous envy bring.
+ Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.
+
+ ‘There let with new delight our love abound
+ —The sweet-voiced birds are carolling around—
+ Until the watcher’s warning note resound.
+ Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.
+
+ ‘I drink the air that softly blows my way,
+ From my true friend, so blithe, so fair, so gay,
+ And with his fragrant breath my thirst allay.
+ Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.’
+
+ ‘The lady is of fair and gentle kind,
+ And many a heart her beauty has entwined,
+ But to one friend is aye her heart inclined.
+ Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.’
+
+In the course of time, as the _alba_ became more and more an established
+form of art, the old popular features were gradually abandoned. Instead
+of introducing fictitious _dramatis personæ_ with fictitious dialogue,
+the poets begin to speak in their own proper persons, and the _alba_
+lapses into the ordinary rank and file of subjective lyrical forms. Only
+the external signs of the refrain and the recurrence of the word _alba_
+remain to account for the title, and even this rule has been abandoned
+in the curious little poem by ‘Sir Stephen’ above referred to. Of the
+variations arising from this process only one may be mentioned here, on
+account of its originality of conception. Guiraut Riquier is the author.
+Here the motive of the _alba_ appears entirely reversed. For here we
+meet with a lover tossing sleepless on his lonely couch and thinking of
+his love. To him night is full of gloom and terror, and ‘_e dezir vezer
+l’alba_’ (I long to see the dawn) is the burden of his song.
+
+To the same versatile poet we owe the representative specimen of the
+_serena_ or even-song. Formally it resembles the morning song, with which
+it shares the refrain, and in it the recurrence of the verbal key-note,
+which in this case is _ser_, or evening. As regards its relation to the
+_alba_, it may be said that the same sentiment appears here in converse
+significance. For the _serena_ is sung by a lover to whom a meeting has
+been promised, and who deprecates the day and its brightness that sever
+him from his heart’s desire. Although by no means wanting in truth and
+poetical suggestiveness, the situation is somewhat too subtle for the
+imagination of the people, and there is little evidence of a popular
+source of the _serena_, which appears to be little more than an outgrowth
+and modification of the _alba_ in its more artificial development.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+THE BALADA.
+
+
+The _balada_ is not to be mistaken for the ballad of modern parlance. It
+is, as its etymology indicates, a song serving to accompany the dance.
+This destination proves at once its antiquity and its popularity. There
+is little doubt that in some form or other the _balada_ has subsisted
+from the times of Greek and Roman religious ceremonies down to our own
+days. In a country full of Southern beauty and Southern gaiety, its
+growth was a thing of natural necessity, like that of corn or wine. No
+political change or calamities could crush it. It survived the ravages
+of the crusaders in the thirteenth century, and the influences of
+‘classical’ literature in the eighteenth. When Tristram Shandy entered
+the rich plain of Languedoc, the first thing he perceived was a lame
+youth whom Apollo had recompensed with a pipe, to which he had added a
+tambourin of his own accord, running sweetly over the prelude, and the
+reapers singing:
+
+ Viva la joya
+ Fidon la tristessa.
+
+Unfortunately there is again little or no record of the earlier
+development of this charming branch of poetry. But traces of its spirit
+and grace remain in the few specimens transmitted to us through the
+medium of the Troubadours, and these bear, in the freedom and variety
+of their metrical treatment, the distinct mark of their affinity with
+popular models. It ought to be added that the _baladas_ remaining to us
+are mostly by anonymous authors, which would tend to prove that the more
+celebrated and more dignified poets kept aloof from the unsophisticated
+species. On the other hand, some of the specimens show all the refinement
+and a good deal of the artificiality of Provençal versification. One of
+them, for instance, is written almost entirely in what is technically
+called _rims dictionals_—a curious metrical device, for an explanation
+of which the reader is referred to the technical portion of this book.
+A set rule for the structure of these dance-songs it would be difficult
+to find, but it appears that most of them have a few introductory lines
+by way of prelude, after which the stanzas themselves begin. The refrain
+also is not unfrequent, and would suggest the falling in of a chorus—the
+only sign, by the way, of the existence of that important musical
+component. For the artistic _balada_—differing in this essentially and
+significantly from the popular roundelay—is supposed to be sung and
+the accompanying dance to be performed by a single person. The idea
+of a dance _en masse_, or even in couples, verbally and mimetically
+addressing each other, seems excluded. Hence the subjective character
+of the poetry. By its contents the _balada_ could not be distinguished
+from any other love-song. In some cases, indeed, its identification
+would be altogether difficult but for the heading in the MS., or the
+actual occurrence of the term _balada_ in the poem itself, as found, for
+instance, in the charming song to be presently quoted. The exclamations
+‘Let us sing,’ ‘Let us dance,’ which occur in modern opera and which
+establish at least some external connection between the two arts,
+are almost entirely wanting.[13] And yet the Provençal _balada_ is a
+dance-song in the most emphatic sense of the word. The secret lies in the
+rhythm, the metre. This, in most of the _baladas_, is graceful waving
+motion itself. In conjunction with the musical accompaniment the effect
+must have been of surpassing charm. As to the nature of this musical
+accompaniment an interesting passage may be found in the _Leys d’amors_.
+Speaking of the _dansa_ the old Provençal writer asserts that it must
+have ‘a slight and joyous tune, not quite so long as those of the _Vers_
+or the _Canso_, but a little more lively, such as is suited for dancing,
+as the name indicates. But nowadays people use this tune very badly, for
+the singers hardly know how to get into a good dance rhythm. And as they
+are unable to do so, they have changed the tune of the _dansa_ into the
+tune of the _redondel_, with their minims and the semi-breves of their
+motets.’ To us the melodious beauties indicated by these words are, it
+is to be feared, lost for ever. But even without this important aid,
+sufficient remains to connect the fall of the lines with the graceful
+harmonious action of the human body. This association of ideas is common
+amongst Southern nations; the Greek metrical terms _arsis_ and _thesis_
+are derived from the lifting up and setting down of the dancers’ feet.
+But even in the literature of Teutonic nations songs occasionally occur
+which act on brain and feet as would the lively rhythm of a valse by
+Strauss or Lanner. I will mention only a single English specimen by
+way of illustration. In a ‘Mad-Song’ called the ‘Lady distracted with
+Love,’ originally sung in Tom D’Urfey’s ‘Don Quixote’ (first performed
+in 1694) and to be found in that author’s ‘Pills to purge Melancholy,’
+especially the second division of each stanza appears to me a model of
+the dance-song in its northern transformation. It is supposed to depict
+the phase of ‘mirthful madness,’ and runs thus:—
+
+ Or if more influencing
+ Is to be brisk and airy,
+ With a step and a bound
+ And a frisk from the ground
+ I’ll trip like any fairy.
+
+ As once on Ida dancing
+ Were three celestial bodies,
+ With an air and a face
+ And a shape and a grace
+ I’ll charm like beauty’s goddess.
+
+But how infinitely more graceful than these lively verses is the soft
+gliding rhythm of the following Provençal stanzas!
+
+‘_Coindeta soi_,’ ‘I am graceful, joyous,’ the lady begins,—
+
+ Coindeta soi, si cum n’ai greu cossire
+ Per mon marit qar nol volh nil desire.
+
+ Q’ieu beus dirai per qe son aussi droza
+ Coindeta soi;
+ Qar pauca soi joveneta e toza
+ Coindeta soi;
+ E degr’aver marit don fos joyoza
+ Al cui toz temps pogues jogar e rire.
+ Coindeta soi.
+
+ Ja deus mi sal, si ja soi amoroza
+ Coindeta soi;
+ De lui amar mia sui cobeitoza
+ Coindeta soi;
+ Ans qan lo vei ne soi tan vergonhoza
+ Q’en prec la mort q’el venga tost aucire.
+ Coindeta soi.
+
+ Mas d’una re m’en soi ben acordada
+ Coindeta soi;
+ S’il mieus amics m’a s’amor emendada
+ Coindeta soi;
+ Vel bel esper a cui me soi donada
+ Planh e sospir qar nol vei nil remire,
+ Coindeta soi.
+
+ E dirai vos de qem soi acordada
+ Coindeta soi;
+ Qel mieus amics m’a longamen amada
+ Coindeta soi
+ A li sera m’amors abandonada
+ El bels espers q’eu tant am e dezire,
+ Coindeta soi.
+
+ En aqest son fas coindeta balada
+ Coindeta soi;
+ E prec a totz qe sia lonh cantada,
+ Coindeta soi;
+ E qe la chant tota domn’ ensenhada
+ Del mieu amic q’eu tant am e dezire.
+ Coindeta soi.
+
+An attempt at translation in prose or verse would be as impossible as it
+would be superfluous. The charm lies in the music of the words. Moreover,
+the subject is by no means edifying. It is the ever recurring burden of
+Provençal poetry: a lady dissatisfied with her husband and openly calling
+for death to come and kill him soon in order that she may be united to
+her lover.
+
+Essentially identical with the _balada_ is the _dansa_, of which also
+several examples are found in the manuscripts. The difference which the
+_Leys d’amors_ tries to establish between these and other variations of
+the dance-song are evidently pedantic quibbles, and, moreover, not borne
+out by the best models.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+ARTIFICIAL FORMS OF POETRY.—THE SESTINA.
+
+
+In the forms of lyrical verse hitherto considered by us we were
+able to trace some popular germs, considerably modified and highly
+developed though they might appear. But any such connection ceases in
+the numberless variations of verse and stanza, in which the unrivalled
+workmanship of the troubadours loved to shine. That this ease of
+inventing ever new and ever more complicated combinations frequently led
+to excesses of artificiality need not surprise us. Our admiration of the
+marvellous ingenuity displayed by the poets is mingled with regret at
+seeing it wasted on trifles.
+
+The number and variety of these efforts would defy all attempts at
+perfect classification and nomenclature. The troubadours altogether were
+sparing in the use of technical terms, but even the later grammarians
+found it impossible to affix names to all the metrical refinements and
+_tours de force_ in which Provençal poets delighted. It is amusing to
+observe the different attitude in this respect of the poets and metrical
+theorists of Northern France. The rhyming capacities of their language
+were as inferior as their own craftsmanship to the language and the art
+of the troubadours. In consequence they found it desirable ‘to make a
+little go a long way,’ and, for example, dubbed with the sonorous name of
+‘Chant Royal’ the mere repetition of the rhymes of a somewhat complicated
+stanza throughout a poem of moderate length: a feat performed almost
+unconsciously by the troubadours in numberless canzos and sirventeses.
+The _ballade_ made celebrated, although by no means invented, by the
+genius of Villon, and which, by the way, differs as widely from the
+Provençal _balada_ on the one hand, as it does from the Scotch ‘ballad’
+on the other, is a similar contrivance of a still simpler nature. This
+simplicity, of course, by no means detracts from the poetic merit of
+these poems, and the manner, for instance, in which the refrain is
+used in both cases betrays considerable skill. But compared with the
+consummate workmanship of the troubadours, these efforts appear mere
+child’s play.[14]
+
+Of the elaborate rules of Provençal metrical science and practice, both
+as regards the rhyme and the construction of stanzas, full account will
+be given in the technical section. For the present it will suffice to
+name a few examples chosen for their quaintness and originality rather
+than for any extraordinary display of workmanship.
+
+The most important amongst these is the _sestina_. It was invented by
+Arnaut Daniel, the master of ‘dear rhymes’ and ‘obscure words,’ of whom
+and of which previous mention has been made. For his propensities in
+that direction Arnaut himself tenders a very plausible excuse. He shifts
+the responsibility from his own shoulders to those of his lady. If she
+were kind to him, he alleges, melodious rhythms and pleasing simple
+verses would naturally flow from his pen. The lady’s cruelty therefore
+is answerable for involved sentences and harsh rhymes. The plea is not
+altogether without force. But Arnaut’s natural tendency towards the
+incomprehensible and strikingly original is at the same time established
+beyond a doubt. One of his favourite devices was to construct a stanza
+without a single rhyme in the stanza itself. But instead of this the
+close of the first line would match with that of all the other stanzas
+of the poem, the second line with the second, and so forth. In one poem,
+for instance, the last word of the opening line of the first stanza
+is _larga_, that of the second stanza _embarga_, that of the third
+_descarga_, and so on through all the corresponding lines of the poem. To
+modern and northern ears the consonance thus suspended for eight or more
+lines is hardly perceptible. But in the south and in the middle ages this
+was different. Even so great a master of form as Dante highly approved
+of Arnaut’s practice, and, what is more, avowedly imitated it (‘et nos
+eum secuti sumus.’—_De Vulgari Eloquio_, cap. 10). The result of this
+imitation is one of the sweetest love poems of the ‘_Canzoniere_,’
+the _sestina_ beginning, ‘Al poco giorno ed al gran cerchio d’ombra.’
+Two other poems of the same kind are attributed to Dante by some
+commentators, although others doubt their authenticity.
+
+The fundamental scheme of the _sestina_, as has already been stated, is
+that of blank-verse stanzas, being in the relation of rhyme to other
+blank-verse stanzas. But here this principle is carried to a climax.
+For not only the consonances, but the actual rhyme-words of the first
+strophe are repeated throughout the poem. The difficulty of writing sense
+and poetry under such conditions is increased by the curiously inverted
+order in which these words are repeated. To give the reader an idea of
+the ingenuity of this contrivance, it will be necessary to write down the
+concluding words of the six stanzas of a celebrated _sestina_ by Arnaut
+Daniel in the order in which they occur. The number six—both as regards
+the stanzas of the poem and the lines of each stanza—is the orthodox
+one, and has given the name to the poem. A short _tornada_ or _envoi_,
+however, is added, and in this the six rhyme-words of the previous stanza
+are once more repeated.
+
+ I. STANZA. II. STANZA. III. STANZA. IV. STANZA.
+
+ intra cambra arma oncle
+ ongla intra cambra arma
+ arma oncle verga ongla
+ verga ongla intra cambra
+ oncle verga ongla intra
+ cambra arma oncle verga
+
+ V. STANZA. VI. STANZA. TORNADA.
+
+ verga ongla ongla—oncle
+ oncle verga verga—arma
+ intra cambra cambra—intra
+ arma oncle
+ cambra arma
+ ongla intra
+
+It will be observed that the second stanza repeats the rhyme-words of the
+first in this order, 6, 1, 5, 2, 4, 3, and exactly the same relation will
+be found to obtain between each stanza of the poem and its predecessor.
+Whether there was some hidden significance in this sequence it is
+impossible to tell. But one is inclined to suspect that it must have been
+some such attraction which induced the great Dante to imitate Arnaut
+Daniel’s device with perfect accuracy. Or was it the pseudo-scientific
+regularity of the scheme, so fascinating to the mediæval mind, which
+attracted him? Anyhow, the fact is undeniable that Dante’s poem in
+question, although infinitely superior, by its poetic beauty, to anything
+that Arnaut Daniel ever wrote, is, as regards its metrical scheme, an
+exact copy of the troubadour’s _sestina_. Only in two minor points has
+Dante dared to deviate from his model, in points, too, which do not
+materially interfere with the position of the rhyme-words. These are,
+the length of the opening lines of each stanza, which in Provençal are
+by one foot shorter than the other verses, while in Italian they are of
+equal size; and the arrangement of the rhyme-words of the _tornada_.
+But Dante’s licence in these details makes his strict adherence to the
+essential idea of the form all the more significant.
+
+It is interesting to note that the preference for the _sestina_ has not
+been confined to mediæval poets or Romance languages. Mr. Swinburne, to
+mention but one instance, has essayed the form with excellent results,
+both in French and English. But the model he has followed is not derived
+from the Provençal original, nor yet from the Italian copy, but from a
+modified French version of the scheme. This modification consists chiefly
+in the use of the rhyme within the single stanzas themselves, which
+is wholly at variance with the original meaning of the form. Banville
+suggests that the stanza in this altered condition has been imitated from
+Petrarch. But he is quite mistaken. Petrarch, although he ostentatiously
+avoided reading Dante’s works, has in this instance exactly followed
+Dante’s example. Besides, he was too well acquainted with the musical
+significance of the stanza in question, not to know that all the lines
+must be _rims escars_, or, according to Dante’s terminology, _claves_,
+that is, unmatched by rhymes in their own stanza. For a fuller account of
+these details I must again refer the reader to the technical portion of
+this book.
+
+In connection with the _sestina_ and its history in the _lingua di sì_,
+it may be mentioned that another important form of Dante’s, and generally
+of Italian, poetry, the sonnet, seems to have been of indigenous, not
+at least of Provençal, growth. The structure of a stanza of fourteen
+lines containing the well-known number and arrangement of rhymes, is
+in perfect accordance with the metrical principles practised by the
+troubadours, but the only specimen of the sonnet in the _langue d’oc_
+was written by an Italian poet, Dante da Maiano. It is by no means a
+master-piece, and remarkable chiefly for the fact that all the rhymes
+are of the male or monosyllabic order, an arrangement not unfrequent in
+Provençal, but unprecedented in Italian; the latter circumstance being
+perhaps the reason why an Italian poet, writing in Provençal, adopted it.
+Against the Provençal origin of the sonnet would also seem to speak the
+fact, that the word is used without any technical restriction, merely as
+equivalent for a song:
+
+ Un sonat fatz malvatz e bo,
+ E re non say de qal razo.
+
+‘I make a sonnet evil or good, what about I don’t know myself,’ says
+Guiraut de Bornelh, wishing to illustrate the wayward mood of a
+distracted lover. Of the poem of sixteen lines he thought no more than
+did Burns when he described Tam O’Shanter as ‘crooning o’er some auld
+Scots sonnet.’
+
+The exact antipodes of the _sestina_ is the _descort_, Anglicè discord,
+or dissonance. In the former everything is fixed by rule—position of
+rhymes, number and length of lines and stanzas. In the latter absolute
+liberty prevails regarding all these points, or rather it is the ambition
+of the poet to create the most bewildering divergence. But sometimes
+even the most glaring contrasts of metre are found insufficient, and an
+additional discordance of idiom is resorted to. Rambaut de Vaqueiras has
+employed no less than five different languages or dialects to complain of
+the cruelty of his lady. For, like the harsh rhymes of Arnaut Daniel, all
+these dissonant contrivances were attributed to the feeling of unrequited
+love, and Guiraut de Salinhac, in a very pretty little poem, distinctly
+says, ‘I should not compose a Discord if I met with accord and accordance
+at the hands of her I love.’ The inventor of this curious device is said
+to have been one Guerin d’Apelier, a poet not otherwise known to us. His
+claim to immortality may appear somewhat slender under such circumstances.
+
+Akin to the elaborate confusion of the _descort_ and about on a par with
+it as regards artistic merit, is the sudden lapse from poetry into prose,
+for which Rambaut of Orange is more especially responsible. Of Rambaut
+and his disastrous love-affair with Beatrice de Die, the poetess, we
+shall hear more hereafter. As a poet he belongs to, and is indeed amongst
+the earliest representatives of, the artificial school which culminates
+in Arnaut Daniel. Rambaut is by no means without skill, and according
+to his own statement, ‘no poet s work from the time Adam ate the apple
+was worth a turnip compared with his.’ But his devices frequently take
+the form of mere eccentricities, and he never induces us, perhaps never
+intends us, to forget the amateurish quality of his work. The mixture of
+poetry and prose alluded to in the above remarks well illustrates the
+lawless tendency of the noble poet.
+
+The explanatory nature of these prose interludes induces Raynouard
+to class Rambaut’s poem with the ‘pièces avec commentaire’ (‘Choix,’
+vol. ii. p. 248). To add a kind of commentary to poetic work was a not
+uncommon custom in the middle ages. Dante’s ‘Vita Nuova’ is a prominent
+case in point. In Provence, where a whole school of poets took pride in
+writing as incomprehensibly as might be, some such assistance to the
+weaker brethren became all the more indispensable. In most cases no doubt
+the joglar supplied the want by adding, after the recital of a poem, such
+explanatory notes as might seem most adapted to the intellectual level of
+his audience. Of Guillem (not Peter, as Raynouard calls him) de la Tor,
+the joglar, and friend of Sordello, we are told in the manuscripts that
+‘he knew a great many canzos and was clever and sang well. He also was
+a poet; but when he wanted to recite his canzos he made his commentary
+longer than the poem itself.’ From the expression used by the biographer,
+_sermo de la razo_, we are led to conclude that Guillem’s long-winded
+explanations were couched in prose. This, however, was not always the
+case. We know of troubadours who good-naturedly took the trouble to
+elucidate the darknesses of brother bards by means of poetic glosses.
+Guiraut Riquier, the scholar and poet, here again shines by his example.
+The nature of these commentaries is well illustrated by a stanza of one
+of his poems which the reader will find translated in Raynouard’s ‘Choix’
+(ii. 252). Guiraut de Calanson, in one of his poems, speaking of the
+palace of love, says that four steps, or degrees, lead up to it. Guiraut
+Riquier explains that these steps are ‘honour,’ ‘discretion,’ ‘gentle
+service,’ and ‘good sufferance,’ much to the edification, no doubt, of
+mediæval readers, and especially of Count Henri de Rodez, who, under his
+hand and seal, testifies to Guiraut’s explanation being trustworthy and
+to the point. The five portals of the palace and the mode of opening each
+individually, also find a circumstantial explanation at Guiraut’s hands.
+
+Of the _breu-doble_ (double-short), again, Guiraut Riquier is the
+inventor, and, as far as I am aware, the sole representative. In the poem
+of the kind which we possess from his pen he complains of the cruelty
+of his lady, to which he, in imitation of other troubadours, ascribes
+his adoption of this new mode of utterance. ‘As she will not accept my
+canzos at their worth,’ he says, ‘I write this breu-doble.’ There is
+nothing very remarkable about this form, which, for that reason perhaps,
+has met with little approbation amongst the elaborate rhymsters of the
+later epoch. The name ‘breu-doble’ has been a puzzle to modern scholars.
+Raynouard is inclined to derive it from the shortness of the poem, which,
+however, would by no means account for the ‘doble.’ To me it seems more
+likely that allusion is made in a slip-shod way to the last verse of each
+stanza, which, although not exactly half the length of, is at least
+considerably shorter than, the remainder of the lines, from which it also
+differs by its rhyme.
+
+Of greater importance than the _breu-doble_ is the _retroensa_, also
+known chiefly through Guiraut Riquier’s agency. The only striking feature
+of this form is the refrain which, against the usage of Provençal poetry,
+consists of more than one line. An exceedingly pretty poem, called in
+the MS. ‘The First Retroensa of Guiraut Riquier made in the year 1276,’
+is devoted to the praise of the Catalans, renowned in the middle ages as
+models of knightly courtesy. ‘As my star has decreed,’ the poet says,
+‘that good should not come to me from my lady, as nothing I can do will
+please her, as I am too weak to tear myself from her, it is time that I
+should be grounded in the ways of true love; and of these I can learn
+enough in gay Catalonia amongst the brave Catalans and their sweet
+ladies.’ On these he proceeds to shower every imaginable compliment
+through a number of stanzas all bearing the harmonious burden:
+
+ Entrels Catalas valens
+ E las domnas avinens.
+
+Like the _descort_ and many other metrical creations of the troubadours,
+the _retroensa_ was known to the poets of northern France. The name
+at least occurs in the literature of the langue _d’oïl_; but it must
+be confessed that, for instance, the religious song in praise of the
+Virgin, expressly called by the poet a _retrovange novelle_, has neither
+in substance nor form anything in common with Guiraut Riquier’s poem.
+Even the refrain has disappeared. There may perhaps have been some
+musical reason to account for the adoption of the name. But on that
+point we are, alas! completely in the dark. It is unnecessary to enter
+into the numerous and for the greater part arbitrary distinctions in
+which the subtle minds of grammarians and metrical scholars were wont
+to delight. Most of the divisions thus created, such as the _escondigz_
+(justification), the _comjatz_ (literally leave-taking, i.e. the song
+in which the allegiance to a cruel lady is renounced), or the _torneys_
+(tournament song), and many others never seem to have attained distinct
+formal development, and the remaining specimens are very few in number.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+THE TENSO.
+
+
+My division hitherto has been made chiefly with regard to form. Such
+poetic creations as the _pastoreta_ or the _balada_ are, it is true, to
+some extent recognisable by the subject they treat. At the same time
+their most important characteristic remains the formal development to
+which this subject has given rise. This is different with the _tenso_,
+the song of dispute or contention. The fact of its frequently being
+written or supposed to be written by several persons implies the form of
+the dialogue. But as regards the structure of the line and the stanza,
+there is no generic mark to distinguish the _tenso_ from the _canzo_,
+the _sirventes_, or any other class of artistic poetry. But in spite of
+this the _tenso_ is of infinitely greater importance for the knowledge of
+Provençal life and literature than the artificial trifles we have just
+been dealing with. Its very existence is significant. Nothing could prove
+the enormous popularity of verse and rhyme in Provence more conclusively
+than the fact that the discussion of the most varied topics of life and
+manners instinctively assumed the form of poetry. Only in this way could
+the writers secure readers, the reciting joglars an audience. Moreover,
+the mind may picture to itself a circle of noble ladies and gallant
+cavaliers listening to the poets arduously discussing subtle points of
+love and courtesy. For there is no reason to doubt that many of these
+songs of contention owe their origin to actual _viva voce_ debate.
+
+‘The _tenso_,’ the _Leys d’amors_ begins its long-winded definition,
+‘is a combat and debate, in which each maintains and reasons some word
+or fact,’ and beyond this somewhat vague piece of information there
+is little to be got from the old grammarians. They supply us with
+plenty of technical names, with a neat definition to each of them; but
+how much of this theory is drawn from the inner consciousness of the
+learned men, how much from the living practice of the troubadours, is
+a difficult question to decide. The safest way for us will be, in this
+and in previous instances, to rely chiefly on the remaining specimens
+from the best period. For further particulars the curious reader is
+referred to Raynouard’s work (‘Choix,’ vol. ii. 197), where he may
+learn, for instance, that when a _tenso_ treated of love, which, by the
+way, most _tensos_ did, it was for some not very perceptible reason,
+called _partimen_, while a song of combat, in which more than two
+disputants took part, received the appropriate name of _torneyamen_,
+i.e. tournament,—turn and turn about, as we should say. Another name of
+the _tenso_, _jocx partitz_, of which the French term _jeu parti_ is a
+literal translation, seems to have been less commonly used in Provence.
+
+The principle of ‘turn and turn about’ has at the same time supplied
+the form of the _tenso_. It was but fair that to the various combatants
+the same advantages should be granted, and hence the number of stanzas
+allotted to each is exactly the same. Even the right of a last appeal in
+the shape of a _tornada_ is free to all. Some advantage might accrue to
+the first speaker from the choice of rhyme and metre, which had to be
+repeated exactly by his antagonist or antagonists. The reproduction of
+one of Arnaut Daniel’s hard-rhymed stanzas might have been a sore task to
+some of the more popular troubadours. But this slight privilege was more
+than counterbalanced by a duty. For, as a rule, the _tenso_ begins with
+a challenge of one poet to another to choose one side of an argument,
+the first spokesman undertaking to defend the opposite view, whichever
+it may turn out to be. Impartiality could not well go further.[15] In
+case of two antagonists only, the rhymes are frequently changed after a
+couple of stanzas, that is after one argument and counter-argument, but
+the continuation of the same rhymes throughout the poem is by no means of
+rare occurrence.
+
+There is no reason to doubt that in most cases the _tensos_ we find in
+the manuscripts are records of actual discussions sustained by different
+poets, either with the pen or by word of mouth. In many cases, however,
+the antagonists are as undoubtedly fictitious personages brought upon the
+scene for the purpose of displaying the author’s versatility of style and
+reasoning. Peirol, for instance, in a very pretty _tenso_, introduces
+Love himself as his antagonist. The god tries to shake the poet’s
+resolution to join the crusaders. ‘The Turks and Arabs,’ he pleads,
+‘will never leave the Tower of David for all your invasions. I give you
+good and gentle counsel: Love and sing.’ But the poet remains firm. He
+cannot break his sacred promise. At the same time there is a ring of
+latent melancholy in his words when he admits that ‘many men must part,
+and leave their true loves in tears, who, if King Saladin did not exist,
+might have stayed at home joyfully.’
+
+At other times the troubadours enter into discussion with antagonists
+who, although not absolutely symbolical or fabulous, yet distinctly
+bear the mark of a fictitious origin. Such a character, for instance,
+is the Genoese lady with whom Rambaut de Vaqueiras—one of the chief
+representatives of the _tenso_—holds amorous converse. The amorousness
+is, however, wholly one-sided, for the lady, the wife of an honest
+merchant, rejects the troubadour’s offers with utter contempt and with an
+energy of diction more creditable to her virtue than to her politeness.
+The vigour of her language is further increased by the homely dialect of
+her city in which she is made to speak, and which contrasts strikingly
+with the euphonious phrases of the courtly poet. But her virtue is proof
+against the most alluring charms of the _langue d’oc_. Adding insult to
+injury, she at last exclaims: ‘Mountebank, I don’t value your Provençal a
+Genoese farthing; I don’t understand you any more than I should a German
+or a native of Sardinia or Barbary.’ All this, it need hardly be added,
+is nothing but a clever skit of the troubadour’s own devising.
+
+To the same category also belongs the poem in which Peire Duran relates,
+at some length, the mutual grievances of a husband and wife on a matter
+intimately connected with domestic happiness. Another poem of the same
+class is remarkable by a deviation from the usual form. For instead of
+an entire stanza being allotted to each person, the speech here changes
+after every two lines, and at the end of the stanza after one line. The
+dialogue in this manner becomes decidedly more lively, but the abruptness
+of these incessant changes seems to have deterred other troubadours from
+adopting Albert’s innovation. Strictly speaking, the poem in question
+hardly comes under the definition of _tenso_ as established by the _Leys
+d’amors_; for instead of a discussion we have here nothing but assurances
+of mutual love and good will.
+
+Very different from this is the second and larger class of _tensos_,
+in which two real troubadours discuss some subject of every-day life
+and love. The variety of topics makes this part of the literature an
+especially valuable source for the study of Provençal customs and
+morals. Sometimes an abstract problem is started, such as the respective
+advantages of wealth and wisdom, very seriously discussed by two minor
+troubadours. ‘I would sooner possess wisdom,’ says the virtuous Guillem,
+‘which must remain with me, than wealth, which in my opinion is of
+little avail to those who possess it. For one can easily fall from high
+to low estate, but science does not fall, because she is seated firmly.
+He who possesses wisdom is rich in his shirt.’ But his antagonist,
+nothing daunted, upholds the advantages of the independence and freedom
+from care derived from the possession of riches. ‘Even Aristotle,’ he
+replies, ‘the foremost among the wise, accepted presents, and so did
+Virgil, he who lies buried near the strand at Naples. I prefer giving to
+asking.’ The heavy artillery of learning having thus been brought into
+action, the troubadours continue for some time to pelt each other with
+classical and Biblical names and facts, without, however, producing the
+slightest impression on the hostile positions. Finally, both appeal to
+the arbitration of a mutual friend, as is their wont in such cases.
+
+Infinitely more interesting, although less edifying, is a _tenso_ in
+which two celebrated troubadours, Bernart de Ventadorn and Peirol,
+express their opinions as to the mutual relations of personal feeling
+and artistic creation. Here we have no longer to deal with a logical
+fencing-match, but with the utterance of personal experience. Such a
+maxim as ‘Little is worth the song that does not come from the heart,’
+expressed by Peirol, reflects the highest credit on the psychological
+and poetic insight of that troubadour. On the other hand, it is amusing
+to watch the attitude of a light-hearted poet and lover, treating his
+muse as he treats his mistress, and winding up with something very like a
+boast of secret favours—which Bernart de Ventadorn assumes, and which is
+strangely at variance with the gentle sentimental character of his life
+and work. Believers in the migration of fables will be pleased to find
+here a slightly altered version of the old story of ‘fox and grapes,’
+and the poem as a whole may be regarded as an admirable specimen of the
+elegant grace of Provençal thought and versification. For these reasons
+it may follow here as transcribed by Professor Bartsch:—
+
+ BERNARTZ DE VENTADORN E’ N PEIROLS.
+
+ ‘Peirol, cum avetz tant estat
+ Que non fezetz vers ni chanso?
+ Respondetz mi per cal razo,
+ S’o laissetz per mal o per be,
+ Per ir’ o per joi o per que?
+ Que saber en voill la vertat.’
+
+ ‘Bernart, chantars nom ven a grat
+ Ni gaires nom platz nim sab bo;
+ Mas car voletz nostra tenso
+ N’ai era mon talan forsat.
+ Pauc val chans que del cor non ve;
+ E pos jois d’amor laissa me,
+ Eu ai chant e deport laissat.’
+
+ ‘Peirol mout i faitz gran foudat
+ S’o laissatz per tal ocaizo;
+ S’eu agues avut cor fello,
+ Mortz fora un an a passat,
+ Qu’enquer non posc trobar merce:
+ Ges per tant de chant nom recre
+ Car doas perdas no m’an at.’
+
+ ‘Bernart, ben ai mon cor mudat,
+ Que totz es autres c’anc non fo:
+ Non chantarai mais en perdo;
+ Mas de vos voill chantetz jasse
+ De cellei qu’en grat nous o te,
+ E que perdatz vostr’ amistat.’
+
+ ‘Peirol maint bon mot n’ai trobat
+ De leis, c’anc us no m’en tenc pro;
+ E s’il serva cor de leo
+ Nom a ges tot la mon serrat;
+ Qu’en sai tal una, per ma fe,
+ Qu’am mais, s’un baisar mi cove
+ Que de leis sil m’agues donat.’
+
+ ‘Bernart, bes es acostumat,
+ Qui mais non pot, c’aissi perdo;
+ Que la volps al sirier dis o:
+ Quan l’ac de totas partz cercat,
+ Las sireisas vic loing de se,
+ E dis que non valion re:
+ Atressi m’avetz vos gabat.’
+
+ ‘Peirol, sireisas sont o be
+ Mas mal aja eu si ja cre
+ Que la volps non aja tastat.’
+
+ ‘Bernart, nom entramet de re
+ Mas pesam de ma bona fe
+ Car non i ai ren gazaignat.’
+
+ TENSO BETWEEN BERNART DE VENTADORN AND SIR PEIROL.
+
+ ‘Peirol, how is it that for such a long time you have been
+ without making verse or canso? Tell me what is the reason that
+ you have ceased singing. Is it for evil or good, for sorrow or
+ for joy, or for what? for I will know the truth of it.’
+
+ ‘Bernart, singing does not come pleasant to me, and I have
+ lost all taste and liking for it. But as you insist upon
+ having a tenso with me, I have forced my inclination. Little
+ worth is the song that does not come from the heart, and as
+ love has left me, I have left song and dalliance.’
+
+ ‘Peirol, you commit great folly, if you leave these off for
+ such a reason; if I had harboured wrath in my heart, I should
+ have been dead a year ago, for I also can find no love nor
+ mercy. But for all that I do not abandon singing, for there is
+ no need of my losing two things.’
+
+ ‘Bernart, my heart is changed, and wholly different from what
+ it was: I shall no longer sing in vain. But I wish you may
+ sing for ever of her who gives you no thanks, and waste your
+ friendship.’
+
+ ‘Peirol, many a good word have I said of her, although none has
+ ever been of any benefit to me. If she wants to keep her lion’s
+ heart, she cannot lock me out from all the world; and I know
+ one of whom I would prefer the grant of a kiss to the free gift
+ of one by her.’
+
+ ‘Bernart, it is a common thing that he who cannot win
+ should make light of the loss; just as the fox spoke to the
+ cherry-tree. For after she had tried everything she still saw
+ the cherries a long way off, and then she said that they were
+ worth nothing; and that is exactly how you talk.’
+
+ ‘Peirol, the cherries are all very well, but evil befal me if I
+ believe that the fox never had a taste of them.’
+
+ ‘Bernart, that is not my affair, but I regret my good faith;
+ for I have gained nothing by it.’
+
+It is now necessary to mention one of the most celebrated and most
+characteristic _tensos_ in Provençal literature—a kind of battle-royal in
+which each of the three contending poets tries to outshine the others by
+brilliancy of wit and subtlety of argument. The subject, it need hardly
+be added, is love. But thereby hangs a tale which it will be best to
+relate in the words of the old manuscripts. ‘Savaric de Mauleon,’ says
+the biographer of that well-known troubadour, ‘went to Benaujatz to see
+the Viscountess Lady Guillelma, and he turned his mind towards her. And
+he took with him Sir Elias Rudel, lord of Bergerac, and Jaufre Rudel of
+Blaia. All three wooed her love, and each of them had been her cavalier
+aforetime; but none knew it of the other. All three were seated with her,
+one on one side, the other on the other, and the third in front of her.
+Each of them gazed at her lovingly, and she, who was the boldest lady
+ever seen, began to look at Sir Jaufre Rudel lovingly, for he was sitting
+in front, and she took the hand of Sir Elias Rudel de Bergerac and
+pressed it very amorously, and she put her foot on that of Sir Savaric
+with a smile and a sigh. None knew of the favour the others had received,
+till they had left the castle, when Sir Jaufre Rudel told Sir Savaric
+how the lady had looked at him, and Sir Elias related that about the
+hand. And Savaric, when he heard that each of them had found such favour,
+became very sad; but he said nothing of what had happened to himself,
+but he called Gaucelm Faidit and Uc de la Bacalaria, and asked them in a
+stanza who had received the highest favour and love at her hands.’ This
+stanza is the opening one of the _tenso_ in question. It runs thus:—
+
+ Gaucelm Faidit, and good Sir Hugh,
+ Three amorous questions I will ask:
+ Choose ye what side seems good to you,
+ The third to hold must be my task:—
+ One lady’s charms three knights inspire;
+ She, sore beset by their desire,
+ Would fain each lover’s wish abet,
+ When all the three with her are met.
+ At one she looks with loving eye:
+ The other’s hand takes tenderly;
+ Gladdens the third with footstep sly.
+ To tell me now I ask of ye,
+ Who was most favoured of the three.
+
+Fortunately the two troubadours prefer the ogle and the shake by the
+hand respectively, and permit poor Savaric at least to defend his own
+cause, which he does with more spirit than might be expected under the
+circumstances. Into the arguments of the amorous poets it would lead
+us too far to enter. Suffice it to say that each firmly stands to his
+opinion, and that the cause is ultimately submitted to the arbitration of
+three ladies. The decision of these fair and no doubt highly competent
+judges the manuscripts have unfortunately not preserved.
+
+Perhaps the reader would care to know a little more of the curious
+love-affair between Savaric and the Lady Guillelma, and as a second
+incident of it also became the origin of a _tenso_, it may find a place
+here. Savaric, we are told, had been faithfully attached to the lady for
+years, but she paid him back with false promises, and never would grant
+him a favour. Many a time he came to her, at her demand, from Poitou to
+Gascony, by land and by sea, only to find himself disappointed again on
+his arrival. But he, the manuscript adds, was so enamoured that he never
+discovered her falsehood. His friends, however, did, and thought of means
+to release him from such thraldom. For that purpose they introduced
+him to a beautiful and noble lady of Gascony, who was but too willing
+to accept the service of so celebrated a troubadour, and appointed a
+day for a rendezvous. News of this affair was brought to Guillelma, and
+jealousy now effected what true love had attempted in vain. No sooner
+had she ascertained the time of the appointment, than she sent a message
+to Savaric, summoning him to her presence for the very same day, and
+promising him at last the fulfilment of his wishes. The messenger was Uc
+de San Cyr the troubadour, and biographer of Savaric, to whose friendship
+he was introduced on this occasion. He relates how he came to the court
+of Savaric, who, by the way, was a rich and powerful baron, and delivered
+his message. One of the guests of Savaric was the provost of Limoges, and
+to him the perplexed poet submitted the case, proposing to discuss the
+claims of the two ladies in a _tenso_. This _tenso_ is in existence. The
+provost is decidedly in favour of the new love. He points out to Savaric
+that Guillelma’s favour is the result of jealousy, while the kindness of
+the other lady would be ill rewarded by the poet’s disappointing her. But
+the warmth with which poor Savaric pleads for his old attachment, and
+even speaks with some contempt of a love too easily granted, shows but
+too plainly that the cure of his infatuation was anything but perfect. In
+this case also the decision of the question is referred to three ladies,
+but again there is no record of their verdict. Of another _tenso_ still
+more intimately connected with a real and most melancholy love-affair we
+shall have to speak further on.
+
+There was still another use to which the _tenso_ was occasionally put.
+When two troubadours owed each other a grudge, instead of fighting it
+out with the sword, they frequently challenged each other to a song of
+combat. Like most polemical poems in the _langue d’oc_ these personal
+_tensos_, for so they may conveniently be called, are full of the
+grossest slander. The wonder is that, with all this spite and rage, the
+poet always preserves sufficient equanimity to adhere to the strictest
+rules of the art, and even to reproduce the exact metre and rhyme chosen
+by his adversary as the medium for his abuse. Uc de St. Cyr, of whom we
+have just heard, appears amongst the chief representatives of this branch
+of literature, in a manner more creditable to his eloquence than to his
+personal character. He was the younger son of an impoverished family, and
+depended for his maintenance on the liberality of his protectors. His
+lasting friendship with Savaric de Mauleon has been already mentioned,
+but unfortunately, in other cases, relations of a similar kind seem to
+have ended in unkindness and open enmity. How far the responsibility may
+have lain with the poet, it is impossible to say, but the fact of his
+appearing twice as the declared antagonist of a former benefactor throws
+grave doubts on his gratitude. The first instance alluded to is a quarrel
+with the Viscount of Turenne, in whose service the poet seems to have
+been for some time.
+
+‘Viscount,’ he exclaims, ‘how can I endure the hardships you impose upon
+me? Night and day you make me ride from one place to another without
+rest or sleep. Truly, in the company of Martin d’Algai,[16] I could not
+be worse off; even my food appears scanty.’
+
+‘You know, Uc de St. Cyr,’ is the Viscount’s answer, ‘if you do not want
+to tell a lie, that I did not send for you from Quercy to show you my
+lands; on the contrary, I was much annoyed when I saw you coming. May God
+punish me if I do not wish, with all my heart, that you had gone to Spain
+instead!’
+
+In another _tenso_, of the same kind, Uc’s position is still more
+precarious from a moral point of view—at least if we believe the charge
+implied in his antagonist’s answer. From this it would appear that the
+poet was capable of taunting with poverty a man to whose bounty he owed
+his own wealth.
+
+‘Count,’ he says, ‘you need not be afraid or anxious on my account. I
+have not come to ask or demand anything from you; for I have all I want.
+But I perceive that money is a scarce article with you; therefore I have
+not the heart to ask you anything; on the contrary, it would be a great
+mercy if I made you a present.’
+
+‘Uc de St. Cyr,’ Count Rodez replies, ‘I am sorry for having dismissed
+wealthy you, who came to me poor, naked, and miserable. You have cost me
+more than two bowmen or horsemen; truly, if I had offered you a horse you
+would not have refused it.’
+
+In a second _tenso_ by the same poets, grievous bodily harm is threatened
+on one and boldly defied on the other side.
+
+A little more smoothly, although by no means amicably, do matters
+proceed between Rambaut de Vaqueiras and Count Albert di Malaspina, an
+unruly Italian nobleman. The cause of their quarrel is a certain lady
+of Tortona, who, after having flirted with the troubadour, jilted him
+for the count. The latter, adding insult to injury, taunts Rambaut with
+his loss in the opening stanza. The troubadour retorts with a charge of
+highway-robbery, which the nobleman frankly admits, explaining, however,
+that ‘many a time, I can assure you, I have taken goods from a wish to
+make presents, and not in order to enrich myself or heap up treasures.’
+In the further course of the poem, the nobleman ridicules the poverty
+of the poet and his ambition in having aspired to knighthood, to which
+neither his courage nor his position entitled him. The troubadour, in
+return, accuses Albert of every crime under the sun, including perjury
+and treachery in love and politics. As to cowardice he says: ‘If I am
+not exactly an Oliver in the use of arms, it appears to me that you
+are no Roland either.’ In this manner the quarrel continues for some
+time, without much apparent superiority on either side, a fact which
+redounds greatly to the credit of the Italian count. For Rambaut was an
+experienced poet and a renowned champion in the literary warfare of those
+days.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+THE SIRVENTES.
+
+
+The formal principle on which the division in the earlier chapters has
+been made must henceforth be abandoned entirely. The two great classes of
+poetry to which we now must turn, and which comprise by far the greater
+portion of Provençal literature, the _sirventes_ and the _canzo_, have
+no metrical scheme inherent in either of them as an essential part of
+their kind. The same infinite variety of rhyme and metre and stanza
+is found in the one as well as in the other. They can be separated,
+therefore, according to the subject-matter alone; and on this ground a
+division is easy enough, and satisfactory, at least as far as one of the
+two branches is concerned. The _canzo_, it may briefly be said, is a
+lyrical poem which treats of love, and a _sirventes_ one which does not.
+To the further definition of the latter somewhat negative term we must
+now devote our attention for a little while. A few general remarks on
+the character of the poetry of the troubadours, distinguishing it from
+all other mediæval schools, may aptly precede this, the most important
+section of the present work.
+
+Of the enormous importance of poetry in the literary, the social, the
+political, and the religious life of mediæval Provence, of the variety
+of functions which it assumed, and the energy and success with which it
+did justice to each of them, the modern reader can hardly form an idea. A
+passage with which the troubadour Raimon Vidal opens his learned treatise
+on metrical art, called ‘Razos de Trobar,’ will throw some light on the
+intense and wide-spread love of song characterising this outburst of
+long pent-up feeling. ‘All Christendom,’ he says, ‘Jews and Saracens,
+the emperor, kings, dukes, counts and viscounts, commanders, vassals,
+and other knights, citizens and peasants, tall and little, daily give
+their minds to singing and verse-making, by either singing themselves or
+listening to others. No place is so deserted, or out of the way, that, as
+long as men inhabit it, songs are not sung either by single persons or
+by many together; even the shepherds in the mountains know of no greater
+joy than song. All good and evil things in the world are made known by
+the troubadours, and no evil talk, that has once been put into rhyme and
+verse by a troubadour, fails to be repeated every day.’
+
+Let us now inquire into the nature of a poetry which exercised so
+potent a sway over all classes of society. The appearance of the first
+troubadour coincides very nearly with the earliest impetus of pious
+indignation caused by the sorrowful tales of pilgrims to the Holy
+Sepulchre. The result was a universal rising of Christian nations, a
+common effort of pious revenge on the Painim, an invasion finally of
+the eastern by the western world, such as history has rarely witnessed.
+Gibbon and Chateaubriand, Hume and Joseph de Maistre, may look on the
+crusades in very different ways. In one thing they cannot but agree,
+viz., that the religious impulse of which they were the tangible result
+tended to remould and imbue with a new principle of life the whole of
+western civilisation. The only mental product of this profound revolution
+of feeling which concerns us here, is the idealised conception of
+chivalry in immediate connection with the enthusiastic movement alluded
+to. This idea included those others of honour, of prowess, of candour,
+of loyalty, which, even in modern parlance, we are wont to comprehend
+in the word chivalrous. But the noblest duty of the mediæval knight was
+his service and devotion to the lady of his heart, a feeling akin to
+the religious veneration of that type of immaculate womanhood which the
+wisdom of the Roman Church had placed on a par almost with the Deity
+itself. These feelings, common as they are to the mediæval poetry of all
+nations, were expressed with more than ordinary fervour by the knightly
+singers of Southern France. At the same time they appear here with so
+many national and individual modifications, as to impart to the study of
+Provençal literature, beyond the historical and philological importance
+of its monuments, an additional human interest.
+
+Take, for instance, the idea of love as reflected in the poetry of the
+troubadours. It is true that many of their songs breathe the purest
+and most ardent spirit of romantic veneration; one chief division of
+Provençal poetry, the _canzo_, or song proper, is exclusively devoted
+to this loving worship. But the bold natural common sense of the French
+character always acted as a wholesome antidote to the tendency of purely
+spiritual sublimation. We have already observed the essentially realistic
+view which Count William took of the _grande passion_, and we shall hear
+before long that the weaknesses of their fair idols were a favourite butt
+of the satiric iconoclasm of more than one of the troubadours.
+
+This leaven of scepticism is observable even amongst the effusions of
+religious enthusiasm. I am not alluding to the active part taken by
+many of the troubadours in the struggle of Count Raimond of Toulouse,
+the protector of the Albigeois, against the ravaging hordes of Simon de
+Montfort, the champion of Papal supremacy. This part was rather of a
+national than of a religious kind;[17] for it must be remembered that
+the crusade against the Provençal heretics implied at the same time
+an onslaught of Northern centralisation on Southern independence, the
+success of which finally resulted in the abrupt and total decline of
+Provençal literature. What I was referring to is a curious and most
+charming poem by Marcabrun, in which that celebrated troubadour seems to
+oppose the excessive passion of the age for crusading expeditions. This
+was a somewhat ticklish subject, and apt to bring a peaceful poet into
+unpleasant collision with hierarchical powers. To cautious considerations
+of this kind we probably owe one of the sweetest conceptions of Provençal
+poetry; one of the rare instances, moreover, in which a description
+of beautiful scenery has been successfully attempted. For, as a rule,
+the troubadours show little _rapport_ with outward nature, and their
+occasional allusions to flowers and blue skies are generally of a
+conventional character.
+
+Marcabrun introduces us into the full splendour of southern spring; the
+trees are strewn with the young year’s blossoms, and resonant with the
+songs of birds. By the brook in the orchard we see a lonely maiden,
+the beautiful daughter of the châtelain. Little she heeds the bloom of
+the spring, or the joyous note of the songsters. Her tears mingle with
+the brook, and bitterly she complains to ‘Jesus, Lord of the world,
+for great grief has come to me through thee. The best men have gone to
+distant lands at thy behest, and with them my true love, bravest among
+the brave.’ The poet here steps in to interrupt the lady’s lament with
+gentle remonstrance. ‘Your tears,’ he suggests, ‘will injure your face
+and complexion; moreover He, who has adorned the trees with blossoms,
+may turn your grief into joy.’ But the lady turns a deaf ear to his
+comfortings. ‘Sir,’ she replies, ‘I willingly believe that God in the
+next world may vouchsafe me his grace; but in this I have lost my true
+love.’[18] Supposing the tendency of the poem to be such as I have
+surmised it to be, it must be owned that Marcabrun has carried out his
+purpose in the most ingenious manner. Pious souls might be referred
+to the religious commonplaces, introduced for safety sake, while more
+intelligent listeners could not fail to perceive the poet’s real meaning
+in the naïve pleadings of the desolate girl. An analogous mode of
+treatment of the identical subject occurs, by the way, in a poem by the
+excellent North-French trouvère Rutebœuf. He also describes a discussion
+between an assailant and a staunch defender of the crusades. To keep
+up appearances, the wicked sceptic had ultimately to confess himself
+convinced, but the reader easily perceives that the greater force of
+argument is, and is meant to be, with the vanquished.
+
+From various statements in the above remarks, the reader will have seen
+that the popular idea of a troubadour as a singer of love, and of nothing
+but love, is as incorrect and one-sided as popular ideas frequently are.
+There is, indeed, no important topic of political, social, and literary
+history of the time, which does not find an echo in the poetry of these
+gay singers. The form of art in which these and kindred questions are
+treated is collectively called the _sirventes_,[19] and the study of
+this branch of Provençal literature is of engrossing interest, both by
+the variety of contemporary topics touched upon, and by the display of
+brilliant wit and trenchant personal satire, with which many of these
+songs abound; the latter feature being in strong contrast with the
+charming but somewhat monotonous sweetness of the _canzo_, or love-song.
+The _sirventes_ of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries has been compared
+with the newspaper press of the nineteenth; and it may indeed seem
+doubtful to which of these two organs of public opinion the greater
+influence on the contemporary mind ought to be attributed, leaving, of
+course, the international importance of modern journalism out of the
+question. The rapid circulation of the censuring _sirventes_ amongst
+those concerned was amply provided for by vagrant joglars, whose lively
+recitations gave additional zest to satirical points; and the boldness
+and fierce castigation of public or private enemies indulged in by the
+troubadours throw all similar attempts of modern writers into the shade.
+Cobbett and the early Quarterly Reviewers would appear mild in such
+juxtaposition. The eagerness with which princes and great nobles tried
+to ward off, or return with equal force, the attacks of poets infinitely
+their inferiors in rank and power, proves the dangerous nature of the
+weapon.
+
+According to its subject-matter the _sirventes_ may be divided into four
+important groups: the personal, the social-and-political, the moral, and
+the religious _sirventes_; the last-named term being applicable chiefly
+to the poems relating to the Albigeois crusade. Theological and more
+especially dogmatic subjects gave little concern to the troubadours,
+although they had a keen eye for the weaknesses of the clergy both
+secular and monastic. All these classes of polemic literature will be
+treated at length in the course of this work. To complete the outline of
+the subject it is necessary only to refer briefly to two minor branches
+of the _sirventes_. They are the _planh_ or complaint, and the crusader’s
+song, the former belonging more especially to the personal, the latter to
+the religious, class of poems.
+
+The _planh_ is a poem written on the death of a mistress, a friend, or
+a protector. It no doubt was amongst the duties of courtly poets to
+deplore the loss of the latter in suitable terms, and by far the greater
+number of complaints remaining to us belong to the species of official
+poetry. But in spite of this there is the true ring of sorrow in most
+of these songs, a fact which shows the frequent existence of genuinely
+cordial relations between the poets and their noble patrons. ‘Like one,’
+says Folquet of Marseilles, ‘who is so sad that he has lost the sense of
+sorrow, I feel no pain or sadness; all is buried in forgetfulness. For
+my loss is so overpowering that my heart cannot conceive it, nor can any
+man understand its greatness.’ The object of this pathetic and no doubt
+sincere sorrow is not, as might be expected, a beloved friend of equal
+station or a mistress, but Barral, the mighty viscount of Marseilles, at
+whose court Folquet had been staying for a long time, and to whose wife,
+Adalasia, he was passionately attached.
+
+Quite as genuine and historically more important is the song in which
+Gaucelm Faidit deplores the premature death of England’s heroic King
+Richard. ‘It is hard on me,’ he says, ‘that the greatest loss and the
+greatest pain I ever had, and which I shall deplore for aye and ever,
+that this loss I must announce and proclaim in a song. The great and
+glorious Richard, the king of the English, is dead. Ah, God! what grief,
+what a loss! How strange the word sounds, and how sad it is to hear! He
+must have an obdurate heart who can bear it.’ The poet then proceeds to
+sing the praises of his lost protector in enthusiastic terms. ‘The king
+is dead—not for a thousand years has there been a man so brave, so kind,
+so bold, so liberal. For Alexander, the king who conquered Darius, did
+not, I believe, show such largess, nor are Charles and Arthur equal to
+his worth!’ All this may seem exaggerated and hyperbolical on the ground
+of historic criticism and moral principle; but Gaucelm Faidit did not see
+in Richard the rebellious son of former, and the tyrannic ruler of later
+days. To him he was the centre of gaiety and splendour, the fount of
+wealth and comfort, and, there is little doubt, a beloved friend withal.
+
+Of another Complaint devoted by Bertran de Born to the praise of
+Richard’s ill-fated brother Henry we shall hear on a later occasion. It
+marks the climax of power and beauty reached by this section of poetic
+art.
+
+Of the close connection between the poetry of the troubadours and the
+impulse which sent thousands of knights and varlets of all nations to the
+distant East, general mention has already been made. The more immediate
+result of this affinity of spirit is the song of the crusade, a poem that
+is designed to inspire men with valour and sacred ambition in the service
+of the Lord. It is a characteristic fact that the first troubadour of
+whom we have historic knowledge has left us a remarkable song of this
+order.
+
+Guillem of Poitiers, the reader will remember, led anything but an
+exemplary life. But towards the end of it he repented, and resolved to
+atone for his evil ways by a pilgrimage to the Holy Land at the head of
+a large army. So important an event in his life and thought the poet
+could not let pass in silence. He wrote a song in commemoration of it,
+which is a document of deepest interest both as regards its psychological
+and its historic import. It betrays a heart loth to leave the world’s
+joy and yet urged on to a holy purpose by the sense of a deep necessity
+of regeneration. ‘I go into exile,’ he says, ‘and leave behind me my
+son surrounded by warfare and fear and danger; for his neighbours are
+malevolent men.’ He conjures his cousin and his overlord to take care
+of the unprotected boy, who without such help would be lost. He next
+bids a sad adieu to knightly splendour and to the joys of love, and in
+token of sincere repentance he humbly asks the forgiveness of all whom
+he may have offended. The tone of the song is exceedingly sad, and full
+of a latent presentiment of death. On the other hand we miss the holy
+enthusiasm of the early crusaders. There is no appeal to the faithful, no
+proud determination to liberate the Redeemer’s tomb by deeds of valour,
+such as abound in similar poems by other troubadours. It has indeed been
+doubted whether the song referred to the crusade at all, and not rather
+to some shorter pilgrimage or temporary retirement from the world. But
+for a minor event of that kind the fear of danger for his son and country
+appears too grave, and it seems on the other hand but natural that a
+man of Guillem’s temperament and habits should speak of a separation
+from the haunts of his pleasure and the scenes of his glory as a dreary
+banishment. In his feeling this grief and disappointment would naturally
+be uppermost, but all the more worthy of emulation must have been the
+example of a resolve which in spite of all this remained unshaken. From
+this point of view Count Guillem’s poem holds a prominent place amongst
+the songs of the crusade.
+
+In most cases, however, these songs take the form of an appeal or
+admonition addressed to the people, and, more frequently still, to
+individual princes and nobles. These are exhorted to abandon their
+worldly interests and discords, and join hands in the sacred endeavour.
+The allusions to persons and contemporary events incidentally introduced
+make some of these poems exceedingly valuable material for the historian.
+Others again are interesting owing to the genuine elevation of the heart
+that speaks from every line and inspires the work with true poetic
+passion. Three songs by Pons de Capduelh, a noble poet of Puy Sainte
+Marie, deserve mention. They all refer to the crusade against Saladin,
+and must have been written about the year 1188. As regards elevation
+of language they are unsurpassed in Provençal literature. The second
+especially is a master-piece of simple and yet impressive diction.
+Unfortunately its length forbids the quotation of the original together
+with an English version. The latter alone, on the other hand, would
+convey too imperfect an idea of the tone and diction of the poem. As a
+middle course I have subjoined a rendering which occurs in the French
+edition of Dietz’s ‘Poesie der Troubadours.’
+
+‘Qu’il soit désormais notre guide et notre protecteur, celui qui
+guida les trois rois à Bethléem. Sa miséricorde nous indique une voie
+par laquelle les plus grands pécheurs, qui la suivent avec zèle et
+franchise, arriveront à leur salut. Insensé, insensé l’homme qui, par un
+vil attachement à ses terres et à ses richesses, négligera de prendre
+la croix, puisque par sa faute et par sa lâcheté il perd à la fois son
+honneur et son Dieu.
+
+‘Voyez quelle est la démence de celui qui ne s’arme point. Jésus, le
+Dieu de vérité, a dit à ses apôtres qu’il fallait le suivre, et que pour
+le suivre on devait renoncer à tous ses biens, à toutes ses affections
+terrestres; le moment est venu d’accomplir son saint commandement.
+Mourir outre mer pour son nom sacré est préférable à vivre en ces lieux
+avec gloire; oui, la vie est ici pire que la mort. Qu’est-ce qu’une vie
+honteuse? Mais mourir en affrontant ces glorieux dangers, c’est triompher
+de la mort même et s’assurer une éternelle félicité.
+
+‘Humiliez-vous avec ardeur devant la croix, et par ses mérites vous
+obtiendrez le pardon de vos péchés; c’est par la croix que notre Seigneur
+a racheté vos fautes et vos crimes—lorsque sa sainte pitié fit grâce au
+bon larron, lorsque sa justice s’appesantit sur le méchant, et qu’il
+accueillit même le repentir de Longin. Par la croix il sauva ceux qui
+étaient dans la voie de la perdition; enfin il souffrit la mort et ne la
+souffrit que pour notre salut. Malheureux donc quiconque ne s’acquitte
+pas envers la générosité d’un Dieu.
+
+‘A quoi servent les conquêtes de l’ambition? En vain vous soumettrez
+tous les royaumes qui sont de ce côté de la mer, si vous êtes infidèles
+et ingrats à votre Dieu. Alexandre avait soumis toute la terre.
+Qu’emporta-t-il en mourant? Le seul linceul mortuaire. Oh! quelle folie
+de voir le bien et de prendre le mal, et de renoncer pour des objets
+vains et périssables à un bonheur qui ne peut manquer ni jour ni nuit!
+Tel est l’effet de la convoitise humaine; elle aveugle les mortels, elle
+les égare, et ils ne reconnaissent pas leurs erreurs.
+
+‘Qu’il ne se flatte pas d’être compté parmi les preux, tout baron qui
+n’arborera pas la croix et qui ne marchera pas aussitôt à la délivrance
+du saint tombeau! Aujourd’hui les armes, les combats, l’honneur, la
+chevalerie, tout ce que le monde a de beau et de séduisant, nous peuvent
+procurer la gloire et le bonheur du céleste séjour. Ah! que désireraient
+de plus les rois et les comtes, si, par leurs hauts faits, ils pouvaient
+se racheter des flammes dévorantes où les réprouvés seront éternellement
+tourmentés?
+
+‘Sans doute il est excusable celui que la vieillesse et les infirmités
+retiennent sur nos bords; mais alors il doit prodiguer ses richesses
+à ceux qui partent; c’est bien fait d’envoyer quand on ne peut aller,
+pourvu que l’on ne demeure pas par lâcheté ou indifférence. Que
+répondront au jour du jugement ceux qui seront restés ici malgré leur
+devoir, quand Dieu leur dira: “Faux et lâches chrétiens, c’est pour vous
+que je fus cruellement battu de verges; c’est pour vous que je souffris
+la mort”? Ah! le plus juste alors tressaillira lui-même d’épouvante.’
+
+We must now for a moment return to the _sirventes_ generally, and
+note, for the sake of completeness, one or two more of its separate
+branches. In some of the biographies we meet with the use of a curious
+term, _sirventes-joglaresc_, which at first sight would lead one to
+expect a poem more especially designed for recitation by a joglar.
+But such a distinction cannot be substantiated by facts. We know that
+not only all _sirventeses_, but all _canzos_ as well, were to a great
+extent dependent for their promulgation on the professional singers and
+reciters. Moreover, the manuscripts seem to indicate quite a different
+meaning. They generally add by way of explanation that the _sirventes_ so
+denominated dealt out both praise and vituperation, the former of course
+to the worthy, the latter to the vicious. But why and when such a meaning
+came to be connected with such a term is one of the unsolved riddles of
+literature.
+
+Little more than a whim is the _canzo-sirventes_, a mixture of the
+love-song and the non-love-song, generally beginning with a satirical
+discussion of personal or public affairs and winding up with the praise
+of a lady. No transition is made, the abruptness of the change being
+evidently considered an additional charm. No wonder that Peire Vidal, one
+of the most eccentric troubadours, favoured the mongrel type. Of it and
+of him, more anon.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+THE CANZO.
+
+
+With the _canzo_ we have at last reached the climax and innermost essence
+of the poetry of the troubadours. I have in the above called the idea
+of the troubadour as exclusively a singer of love a one-sided one. So
+indeed it is, but at the same time the lingering of this feature and this
+feature alone in the memory of ages distinctly proves its prevailing
+importance in the picture which the popular mind conceived and treasured
+up. And the _vox populi_ in literature, as in other matters, is generally
+found to be after all the voice of good sense and unsophisticated truth.
+
+All true poetry must be the offspring of its time; it must show as in a
+mirror the best contemporary thoughts and ideas. Now there is no doubt
+that the purest and most poetic motive of early mediæval life was the
+_cultus_ of the new-found ideal of womanhood. To this worship, therefore,
+the troubadour devoted his noblest endeavour, and the result is a
+literature in some respects unique in the history of all nations.
+
+On first becoming acquainted with the amatory verses of Provençal
+poets, one is apt to give way to a feeling of disappointment. Everything
+is different from what one’s vague idea of the subject had led him to
+expect. There is here no wild storm of passion, no untrammelled effusion
+of sentiment On the contrary, the stream of emotion, and sometimes not
+a very powerful stream, seems to run in a regular channel—a channel, to
+continue the simile, with the marble sides and facings of a rigid form,
+and the narrowness of which admits of little individual bubbling. The
+last-mentioned feature, viz., the want of individual peculiarities, is
+especially noticeable in the poets of the _langue d’oc_. There are of
+course differences, as there are, and must be, in all other schools and
+coteries of literary workers. Bernart de Ventadorn is an infinitely more
+impassioned and more loveable singer than the affected Rambaut of Orange;
+and the Monk of Montaudon, when he deigns to write a love-song, cannot
+wholly disguise his sardonic vein, nor does he ever attain to the lyrical
+sweetness of Guillem de Cabestanh. But such distinctions do not meet
+the eye of the casual observer with the same force as is the case with
+the poets of other nationalities. One of the reasons is the perfection
+of formal development which universally prevails. In modern France or
+England it is easy to know one poet from another, and attribute to each
+his place in the republic of song by the quality of his verse _quâ_
+verse. There are, in short, those who can and those who cannot write
+poetry. But with the troubadours it was otherwise: they all knew their
+business equally well; there were no bunglers amongst them.
+
+We here once again touch upon that pride and bane of Provençal
+poetry—form. That much freshness of expression, much genuine fervour
+of inspiration, has been sacrificed to this moloch, is not a matter of
+doubt. The sameness of type observable in a whole galaxy of gifted and no
+doubt variously gifted poets cannot be explained from any other cause.
+For not only did the observance of certain external niceties absorb
+a great part of the poet’s energy, but the habit of such observance
+gradually encroached even on his cast of thought. Certain feelings and
+ideas gradually grew into established formulas. The absence of a true
+sympathy with nature in the works of the troubadours is a case in point.
+Originally such a feeling must have existed; the very common occurrence
+at the beginning of a love-song of some remarks on the beauties of
+spring, the song of birds, and the like, tends to prove it. But
+unfortunately the similarity of these preludes and the narrow range of
+objects to which they refer are a proof equally strong of the detrimental
+force of the ‘set speech’ above alluded to. For one Gaucelm Faidit,
+who feels genuine delight in the ‘_rossinholet salvatge_,’ the ‘wild
+nightingale,’ there are twenty troubadours who speak of the sweet-toned
+songster with perfect indifference and merely as a matter of custom. Even
+the main and moving subject of the _canzo_, the lady, does not always
+escape the same fate. She also frequently becomes a barren symbol to be
+described according to a certain code of beauty and to be addressed in
+certain well-turned phrases.
+
+Another striking defect in Provençal poetry may to a great extent be
+derived from the same source. This is the want of continuity in most
+of the _canzos_. Few of these show a necessary organic growth. In most
+cases stanzas might be added or taken away without detracting from or
+increasing the general merit of the poem. The reason is the wonderful
+elaborateness and symmetry of the single stanzas, which make them appear
+in the light of independent and compact units, the stringing together
+of which may delight the hearer for a time, but can never produce the
+impression of an organic whole. I could cite modern instances in which
+the same cause has had exactly the same effect.
+
+But such deficiencies, apparent as they are in a greater or less
+degree in every troubadour, ought not to blind us to the high merits
+of Provençal poetry, its refinement, its tenderness of feeling, its
+unrivalled perfection of form. Our admiration of these qualities
+increases when we think of the soil in which this remarkable growth took
+place. The troubadours were the first harbingers of reviving literary
+culture after the storms which wrecked the Western Empire. They had no
+models to fall back upon; for the poets of antiquity were more or less
+above their ken, and the simple creations of the popular mind beneath
+their attention. They had even to create their language from a mixture
+of provincial _patois_. If ever poetry has sprung from the spontaneous
+impulse of man, it is in this instance. And, what is more, it was at a
+time when everywhere else intellectual darkness and barrenness covered
+the land. At the time when Guillem of Poitiers wrote his masterpieces
+of lyrical refinement, the amalgamation of the native with the foreign
+idiom had only just begun in England; in Northern France the stage of the
+primitive epic was hardly reached, and a century was to pass before the
+seed sown by the troubadours was to bring forth fruit in Germany; Italy
+yielding to the same influence at a still later period. But the Provençal
+love-song had reached its autumn before these subsequent developments
+entered into existence. For a long time it stood alone, an exotic plant
+of unknown origin, but of rich and peculiar growth, in the wilderness of
+the early middle ages.
+
+Of the metrical structure of the love-song I shall say little in this
+place. The varieties and niceties of its rhymes and stanzas the reader
+will find fully discussed in the technical chapters. It may be mentioned
+here that some difference seems to have existed between two kinds of
+the love-song, the _vers_ and the _canzo_; but what the exact nature of
+the difference was it is impossible to say. The troubadours themselves
+had not a very clear notion of it. The _Leys d’amors_ is even more than
+usually rambling and vague in its definition, and all the characteristics
+it mentions of the _vers_ belong in equal measure to the _canzo_. Aimeric
+de Pegulhan, one of the later troubadours, candidly confesses that
+to him the distinction between the terms has lost its significance.
+‘Frequently,’ he says, ‘I am asked at court why I do not write a _vers_.
+Therefore I leave it to those who care, to decide whether this song be a
+_vers_ or a _canzo_; and to those who inquire I answer that I do not find
+any difference between _vers_ and _canzo_ beyond the name.’ It further
+appears from his song, that, according to rule or prejudice, the _canzo_
+generally had feminine rhymes and short lively musical accompaniments,
+while the more primitive _vers_ affected monosyllabic endings and
+long-drawn melodies. But he justly infers that this rule is not observed
+by the troubadours to any prevailing extent, and this fact deprives
+the theoretical subtleties of ancient and modern grammarians of their
+substantial basis.
+
+And here my remarks on the _canzo_ and on the general aspects of
+Provençal literature must end. Of the incompleteness of the sketch in
+more than one respect I am fully conscious. But I hope that the reader
+may be able to form some adequate view of the intellectual and moral
+conditions of which the poetry of the troubadours is the embodiment. To
+blur this outline with further detail would be contrary to the purpose
+of this book, which, I repeat it, is not a scientific treatise aiming at
+exhaustiveness, but rather a first attempt to attract the English reader
+towards a subject which deserves so much and has had so little of his
+attention. The safest, perhaps the only, method of gaining this end is
+the biographical. In the biographies of some of the principal troubadours
+I therefore have embodied what further information of the life and work
+of these poets I desired to give on the present occasion. Guillem de
+Cabestanh will be the representative of the love-song proper. Peire Vidal
+combines the satiric and the lyrical gifts. Bertran de Born represents
+the warlike or political _sirventes_; the Monk of Montaudon is the
+master of personal and literary satire, while Peire Cardinal’s pessimism
+and severe morality loom in cloudy distance above the gay throng. The
+crusade against the Albigeois heretics, with its baneful consequences for
+Provençal literature, is treated in continuous chapters, and a separate
+niche of fame is gallantly assigned to the lady troubadours. Other
+questions connected with the subject are incidentally treated.
+
+
+
+
+_PART II._
+
+BIOGRAPHICAL
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+GUILLEM DE CABESTANH.
+
+
+Petrarch, in the fourth chapter of his ‘Trionfo d’Amore,’ in speaking of
+the love-poets of various nations, mentions the name of ‘William, who, by
+his song, shortened the flower of his days.’
+
+ Quel Guglielmo,
+ Che per cantar ha’l fior dei suoi dì scemo!
+
+This William is Guillem de Cabestanh the troubadour, and it is his story
+that I propose to tell the reader, following as closely as possible
+the quaint old biography contained in a Provençal manuscript of the
+Laurentian Library in Florence.
+
+‘Sir Raimon of Rossilho,’ the old manuscript begins, ‘was a mighty baron,
+as you are well aware, and had for his wife the Lady Margarida, the
+most beautiful lady, as you know, of that time, and the most prized for
+all that is praiseworthy, and noble, and courteous. It so happened that
+Guillem de Cabestanh, the son of a poor knight of Castle Cabestanh, came
+to the court of Sir Raimon de Rossilho, offering to remain with him as
+his servant (_vaslez de sa cort_). Sir Raimon, who found him to be of
+fair and good countenance, bade him welcome, and Guillem remained with
+him, and so gentle was his demeanour, that young and old loved him well.
+And so much did he advance in favour that Sir Raimon wished him to be
+page to Lady Margarida his wife; and so it was done.
+
+‘But as it frequently befalls with love, it now befell that Love was
+bent on besieging the Lady Margarida with his siege, and he kindled her
+thoughts with fire. So much was she pleased with Guillem’s demeanour,
+and his speech, and his countenance, that one day she could not withhold
+herself from saying, “Tell me, Guillem, if a lady were to show you
+semblance of love, would you dare to love her?” Guillem, who understood
+her meaning, answered frankly, “Certainly, lady, if I knew that the
+semblance were true.” “By St. John,” replied the lady, “a good and noble
+answer; but now I will test thee, if thou canst know and distinguish
+truth from falsehood.” When Guillem heard these words, he replied, “May
+it be as it pleases you.”’
+
+The biographer goes on to describe how the thoughts thus enjoined upon
+Guillem by the lady rouse his soul from amorous reflection to desire;
+‘and henceforth he became a servant to Love, and began to invent stanzas
+graceful and gay, and tunes and canzos, and his songs found favour with
+all, but most with her for whom he sang.’ Thus, once again, the flame of
+poetry was awakened by the fire of passion. ‘But Love,’ the manuscript
+continues, ‘who rewards the labours of his servants when it pleases him,
+now thought of showing himself grateful. He assails the thoughts of the
+lady with love and desire; night and day she cannot leave off thinking of
+the poet’s valour and beauty.’
+
+‘One day the lady took Guillem aside, and spoke to him this wise:
+“Guillem, tell me, hast thou yet found out of my semblance if it is true
+or false?”[20] Guillem answered, “Lady, so God help me, from the hour I
+entered your service, no thought has entered my mind but that you are the
+best lady ever born, and the most truthful in word and appearance; this I
+believe, and shall believe all my life.”’
+
+Thus the fateful knot of passion is tied between these two; and fate is
+rapid in its approach. ‘For soon,’ the story continues, ‘the tell-tales,
+whom God hates, began to talk of their love, and to guess by Guillem’s
+songs that he was of one mind with Lady Margarida. These went on talking
+high and low, till at last it came to the ear of Sir Raimon. He was ill
+pleased and hot with rage through having lost the friend he loved so
+well, and more because of the shame of his spouse.’
+
+We expect to see the great baron crushing his faithless retainer in the
+first storm of indignation. But such is not his character. He is resolved
+to smite, but not till the guilty are convicted by their own words. With
+great discretion he refrains from questioning his wife, or from taking
+any further steps till he has seen Guillem without witnesses. One day
+when the poet is gone to hunt with the sparrow-hawk, Raimon follows him,
+secretly armed, but unaccompanied. He meets him in a lonely place, and
+the scene which passes between them is exceedingly characteristic of the
+men and of the time in which they lived. Guillem, on seeing the baron
+approach, at once recognises the danger of his situation. But he is too
+much of a courtier to show any embarrassment.
+
+At first their conversation runs on indifferent matters, courteous
+inquiries and answers as to Guillem’s sport and the like. But presently
+Raimon’s self-control begins to desert him. ‘Let us leave off this talk
+now,’ he begins abruptly, ‘and answer me truthfully, by the faith you owe
+me, all that I am going to ask you.’
+
+After some natural hesitation, Guillem submits to this comprehensive
+demand.
+
+‘Tell me, then,’ asks Raimon, solemnly, ‘as you love God and your faith,
+have you a lady for whom you sing, and to whom you are bound in love?’
+
+‘And how could I sing,’ William answers, ‘if Love did not bind me? Know,
+noble sir, that he has me wholly in his power.’
+
+Raimon answered, ‘I willingly believe that without love you could not
+sing so well; but now I must know who is your lady?’
+
+But to this Guillem demurs. Hitherto he has answered the questions of
+his master, as in duty bound; but here a higher duty intervenes, that
+of discretion in the service of love. In his excuse he quotes some lines
+of his brother poet Bernard de Ventadorn, to the effect that it is ‘a
+foolish and childish thing to reveal your love to a friend who can be of
+no service to you.’
+
+Raimon accepts the plea, but he meets the move with one of equal skill.
+
+‘Quite true,’ he says; ‘but I pledge my word that I will be of service to
+you, as far as lies in my power.’
+
+Guillem, thus brought to bay, sees only one way to save himself from
+immediate destruction.
+
+‘Know then,’ he exclaims, ‘that I love the sister of the Lady Margarida
+your wife, and I believe that she returns my passion; now you know all,
+and I pray you to assist me, or at least not to injure me.’
+
+To this Raimon assents very readily, and to prove his zealous friendship,
+he proposes an immediate visit to the lady herself, whose husband’s
+castle (for she also, as a matter of course, is married) happens to be
+in the immediate neighbourhood. The feelings of Guillem, as the two ride
+along, may be imagined.
+
+Before we follow them to the castle, let us for a moment look back on
+the scene we have just witnessed. Time: the latter half of the twelfth
+century; place: a lonely wood in the South of France; actors: two men
+moved against each other by jealousy, fear, revenge, the consciousness of
+wrong inflicted and received—the strongest emotions, in short, of which
+the human heart is capable. Yet note the calmness and refined courtesy
+of their manner, the neatness of repartee in a conversation where life
+and honour are at stake. Guillem, it must be remembered, is at the mercy
+of his antagonist. Instead of meeting him man to man, Raimon might have
+thrown his vassal into a dungeon, or wrung his secret from him on the
+rack. No one would have dared to interfere with the mighty baron, or to
+breathe suspicion on his wife’s honour. I fear, indeed, that an ordinary
+retainer would not have met with such considerate treatment at Raimon’s
+hands. But Guillem was a poet of reputation, who could not be dealt with
+in a summary manner. Hence the terms of equality which Raimon grants him
+as a matter of course; hence even the offer of assistance in his love
+affairs. For troubadours were privileged persons. Every one knew that
+the ladies worshipped by them, under various _senhals_, or pseudonyms,
+were frequently the wives of the greatest nobles of the land. Raimon
+himself is quite willing to acknowledge this poetic licence, as long
+as his own wife is not concerned. It, at any rate, speaks well for the
+genuine quality of the Provençal love-song, to see how both Guillem and
+his patron treat its origin from anything but real passion as a total
+impossibility. But whatever the reader may think of the morality of the
+principles alluded to, he must admit that they imply a refinement of
+manner and sentiment, somewhat at variance with the popular notion of the
+semi-barbaric state of early mediæval culture. But still stranger events
+are in store for us.
+
+On their arrival at Castle Liet, Raimon and the poet are hospitably
+received by the noble Lord Robert de Tarascon and his wife, the Lady
+Agnes, sister of Lady Margarida. Raimon, whose friendly offers to Guillem
+the reader no doubt fully appreciates, takes an early opportunity of
+cross-questioning his sister-in-law on the delicate subject of her
+lover, without, however, mentioning a name. But the lady is equal to the
+occasion. She has seen by Guillem’s expression, that some mischief must
+be brewing, and, knowing of her sister’s attachment, she at once sides
+against the jealous husband. She admits having a lover, and, when asked
+as to his identity, names Guillem without a moment of hesitation, and
+much to the relief of Raimon. Her husband, when told of the intrigue,
+fully approves the lady’s conduct, and both combine, in various ways,
+to further convince Raimon of a guilty intimacy between Guillem and the
+lady of Tarascon. So well do they succeed, that on his return home Raimon
+goes at once to tell his wife of his discovery; much to the dismay of
+that lady, as the reader need not be told. Guillem is summoned before his
+indignant mistress, and denies his guilt; his innocence being confirmed
+by the statement of the lady of Tarascon. Margarida is satisfied, but
+nevertheless bids Guillem declare in a song that to none but her is his
+love devoted. In answer to this summons Guillem writes the celebrated
+canzo, ‘Li dous cossire qu’em don’ amors soven’ (The sweet longing that
+love often gives to me); one of the most beautiful and most impassioned
+lyrics ever penned, and, alas! his last.[21] For Raimon, when he hears
+the song, at once fathoms its meaning. His fury now is boundless, but
+once more he curbs it, to poison the sting of his revenge. He again meets
+Guillem in a lonely place, slays him, severs the head from the body,
+tears out the heart, and with these dreadful trophies secretly returns to
+the castle. The heart he has roasted,[22] and at dinner asks his wife to
+partake of it. After she has eaten he discloses the terrible secret and
+simultaneously produces the gory head of her lover, asking her how she
+liked the flavour of the meat. The lady’s answer is noble and of tragic
+simplicity. ‘It was so good and savoury,’ she says, ‘that never other
+meat or drink shall take from my mouth the sweetness which the heart of
+Guillem has left there.’ The exasperated husband then rushes at her with
+his drawn sword, and she, flying from him, throws herself from a balcony,
+and dies.
+
+Thus the marriage law is vindicated, and M. Alexandre Dumas’ sentence of
+_tue-la_ carried out in a manner with which even that severe moralist
+could not but be satisfied. But Guillem’s contemporaries had not yet
+attained to this pitch of virtue. The news of the deed spread rapidly,
+and was received everywhere with grief and indignation; ‘and all the
+friends of Guillem and the lady, and all the courteous knights of the
+neighbourhood, and all those who were lovers, united to make war against
+Raimon.’ King Alfonso, of Aragon, himself invaded Raimon’s dominions,
+took from him his castles and lands, and kept him prisoner till death.
+All his possessions were divided amongst the relations of Guillem and of
+the lady—a somewhat unusual exercise of feudal jurisdiction, it would
+seem. The same king had the two lovers buried in one tomb, and erected
+a monument over them, just outside the door of the Church of Perpignan.
+‘And there was a time,’ the biographer adds, ‘when all the knights
+of Rossilho, and of Serdonha, of Confolen, Riuples, Peiralaide, and
+Narbones, kept the day of their death every year; and all the fond lovers
+and all the fond lady-loves prayed for their souls.’
+
+This is the story as rendered in the manuscript of the Laurentiana; and
+a beautiful story it is, told with exquisite skill, and with an artistic
+grouping of the psychological and pathetic elements for which many modern
+novelists might envy the obscure Provençal scribe. Boccaccio’s treatment
+of the same incidents, with changed names, in the thirty-ninth _novella_
+of the ‘Decameron,’ is greatly inferior to the present version. But this
+very finish of detail excites suspicions as to the historic truth of
+the extraordinary events so plausibly narrated. Further research into
+the matter confirms this suspicion. I have traced no less than seven
+different versions of Guillem’s life in the Provençal language preserved
+amongst the MS. collections of the libraries of Rome, Florence, and
+Paris. All these purport to be authentic biographies of the poet, and all
+agree in the main incidents of the story, differing, however, in details,
+and even in the names of the localities and persons concerned. The lady,
+for instance, is in some versions called Sermonda or Sorismonda, instead
+of Margarida. Other discrepancies and arbitrary additions tend to show
+that invention has been busy to embellish the tragic fate of a celebrated
+poet; and it has not been an easy task to divest the kernel of historic
+truth from later fictitious accumulations. I cannot enter here into
+tedious details, and must ask the reader to accept in good faith the
+results of what I may, without presumption, call a careful and patient
+investigation.
+
+The historic identity of Guillem de Cabestanh, a celebrated poet of the
+fourteenth century, is sufficiently proved, and there is no intrinsic
+or external reason to doubt that he was enamoured of a married lady,
+and killed by her jealous husband. It is also by no means unlikely that
+the discovery was brought about by an unguarded expression in one of
+the poet’s songs, although this circumstance is not mentioned in the
+oldest and simplest version. The chronologically second version, on
+the contrary, lays great stress on this interesting fact, naming the
+fatal song—none other than the beautiful and popular canzo, ‘Li dous
+cossire,’ already referred to. Here, then, we discover the clue to the
+numerous romantic additions of the later versions, which could be made
+with the greater impunity, as the real circumstances of the story
+began to fade from the memory of men. For most of these additions are
+evidently invented with a view to connecting this particular song with
+the tragic fate of the poet—an idea by no means wanting in poetic beauty,
+although not borne out by the dry facts of history. The ingenious way in
+which this connection is attempted is particularly shown in one of the
+manuscripts where the actual passage of the song from which Raimon is
+said to have derived his knowledge is quoted. The words run:
+
+ Tot qan faz per temensa
+ Devez en bona fei,
+ Prendre neis qan nous vei.
+
+In English, ‘All I am compelled to do by fear, you must accept in good
+faith, even if I do not see you.’ At first sight the suggestion seems
+plausible. The song, as we know, was written to account for Guillem’s
+apparent faithlessness, and to the jealous suspicion of the husband the
+allusion might seem plain enough. But it must be borne in mind that
+Raimon was not supposed to know to whom Guillem’s songs were addressed.
+After he had once found out that the poet spoke of his wife and to
+his wife in such a manner as is done in the _canzo_ in question, the
+further discovery of any particularly suggestive passage was quite
+unnecessary. The idea of connecting a song treating of the ordinary
+incidents of a love-affair with the death of the poet is evidently an
+after-thought, although by no means an inappropriate one. The author of
+the version followed by me in the above shows the highest degree of
+inventive boldness by adding entirely new incidents (_e.g._, the visit to
+Castle Liet), and rendering _verbatim_ long conversations, of which no
+cognisance could possibly have been obtained.
+
+Regarding the most striking incident, that of the lover’s heart being
+eaten by the lady, it is true that all the versions contain it, but other
+circumstances tend to throw grave doubts on its historic reality. For
+the same fact is told with some modifications of the Châtelain de Coucy,
+a celebrated poet of Northern France, no less historical than Guillem
+himself, and nearly his contemporary. The independent recurrence in the
+course of a few years of the same extraordinary fact is intrinsically
+much more unlikely than the supposition that the story of the eaten heart
+was, in some form or other, popular at the time, and therefore connected
+with the life of one of their celebrated poets by both northern and
+southern Frenchmen. Students of the ‘History of Fiction’ are aware that
+the local and individual application of a popular story to a popular hero
+is a most common process, and readers of Dunlop’s excellent work of that
+name may remember that the incident of the eaten heart is by no means
+confined to the age or country of Guillem de Cabestanh. I should indeed
+not feel surprised if one of our comparative mythologists were to prove
+that the vulture gnawing the head or liver of the fettered Prometheus is
+at the bottom of it all.
+
+But whatever may be the historical value of the story related in the
+above, it throws a striking and abundant light on the manners and
+feelings of mediæval Provence. Here we see the idea of the unlimited
+power of love carried to its extreme consequences. Margarida, a
+noble lady, adorned, as is expressly stated, with all virtues and
+accomplishments, does not hesitate at inviting the courtship of her
+inferior in rank in the most unmistakable manner. But the narrator, and
+evidently his public with him, think that everything is sufficiently
+accounted for by an allusion to the unconquerable impulse of love.
+
+And in the service of this love all means of defence, fair or foul, are
+thought permissible. Guillem betrays his kind master and benefactor, and
+afterwards, in order to save himself, calmly exposes the honour of a
+third person by an audacious falsehood. Raimon himself is quite willing
+to tolerate, or even to further, the poet’s intrigue with his wife’s
+sister; and the manner in which the lord and lady of Tarascon pay him
+back in his own coin displays the equally loose principles of those
+distinguished persons. The immediate discovery of the whole state of
+affairs on the part of the lady, moreover, betrays an acuteness of vision
+explainable only from personal experience of similar predicaments. When
+at last the long-abused husband discovers the intrigue, and takes cruel
+revenge, nobody seems to consider that he has been sinned against no less
+than sinning, and all true knights and lovers, the King of Aragon amongst
+them, hasten to punish the vile murderer, while the lovers are revered
+as saints and martyrs. Much as we may condemn the brutality of the
+husband’s revenge, or wish to excuse the fatal effects of irresistible
+passion, justice compels us to consider that the breach of the marriage
+vow was in this case aggravated by that of confidence, friendship, and
+fealty. But justice to a husband, as we know, was a thing unheard of in
+the code of Provençal gallantry—the very name was odious, and all but
+synonymous with criminal, or at least dupe. I do not, indeed, recollect
+a single instance amongst the numerous love-stories told in connection
+with the troubadours in which the object of passion was not a married
+lady; a strange point of affinity with the modern French novel to which I
+call the attention of those interested in national psychology. The final
+wedding-bells of English novels would be vainly listened for in Provençal
+fiction.
+
+If this frivolous conception of sacred ties repels our æsthetical and
+moral feelings, we cannot, on the other hand, refuse our sympathy to
+a passion so pure and so intense as that reflected in the _canzos_ of
+Guillem de Cabestanh. Only seven of his poems have been preserved to us,
+but these rank amongst the highest achievements of Provençal literature.
+In the whole range of international song I know of no sweeter lyric than
+Guillem’s ‘Lo jorn qu’eus vi domna premieramen,’ or that other _canzo_,
+which legend has connected with his death. The latter is also remarkable
+for its display of highest technical finish, while the remainder of
+Guillem’s songs are comparatively simple in structure, and contain
+few of those marvellous _tours de force_ of rhyme and metre which most
+troubadours delight in.
+
+Such artificialities of manner would, indeed, be ill adapted to the
+extreme simplicity of his theme, which is nothing but the deepest passion
+for one beloved object. There is in his poems no fickleness, no variation
+of mood, and if his literary remains were voluminous, the uniformity of
+his passion would pall upon us. As it is, this very monotony adds to the
+intensity of our impression. Guillem is a patient lover, a male type of
+the nut-brown maid. Everything he will suffer for his lady and from her;
+nay, he derives pleasure from his sufferings, as they have been inflicted
+upon him in the service of love, in _her_ service. At first sight he has
+become her bondsman, she has bewitched him with a smile, taken his sense
+and his thought with a word of her mouth. Sometimes he fancies that he
+must have loved her before seeing her, and delights in the delusion of
+having been destined by God to serve her. For her, therefore, he will
+live, and his songs shall tell the world of her worth and of his passion.
+
+This is the essence of Guillem’s songs. One of them only need be quoted
+here. It shows him in the attitude of a devoted lover. He had no other.
+
+ CANZO.
+
+ Lo jorn, qeus vi domna, premieramen,
+ Qant a vos plac qeus mi laissez vezer,
+ Parti mon cor tot d’autre pensamen,
+ E foron ferm en vos tut mei voler;
+ Q’aissim pausez, domna el cor l’enveja;
+ Ab un douz ris et ab un simpl’esgar,
+ Mi e qant es mi fezez oblidar.
+
+ Qel granz beutaz el solaz d’avinen
+ Eil cortes dit eil amoros plazer
+ Qem saubez far, m’embleron si mon sen,
+ Q’anc pois hora domna nol poc aver;
+ A vos l’autrei, cui mos fis cors merceja;
+ Per enantir vostre prez et onrar
+ A vos mi ren, q’om miels non pot amar.
+
+ E car vos am domna, tan finamen,
+ Qe d’autr’amar nom don’ amors poder;
+ Mas aizem da q’ab autras cortei gen,
+ Don cug de mi la greu dolor mover;
+ Pois quant cossir de vos cui jois sopleja,
+ Tot’ autr’amor oblit e desampar,
+ Ab vos remanh cui tenc al cor plus car.
+
+ E membre vos, sius plaz, del bon coven
+ Qe mi fezez al departir saber,
+ Don aic mon cor adonc guai e jauzen
+ Pel bon respeit en qem mandez tener;
+ Mout n’aic gran joi, s’era lo mals sim greja;
+ Et aurai lo, qan vos plaira encar,
+ Bona domna, q’eu sui en l’esperar.
+
+ E ges mals trags no men fai espaven,
+ Sol q’eu en cuit en ma vida aver
+ De vos domna qalaqom jauzimen;
+ Anz li mal trag mi son joi e plazer
+ Sol per aiso, car sai q’amors autreja,
+ Qe fis amans deu granz torz perdonar
+ E gen soffrir mals trags per gazanhs far.
+
+ Aissi er ja domna l’ora q’eu veja,
+ Qe per merce mi volhaz tan onrar,
+ Qe sol amic me denhez appellar.
+
+ _Translation._
+
+ The day when first I saw you, lady sweet,
+ When first your beauty deigned on me to shine,
+ I laid my heart’s devotion at your feet;
+ No other wish, no other thought were mine.
+ For in my soul you wakened soft desire;
+ In your sweet smile and in your eyes I found
+ More than myself and all the world around.
+
+ Your tender speech, so amorous, so kind,
+ The solace of your words, your beauty’s spell
+ Once and for ever have my heart entwined,
+ No longer in my bosom it will dwell.
+ Your worth to cherish it shall never tire.
+ Oh! then, your gentle grace let me implore;
+ My all I gave you, I can give no more.
+
+ So wholly, lady, is my heart your own
+ That love will not allow another’s love.
+ Oft when to gentle ladies I have flown,
+ Somewhat the burden of my pain to move,
+ The thought of you, the fountain of my bliss,
+ Has aye dispelled all other vain desires;
+ To you with tenfold love my heart retires.
+
+ Do not forget, I pray, the hopeful word
+ You granted me when last I saw your face;
+ My heart leaped up with pleasure when I heard
+ The joyful message vouchsafed by your grace.
+ In present grief my comfort still is this:
+ That when your heart to mercy is inclined
+ My ardent wish may yet fulfilment find.
+
+ Pride and unkindness have for me no sting,
+ As long as I may hope that in this life
+ One day from you may kindest message bring.
+ Grief turns to joy and pleasure springs from strife;
+ For well I know that Love has willed it so
+ That lovers should forgive the deadliest sin,
+ By deepest sorrow highest bliss to win.
+
+ The hour will come, O lady, well I know,
+ When from your yielding mercy I may claim
+ The one word ‘friend.’ I ask no other name.
+
+Several biographical facts may be gleaned from this song. First of all
+we meet with an allusion to the poet’s intercourse with other ‘gentle
+ladies,’ which shows a striking likeness to the lines previously quoted
+from Guillem’s most celebrated _canzo_. Margarida, it might be inferred,
+was not altogether free from a feeling of jealousy towards not one but
+several ladies, and both passages are evidently written by Guillem with a
+view to appeasing this ill-founded suspicion; a circumstance which throws
+still graver doubt on the fanciful connection of the first-mentioned
+lines with the incident at Castle Liet. Whether the temporary banishment
+alluded to in the present _canzo_ has anything to do with these lovers’
+quarrels remains undecided. But the poet’s complaints of cruelty tend to
+prove that the lady did not yield with the astonishing readiness implied
+by the biographer. Guillem, it appears, had to undergo a severe probation
+before the fatal gift of love was vouchsafed to him, and at the stage
+marked by the _canzo_ the name of ‘friend’ is the highest boon to which
+he ventures to aspire. Well for him if that stage had never been passed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+PEIRE VIDAL.
+
+
+Peire Vidal is one of the most versatile and many-sided amongst the
+troubadours. His character is a psychological riddle. High gifts and
+wildest eccentricities are strangely mixed up in it. But the riddle
+cannot be read from a purely individual point of view. Peire Vidal is
+also a type. His adventures and poems show as in a kaleidoscope the
+romantic and often exaggerated and whimsical ideas which animated his age
+and country.
+
+‘Peire Vidal’—the old biography begins—‘was born in Toulouse, the son of
+a furrier; he sang better than any other poet in the world, and was one
+of the most foolish men who ever lived, for he believed everything to
+be just as it pleased him and as he would have it.’ That he grew to his
+greatness out of the meanest circumstances was a lot which he shared with
+some of the most famous of his brethren, such as Marcabrun and Folquet
+of Marseilles, and it accounts to a certain extent for many of his
+follies and illusions. The time of his birth it is impossible to state
+accurately; it appears, however, from several remarks in his poems, that
+it must have been somewhere about the middle of the twelfth century. In
+his youth he seems to have been very poor; thus in one of his earlier
+_canzos_ he addresses a lady in the following simple and frank words: ‘I
+have no castle with walls, and my land is not worth a pair of gloves, but
+there never was nor will be a more faithful lover than I am.’ When his
+genius had made him the favourite and companion of kings and nobles, he
+did not lack wealth. In his songs we never find a request for assistance
+from his protectors, such as often occurs in the stanzas of other
+troubadours, and he was even in a position to keep many servants and
+followers. He soon tired of a quiet life, and left home to find fortune
+and renown. First he went to Spain, where he was kindly received at the
+court of Alfonso II., King of Aragon, one of the most liberal protectors
+of the troubadours; but his restlessness could not endure a long sojourn
+in the same place. He went to Italy, and for many years was travelling
+about between that country, Spain, and the South of France, always well
+received by nobles and princes, and always in love with beautiful women.
+It would be impossible to give the names of the different objects of his
+admiration. The general character of these futile attachments was that
+the poet believed himself quite irresistible, and supposed no interval
+to exist between his seeing and conquering. ‘Often,’ he says, ‘I receive
+messages with golden rings and black and white ribbons. Hundreds of
+ladies would fain keep me with them if they could.’ In another _canzo_
+he boasts that all husbands are afraid of him more than of fire and
+sword. In point of fact, however, the ladies he admired did not by any
+means justify these illusions, and his old biographer goes so far as to
+say that they all deceived him ‘totas l’engannavan.’ The best proof of
+the harmlessness of the poet’s love affairs seems to be that the husbands
+concerned were more amused than offended by his homage to their wives.
+One of them, however, took the matter less easily. When Peire Vidal
+boasted in his usual way of having received many favours from his wife,
+he took his revenge by imprisoning the poet and piercing his tongue
+through. This anecdote of the old manuscript is confirmed by different
+allusions to the fact in the poems of other troubadours. The Monk of
+Montaudon, who mercilessly ridicules Peire Vidal’s follies, says that he
+‘stands in need of a silver tongue.’
+
+The first strong and genuine attachment the poet seems to have formed
+was for the Viscountess Azalais, of the family of Roca Martina, wife of
+Barrai de Baux, Viscount of Marseilles. She was praised for her beauty
+and kindness by many of the greatest troubadours, and it was for her that
+Folquet of Marseilles, the amorous poet and afterwards ascetic bishop,
+sang his tenderest _canzos_. Peire Vidal in his poems always calls her
+Vierna, one of the nicknames by which the troubadours (in the same way as
+the antique poets their Lesbias and Lalages) addressed for discretion’s
+sake the fair objects of their admiration. Peire Vidal’s love in this
+case, unlike his former transient passions, was of long duration. Even
+the severest treatment, and a long banishment from the lady’s presence,
+could not extinguish his affection. Far from her he was unhappy, and sent
+her his songs as messengers of love and devotion. At first she was well
+pleased with the homage of the celebrated poet who spread the renown of
+her beauty over all the country. Moreover, Barral her husband was on
+very friendly terms with Peire, and sometimes even had to compose the
+little differences which soon arose between the eccentric troubadour
+and his beloved one. The poet complained bitterly of her cruelty and
+ingratitude towards him who had always been faithful to her, but this
+grief of unanswered love was favourable to his poetic genius. To this
+period belong his most beautiful _canzos_, full of touching pathos and
+marked by great artistic perfection. ‘I was rich and happy,’ he says
+in one of these songs, ‘until my lady turned my joy to grief, for she
+behaves to me like a cruel and pitiless warrior. And she is wrong in
+doing so, for I never gave her occasion to complain of me, and have
+always been her most faithful admirer. But this very faithfulness she
+will never forgive me. I am like a bird which follows the hunter’s pipe,
+although it be to its certain death. So I expose my heart willingly to
+the thousands of arrows which she throws at me with her beautiful eyes.’
+But presently he is afraid to offend her even by these modest complaints.
+In the _tornada_, he says, ‘O lady Vierna, I will not complain of you,
+but I think I deserve a little more recompense for all my waiting and
+hoping.’ Notwithstanding all these entreaties the lady had no pity for
+her unhappy lover. The slight favours she granted him were overbalanced
+by outbreaks of bad temper, and worst of all she began to find something
+ridiculous in the rather eccentric proofs of Peire’s unchanged devotion.
+At last an inconsiderate outbreak of his passion resulted in his being
+for a long time banished from her presence. One day, early in the
+morning, Count Barral had risen, and Azalais remained alone in her room.
+Of this occasion the enamoured troubadour availed himself to go there
+in secret. He knelt down before her couch and kissed the lips of his
+slumbering love. At first she believed him to be her husband, and smiled
+kindly, but when she fully awoke and saw it was the ‘fool’ Peire Vidal
+who had taken this liberty, she grew furious, and began to weep and to
+raise a great clamour. Her attendants rushed into the room, and the
+importunate intruder had a narrow escape of being severely punished on
+the spot. The lady immediately sent for her husband, and begged him to
+avenge Peire’s impertinence; but Count Barral, in accordance with the
+opinion of his time, did not consider the offence an unpardonable one,
+and reproved the lady for having made so much of a fool’s oddities. He
+did not, however, succeed in softening her wrath; she made the story
+known all over the country, and uttered such terrible threats that the
+poet began to fear for his safety, and preferred to wait abroad for a
+change in his favour. He went to Genoa, and soon afterwards, according
+to some manuscripts, followed King Richard on his crusade to the Holy
+Land. Though this latter assertion is, for chronological reasons, not
+very probable, yet Peire’s voyage to Palestine cannot be doubted. Here he
+composed the little song of love and homesickness which I have attempted
+to translate, following the original closely, but the tender grace and
+melodious charm of which it would be impossible to reproduce in our
+Northern idiom:
+
+ CANZO.
+
+ Ab l’alen tir vas me l’aire
+ Qu’eu sen venir de Proensa;
+ Tot quant es de lai m’agensa,
+ Si que, quan n’aug ben retraire,
+ Eu m’o escout en rizen;
+ En deman per un mot cen:
+ Tan m’es bel quan n’aug ben dire.
+
+ Qu’om no sap tan dous repaire
+ Cum de Rozer tro qu’a Vensa,
+ Si cum clau mars e Durensa,
+ Ni on tan fis jois s’esclaire.
+ Per qu’entre la franca gen
+ Ai laissat mon cor jauzen
+ Ab leis que fals iratz rire.
+
+ Qu’om no pot lo jorn maltraire
+ Qu’aja de leis sovinensa,
+ Qu’en leis nais jois e comensa.
+ E qui qu’en sia lauzaire,
+ De ben qu’en diga noi men,
+ Quel melher es ses conten
+ El genser qu’el mon se mire.
+
+ E s’eu sai ren dir ni faire,
+ Ilh n’ajal grat, que sciensa
+ M’a donat e conoissensa,
+ Per qu’eu sui gais e chantaire.
+ E tot quan fauc d’avinen
+ Ai del seu bel cors plazen,
+ Neis quan de bon cor consire.
+
+ _Translation._
+
+ With my breath I drink the air
+ That Provence my country sends me,
+ For a message ever lends me
+ Joy, from her most dear and fair.
+ When they praise her I rejoice,
+ Ask for more with eager voice,
+ Listen, listen night and morrow.
+
+ For no country ’neath the sun
+ Beats mine from Rozer to Vensa,
+ From the sea to the Durensa:
+ Nowhere equal joy is won.
+ With my friends, when I did part,
+ And with her I left my heart
+ Who dispelled my deepest sorrow.
+
+ Nothing harms me all the day
+ While her sweet eyes stand before me,
+ And her lips that rapture bore me.
+ If I praise her, no one may
+ Call my rapturous word a lie,
+ For the whole world can descry
+ Nothing wrought in sweeter fashion.
+
+ All the good I do or say
+ Only to her grace is owing,
+ For she made me wise and knowing,
+ For she made me true and gay.
+ If in glory I abound,
+ To her praise it must redound
+ Who inspires my song with passion.
+
+By such repeated proofs of the poet’s unchangeable love the heart
+of Azalais, was at last touched. Besides, fool as he was, Peire was
+undoubtedly one of the most renowned troubadours, and the proudest beauty
+could not be indifferent to the celebration of her charms in _canzos_
+as popular as they were exquisite. Barral importuned his wife till she
+promised the poet forgiveness of all past offences, and immediately sent
+the happy message to Peire. Some of the manuscripts say that Azalais
+wrote him a letter in which she promised him all he had been wishing
+for so long. Peire Vidal returned to France, and Barral on hearing of
+his arrival rode out to meet him, and guided him to Marseilles. Azalais
+received him gracefully, and granted him the kiss he had once taken. All
+was forgiven and forgotten, and the troubadour commemorated the happy
+reconciliation by a song radiant with joy and hope. This state of pure
+happiness, however, was not destined to be of long duration. The lady
+seems to have been disinclined to fulfil her promises; the complaints in
+Peire’s _canzos_ of her cruelty and falseness begin anew, and at last he
+very likely grew tired of his unrewarded pains. Certain it is that he
+did not stay very long at Marseilles, for he does not make the slightest
+mention of Barral’s death, which happened soon after, in 1192. This
+silence would have been impossible if he had been living at the time at
+his old friend and protector’s court.
+
+While he was yet the professed admirer of Azalais, the poet had admired
+more or less fervently several other ladies, from one of whom he now
+seems to have sought consolation. This was Loba de Peinautier, who lived
+in Carcassonne. Her name Loba (she-wolf) became the motive of one of
+Peire Vidal’s most fantastic exploits; he gave himself the designation of
+a wolf, and adopted the animal as a badge. Once he put on a wolf’s skin,
+and called upon the shepherds to hunt him with their dogs. They readily
+accepted the offer, and treated him so badly that he was brought more
+dead than alive to the house of his beloved. Here, in addition to his
+wounds, he had to suffer the pitiless jests of the lady; who was not at
+all pleased by this kind of admiration. But in this case also the husband
+was more merciful, and regarded the aberrations of the great troubadour
+with indulgence. He took the greatest possible care of him, and had
+him tended by the best physicians. It would be difficult to believe a
+consummate poet had really been guilty of such absurdities, if he did
+not bear witness against himself. ‘I do not mind,’ he says in one of his
+poems, ‘if they call me a wolf, and if the peasants hunt me as such I do
+not consider it a disgrace.’ The foolishness of the man, however, did
+not impair the genius of the poet, and some of his _canzos_ addressed to
+Loba are amongst the finest productions of Provençal literature. Whilst
+he was engaged in these and other love affairs the poet was also married,
+which of course did not interfere with his attachments of this kind more
+than the same circumstance did with Dante’s spiritual love for Beatrice
+Portinari. I mention the circumstance only because it throws fresh light
+on Peire’s wonderful capacity for illusion. On his voyage to the Holy
+Land, he became acquainted in Cyprus with a Greek lady, whom he married
+and brought home with him. Soon afterwards he was made to believe that
+his wife was the niece of the Greek emperor, and had as such a claim to
+the imperial crown. This idea was exactly to his taste, and he adapted
+himself to it without any difficulty. He had on a previous occasion, if
+we are to believe the satirical Monk of Montaudon, conferred knighthood
+on himself; now he assumed with equal facility the arms of the Emperor
+of Greece. He began collecting money, wherever he could find it, for an
+expedition to realise his claims. Meanwhile, he called himself and his
+wife by the title of ‘Imperial Majesty,’ and duly provided himself with
+a throne. It is needless to say that his schemes came to nothing; the
+only consequence was to expose him to greater ridicule than before. His
+brethren in poetry were not slow to avail themselves of this opportunity
+of lowering a renowned troubadour in general estimation, and to do him
+as much harm as they could. One bitter and contemptuous _sirventes_ will
+give an example of the amiable feelings with which rivals in art regarded
+each other. Its author is the Italian Marquis Lanza, and it runs thus:
+‘We have an emperor without sense or reason or consciousness; a worse
+drunkard never sat on a throne; no greater coward wore shield and lance,
+no greater scoundrel made verses and _canzos_. I wish a sword would split
+his head, and an iron dart go right through his body; his eyes ought to
+be torn out of his head with hooks. Then we will give him some wine, and
+put on his head an old scarlet hat, and for a lance he may have an old
+stick. So he may safely wander from here to France.’ Peire Vidal answered
+this friendly address with equal warmth. ‘Marquis Lanza,’ he says,
+‘poverty and ignorance have spoilt your manners. You are like a blind
+beggar in the street, who has lost all shame or decency.’
+
+It would hardly have been expected that, with all this trouble about his
+loves and his empire, the poet could have had time left to take part in
+the real political and religious struggles of his age. But his versatile
+genius was as much interested in public affairs as in his own private
+concerns. As one of the first poets of his time he was in continual
+intercourse with princes and nobles, and in consequence had ample means
+of knowing the politics of his protectors, and frequent occasion to
+use his poetical gift on their behalf. Among his most constant friends
+was King Alfonso II. of Aragon, at whose court the chief poets of the
+time gathered, and found shelter from poverty and contempt. The King
+himself practised the art of poetry; and we possess a _canzo_ by him
+which, if not of the first excellence, shows at least that he did not
+shrink from competing for the prize in the ‘Gaia Sciensa.’ According
+to his liberality so was the praise awarded to him in the songs of the
+most renowned troubadours. Bertran de Born, indeed, accuses him of
+treason and cowardice, but the passionate character of that poet made
+him unscrupulous in his attacks on political and personal enemies.
+Peter II., Alfonso’s son, inherited his father’s disposition towards
+the troubadours, and it was a great loss to them when he fell in the
+battle of Muret (1213) against the Crusaders. Peire Vidal was among the
+greatest favourites of both father and son. Alfonso once had suits of
+armour of the same kind made for himself and the poet, a striking mark
+of friendship in so great a prince. The poet showed his thankfulness
+by the only return he had to offer, his songs. Several of his _canzos_
+are dedicated to Alfonso, whose side he took in all the Kings wars and
+feuds. The very first _sirventes_ we have of Peire’s refers to the war
+between Alfonso and Count Raimon of Toulouse, and, notwithstanding the
+poet having been born in that city, it is an ardent war-song in favour of
+the intruder. The author, however, could not on this occasion withstand
+his natural inclination towards self-praise, and by his immoderate
+boasting lessened the effect of his song. ‘If I only had a good horse,’
+he says, ‘I should trample on all my enemies, for even as it is, when
+they hear my name, they are afraid of me more than the quail of the
+sparrow-hawk, because I am so strong and wild and ferocious; when I have
+put on my double white armour, and girt my sword round my loins, the
+ground trembles under me where I step, and there is no enemy of mine so
+bold as will not get out of my way as quickly as he can.’ He goes on in
+this strain through several stanzas, and promises at last that if the
+King returns to attack Toulouse, he, Peire Vidal, will enter the city
+alone with the routed enemy and conquer it. The story of Coriolanus may
+possibly have been in his mind, but there are not many traces of his
+acquaintance with ancient Roman history. As a reward for his prowess
+he looks forward to obtaining the much-desired knighthood, for in
+the tornada of the same _sirventes_ he promises Lady Vierna that soon
+she shall love in him a noble cavalier. This hope, however, was not
+fulfilled; he was obliged to be content with the knighthood which he had
+conferred on himself, and which of course other people did not recognise.
+Nevertheless, he remained invariably attached to Alfonso till the King’s
+death. This loss he felt very deeply, and the words in which he gives
+utterance to his grief show that his friendship was genuine. ‘In great
+affliction,’ he sings, ‘must live he who loses his good master, as I have
+lost the best whom death ever killed. Certainly, I should not live if
+suicide were not a sin.’ This song is dedicated to Peter II. of Aragon,
+the son of Alfonso, who is called ‘corn of a good ear.’ It was sent to
+him from the court of King Aimeric of Hungary, his brother-in-law, to
+which Peire had retired after the death of his protector, and where he
+appears to have seen something more of the Germans, whom he had always
+thoroughly disliked. In the same _sirventes_ he apostrophises them in the
+following words: ‘Germans, you mean, bad, and false people, nobody who
+ever served you has had any pleasure of it.’ On a former occasion he had
+expressed his feelings on the same subject even more energetically. ‘The
+Germans,’ he says in another _sirventes_, ‘are coarse and vulgar, and if
+one of them tries to be courteous he becomes quite intolerable; their
+language is like the barking of dogs. Therefore, I should not care to be
+Duke of Friesland, where I should always have to listen to the barking of
+these tiresome people.’ These terms applied to the language of Wolfram
+von Eschenbach and Walter von der Vogelweide must of course be taken _cum
+grano salis_, and are certainly more characteristic of the critic than of
+those criticised by him.
+
+In the Crusades, Peire Vidal took the deepest interest. We have already
+seen that he himself went to Palestine, but he worked for the cause by
+his songs more usefully than by his actual presence. I cannot refrain
+from quoting a few stanzas of one of his _sirventeses_ in the original
+_langue d’oc_, which may serve as an example of the poet’s energy in
+admonishing and reproaching those who were idle in the service of God:
+
+ Baros Jesus qu’en crotz fo mes,
+ Per salvar crestiana gen,
+ Nos manda totz comunalmen,
+ Qu’anem cobrar lo saint paes,
+ On venc per nostr’amor morir.
+ E si nol volem obezir,
+ Lai on feniran tuit li plag,
+ N’auzirem maint esquiu retrag.
+
+ Reis aunitz val meins que pages,
+ Quan viu a lei de recrezen,
+ E plorals bes qu’autre despen,
+ E pert so quel pair’ a conques.
+ Aitals reis fari’ad aucir,
+ Et en lag loc a sebelir,
+ Quis defen a lei de contrag,
+ E no pren ni dona gamag.
+
+The ‘infamous King’ thus denounced is Philip Augustus of France, whom the
+troubadours hated and despised almost as unanimously as they extolled
+Alfonso of Aragon.
+
+This poem, apart from its political allusions, is remarkable as a
+specimen of Peire Vidal’s peculiar manner of mixing the two different
+forms of _canzo_ and _sirventes_ together (compare p. 141). Immediately
+after the passage about the French King just quoted the poet broaches his
+favourite theme of love, and explains how the unseasonable passion of
+mature ladies is sure to destroy the whole courteous world. This sudden
+change occurs in a similar manner in another _sirventes_ where, after
+having reproached the same Philip Augustus as a coward and miser, the
+poet continues with great _naïveté_, ‘But now I must turn my song to my
+lady, whom I love more than my own eyes or teeth.’
+
+Peire Vidal’s faults and errors were in great measure the result of the
+exaggerated sentiments of the time, and do not detract from his high
+poetical genius. The best of his contemporaries estimated him correctly,
+and forgave the great poet the extravagance of his character. ‘The
+greatest fool,’ says Bartolomeo Zorgi, another celebrated poet of the
+time, ‘is he who calls Peire Vidal a fool; for without sense it would be
+impossible to make poems like his.’
+
+The exact date of Peire’s death we cannot tell. Most likely it took place
+about 1210.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+
+BERTRAN DE BORN.
+
+
+Bertran de Born is a perfect type of the warlike baron of the middle
+ages, continually fighting with his neighbours or with his own vassals,
+and treating the villeins and clowns on his estate with a brutal contempt
+all the more unpardonable in his case as he openly and deliberately
+advocates such oppression in his songs. But his warlike ambition was not
+confined to the squabbles of petty feudal lords. With sword and song he
+fought in the great political struggles of the time, and the important
+part he played in the incessant wars of Henry II. of England with the
+King of France and with his own rebellious sons ought to secure Bertran a
+place in any comprehensive history of our Angevin kings.
+
+As to the exact date of Bertran’s birth the manuscripts contain no
+information. By inference we find it must have been about the middle of
+the twelfth century. The old biographers call him Viscount of Autafort,
+a castle and borough of about a thousand inhabitants in the diocese of
+Perigord. His manhood fell in a stormy time of external and internal
+warfare.
+
+The marriage of Henry of Anjou, afterwards Henry II. of England, with
+the divorced faithless wife of the French King was an abundant source
+of evil to the young adventurer. It is true that the possessions of
+Aquitain accruing to him from the marriage for the moment added to
+his power, but in the long run his large dominions in the west and
+south-west of France tended to divert his attention from the true focus
+of his strength—England. The tedious quarrels in which his continental
+possessions involved him with his feudal overlord, the King of France,
+greatly increased the troubles of his eventful reign. But far more
+disastrous were the domestic consequences of this ill-assorted union.
+History and popular myth have combined to depict Eleanor as the prototype
+of a ruthless termagant. Whatever may have been the provocations of her
+truant husband—provocations which, by the way, her own conduct hardly
+justified her in resenting too harshly—the charge remains against her
+that by her instigation her sons were first incited to rebel against
+their father. With much trouble and danger to himself Henry had in 1170
+induced his English bishops to assist at a prospective coronation of his
+eldest son and namesake. Two years later the ceremony was repeated, young
+Henry’s wife, the daughter of King Louis VII. of France, being included,
+who for reasons unknown had been absent on the former occasion.
+
+The return which Henry received for this highest mark of confidence
+was the claim on the part of his son to be put in immediate possession
+either of Normandy or of England. The refusal of this outrageous demand
+became the cause of animosities between father and son. Eleanor fanned
+the flames of discord, and it seems to have been by her advice mainly
+that young Henry at last broke into open rebellion. He fled from his
+father’s court at Limoges and took refuge with the King of France at St.
+Denis, where three days afterwards he was joined by his two brothers
+Richard and Geoffrey. The war which ensued was carried on by both sides
+with atrocious brutality, not even relieved by bold exploits of arms.
+The name of the hirelings enlisted by the King of England—Brabançons,
+from Braband, the country of many of their number—has become a bye-word
+in history, and the utter want of filial piety, or indeed of any higher
+motive, on the part of the young princes is at once revolting and
+astonishing. More than once during his repeated wars with his sons the
+King’s life was attempted, and on one occasion when he was going to
+a parley with young Henry he was received by a shower of arrows and
+slightly wounded. Sons who thus disregarded the demands of natural
+affection could not be expected to be more scrupulous where their country
+was concerned. Patriotism, more especially English patriotism, never was
+the strong side of the Plantagenets. In consequence the young princes did
+not hesitate for a moment to barter away some of the fairest portions
+of England for promises of assistance from the King of Scotland and the
+Earl of Flanders, and it was only by Henry’s energy and good fortune that
+these disgraceful bargains were frustrated. The war dragged on till
+1174, and ended with a semblance of reconciliation; Richard being the
+last to submit to his father.
+
+It was necessary to dwell to this extent on these circumstances in order
+to gain a background for our centre-figure the Troubadour. There is no
+direct evidence that Bertran de Born took a prominent part in the first
+rebellion of the English princes, neither do any of his warlike songs
+seem to refer to it. But even in case his youth or other circumstances
+prevented him from being an actor in the events just described, he was
+sure to be an eager spectator. Soon afterwards we see him in the thick
+of the fight. He seems to have been on terms of intimacy with the three
+elder sons of Henry, as is proved by the familiar nicknames by which
+he addresses them. Young Henry he used to call ‘Marinier’ (seaman), an
+interesting fact which shows that a sailor-prince in the Royal family
+is not altogether a modern invention. Geoffrey, by marriage Duke of
+Brittany, was ‘Rassa,’ a name without any distinct meaning to us;
+and Richard ‘Oc e no,’ that is ‘Yes and no,’ which might pass for an
+indication of straightforward and plain dealing, or, indeed, of the
+reverse, according to the terms on which prince and poet happened to be.
+
+Bertran’s attachment to Prince Henry, the ‘Young King,’ as he and the
+old chroniclers frequently call him, was of the utmost importance for
+the poet’s life. It is, indeed, the redeeming feature of his character.
+From the first he seems to have espoused the young Prince’s cause, and
+no turn of fortune could ever make him waver in his fealty. It is sad
+to think that the influence thus acquired was used in further inflaming
+a nature already hot with pride and ambition. Bertran’s biographers lay
+particular stress on this point. ‘Whenever he chose’—the old manuscript
+says—‘he was master of the King of England and of his son; but he wished
+that the father should always be at war with the son, and the brothers
+with one another; and he also desired that there should be incessant feud
+between the Kings of France and England, and whenever there was peace or
+truce between them he was at great pains and trouble to undo the peace
+by means of his _sirventeses_, and to prove to each of them how they
+were dishonoured by such a peace; and he derived much good and also much
+evil from the mischief he made amongst them.’ In another place we are
+told that King Henry hated Bertran because the poet was ‘the friend and
+counsellor of the young King, his (Henry’s) son, who had made war against
+him; and he believed Sir Bertran bore the whole guilt of it.’ Not without
+reason does Dante place the troubadour in the ninth pit of hell, where,
+with Mahomet Ali, Mosca dei Lamberti, and other disturbers of Church
+and State, he is made to do penance for his disastrous counsels. Dante
+describes him carrying his own head severed from his body in his hand.
+‘Know then,’ says the spectre addressing the poet, ‘that I am Bertran de
+Born, he who gave evil encouragement to the young King, causing father
+and son to wage war against each other. Because I parted men thus joined
+together I now carry my own head severed from its principle of life, my
+body.’[23]
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+BERTRAN AND RICHARD COUNT OF POITOU.
+
+
+How this great influence over the young King was acquired the old
+manuscripts do not tell us. The first time we hear of Bertran in history
+is in connection with the quarrels between Richard, at that time Count
+of Poitou, and his unruly barons in the south of France. Amongst these
+Bertran de Born took a prominent position. His worldly possessions were
+of comparatively small importance, but his fame as a poet, his personal
+valour, his indomitable fierceness and love of war made up for this want,
+and qualified him for the part of ringleader and prime intellectual mover
+of the rebellious party. A cause of quarrel between such an overlord as
+Richard and such a vassal as Bertran may easily be imagined; but beyond
+these public grounds of mutual animosity there seems to have been some
+personal grudge between them. The manuscripts speak of a lady in whose
+heart the troubadour supplanted his princely rival, and in addition to
+this fact—perhaps in consequence of it—we hear of Richard’s hostile
+interference in his adversary’s private concerns.
+
+Bertran de Born had a brother, Constantine by name, with whom he shared
+the possession of Castle Autafort. He is described by the manuscripts
+as ‘a good knight, but not a man to trouble himself much about valour
+or honour.’ A man of this kind stood little chance of holding his own
+against our troubadour, and internal evidence strongly points towards
+the latter as the aggressor in the endless quarrels between the two
+brothers. This, however, Bertran’s biographer does not acknowledge. He
+goes on to say that Constantine ‘hated Bertran at all seasons, and wished
+well to those who wished ill to Bertran, and he took from him the Castle
+of Autafort, which belonged to them both in common. But Sir Bertran
+soon recovered it, and drove his brother from all his possessions.’ At
+this juncture Richard interfered in favour of Constantine. Together
+with Aimar, Viscount of Limoges, and other powerful barons, he invaded
+Bertran’s domains, which soon became the scene of atrocities such as
+are the usual concomitants of civil feud. Castle Autafort itself was
+threatened, but its master remained undaunted. In a powerful _sirventes_
+he hurls defiance at his enemies. A war-song more recklessly bold, more
+graphically real, has seldom been heard.
+
+Let the reader judge. ‘All day long,’ Bertran says, ‘I fight, and am at
+work, to make a thrust at them and defend myself, for they are laying
+waste my land and burning my crops; they pull up my trees by the root
+and mix my corn with the straw. Cowards and brave men are my enemies. I
+constantly disunite and sow hatred amongst the barons, and then remould
+and join them together again, and try to give them brave hearts and
+strong; but I am a fool for my trouble, for they are made of base metal.’
+
+In these last sentences the poet discloses the secret of his power. It
+was the irresistible sway of his eloquence over men’s minds, his ‘don
+terrible de la familiarité,’ as the elder Mirabeau puts it, which enabled
+Bertran to play on men’s minds as on the strings of a lute, and to make
+them form and vary their purpose according to his impulse. In this
+very _sirventes_ we gain an idea of the manner in which he lashes the
+hesitating barons into resistance against the common oppressor. Talairand
+is accused of indolence—‘he does not trot nor gallop, motionless he
+lies in his cot, neither lance nor arrow does he move. He lives like a
+Lombard pedlar, and when others depart for the war he stretches himself
+and yawns.’ Another baron, whose name, William of Gordon, strikes the
+English ear with familiar note, is warned against Richard’s persuasive
+statecraft. ‘I love you well,’ Bertran says, ‘but my enemies want to
+make a fool and a dupe of you, and the time seems long to them before
+they see you in their ranks.’ The _sirventes_ winds up with a climax of
+fierce invective against Richard himself. ‘To Perigeux close to the wall,
+so that I can throw my battle-axe over it, I will come well armed, and
+riding on my horse Bayard; and if I find the glutton of Poitou he shall
+know the cut of my sword. A mixture of brain and splinters of iron he
+shall wear on his brow.’
+
+Bertran’s assertions of his dangerous influence over men’s minds were not
+the idle boastings of poetic vanity. A terrible conspiracy was formed
+against Richard, and the greatest nobles of the country, the Viscounts of
+Ventadorn, of Camborn, of Segur, and of Limoges, the Count of Perigord,
+William of Gordon, the Lord of Montfort, besides many important cities,
+are mentioned amongst the rebels. A meeting took place, and we may
+imagine the picturesque scene when ‘in the old monastery of San Marsal
+they swore on a missal’ to stand by each other and never to enter into
+separate treaties with Richard. The special causes of this rebellion are
+not known to us. We may surmise, and indeed know in a general way, that
+the hand of their lion-hearted lord weighed heavily on the provinces of
+Southern France. But the veil which covers this portion of Henry II.’s
+reign has never yet been fully lifted, and till that is done we must
+be satisfied with such hints as may be gleaned from scattered bits of
+information in ancient writers. Our Provençal manuscript offers a clue
+not without interest to the historical student. It speaks of certain
+_rendas de caretas_, rates of carts or wagons, most likely a toll which
+Richard had unlawfully appropriated, and which in reality belonged to the
+‘Young King,’ that is to Prince Henry, to whom it had been given by his
+father.
+
+This latter circumstance connects our story with less obscure portions
+of history. It is well known that in 1182 King Henry demanded of his
+sons Richard and Geoffrey to do homage to their elder brother for the
+possessions respectively held by them, a demand indignantly refused by
+Richard. Hence the invasion of Aquitain by young Henry, and hence perhaps
+also the latter’s intimacy with our poet, who, as the intellectual mover
+of the rebellion against Richard, was an ally by no means to be despised.
+Thus the war between the brothers went on raging for a time, Bertran
+fighting in the foremost ranks, and at the same time fanning the flame
+with his songs. We still possess _sirventeses_ in which he addresses the
+chief barons by name, reminding them of their grievances, praising the
+brave and castigating the waverers with his satire. Such were the means
+of diplomatic pressure in those days. But primitive though such measures
+of admonition may appear, they were none the less efficacious with those
+concerned. Papiol, Bertran’s faithful minstrel, went about the country
+boldly reciting his master’s taunts in the lordly hall of the baron or
+at the gate of the castle, where the throng of the vassals would listen
+to his song. Taking into account the excitability of the southern nature
+further inflamed by the struggles of the time, together with the general
+interest of the subject and the consummate art of treatment and delivery,
+one can form some idea of the dangerous influence of the troubadours,
+too dangerous and too generally acknowledged to be despised by the
+mightiest princes of the time.
+
+Bertran de Born is evidently quite conscious of the force of his songs,
+and the use he makes of his power betrays great sagacity of political
+purpose. But with him the love of war for war’s sake is so great that
+sometimes every deeper design seems to vanish before this ruling passion.
+His character is a psychological problem in this respect. A man who,
+after a life of wildest storm and stress, passed in continual strife with
+domestic and political foes, dies in peace and in the quiet possession
+of his usurped dominion, must have been endowed in a more than usual
+degree with calmness and deliberation. But there is no trace of this in
+his songs. They breathe one and all the recklessness and animal buoyancy
+of a savage chieftain who regards fighting as the only enjoyment and
+true vocation of a man. One of his warlike _sirventeses_ ends with the
+naïve exclamation by way of _tornada_ or _envoi_, ‘Would that the great
+barons could always be inflamed against each other!’ In another he gives
+vent to his insatiate pugnacity with most unqualified openness. ‘There
+is peace everywhere,’ he says, ‘but I still retain a rag (_pans_) of
+warfare; a sore in his eye (_pustella en son huelh_) to him who tries to
+part me from it, although I may have begun the quarrel! Peace gives me no
+pleasure, war is my delight. This is my law, other I have none. I don’t
+regard Monday or Tuesday, or week, or month, or year: April or March
+would not hinder me in doing damage to those who wrong me. Three of them
+would not get the value of an old leather strap from me.’[24]
+
+Things in Aquitain began in the meantime to take a more peaceful turn
+than our warlike singer could wish or expect. King Henry appeared on the
+scene as peacemaker between his sons, and by his command young Henry had
+to declare himself satisfied with a money compensation for his claims of
+overlordship. This compliance drew on him the momentary indignation of
+the troubadour, who calls him ‘a king of cowards;’ and adds that ‘not by
+lying asleep will he become master of Cumberland, or King of England,
+or conqueror of Ireland.’ The defection of their leader proved fatal to
+the league of the barons, who separately tried to make their peace with
+Richard and quietly submitted to his punishing wrath. Not so Bertran
+de Born. His first impulse was to give utterance to his contempt for
+the nobles who by their want of courage and union destroyed their last
+chance of safety. ‘I will sing a _sirventes_,’ Bertran exclaims, ‘of
+the cowardly barons, and after that not waste another word upon them.
+More than a thousand spurs have I broken in them, and never could I make
+them trot or gallop. Now they allow themselves to be robbed without
+saying a word. God’s curse upon them!’ His next thought must have been
+to find a new head and centre for such remnants of the rebellious forces
+as still remained unsubdued. In this endeavour he was more successful
+than might have been expected under the circumstances. Geoffrey, Henry’s
+younger brother, who had been commissioned by the King to facilitate
+the reconciliation between Richard and his barons, suddenly declared
+himself in favour of the latter, and began to invade Poitou with all the
+forces at his disposal. We have no direct evidence of Bertran’s active
+participation in this affair. But we know of his intimacy with Geoffrey,
+whom, after the desertion of the cause by young Henry, he hails as a
+worthy pretender to the crowns of England and Normandy. We are therefore
+justified in conjecturing that the bold troubadour’s advice may have had
+much weight with a prince of Geoffrey’s ambition.
+
+But here the matter was not to end. In this emergency young Henry
+offered his services to his father, promising to advise or if necessary
+to enforce a reconciliation between his brothers. But no sooner had
+he arrived at the seat of war than he also joined the league of the
+barons. Richard in his extreme need implored the aid of his father, who
+immediately entered into alliance with Alfonso of Aragon for the purpose
+of subduing his rebellious sons. The princes sought the support of the
+Count of Toulouse and other powerful nobles of the south of France. War
+on a large scale became inevitable, and this prospect was greeted by
+Bertran with an exuberance of joy. He revels beforehand in the brilliant
+and terrible scenes of a field of battle. ‘As soon as we arrive,’ he
+exclaims, ‘the tournament shall begin. The Catalans and the Aragonese
+will fall to the ground fast and thick. The pommels of their saddles
+will be of no use to them, for our friends strike long blows. And the
+splinters will fly up to heaven, and silk and samite will be torn to
+shreds, and tents and huts destroyed.’
+
+But once more Bertran’s high hopes of victory were to be cut short by
+the hand of fate. King Henry was laying siege to Limoges, and his two
+rebellious sons were preparing a large expedition for the rescue of the
+threatened city, when suddenly young Henry was taken ill with a violent
+fever and died shortly afterwards. On his death-bed he implored his
+father’s pardon and asked for a last interview, but the King, although
+deeply moved, was persuaded by his counsellors to refuse this favour. It
+is said that he feared a snare, and after his former experiences this
+suspicion was but too easily accounted for. He, however, sent a ring in
+token of forgiveness, which his son pressed to his dying lips. This death
+was a blow to both contending parties. In spite of their dissensions,
+King Henry had deeply loved his son, who, according to the unanimous
+testimony of his contemporaries, was a high-spirited youth of undaunted
+courage and noblest aspirations. Bertran’s grief also was true, and, for
+the moment at least, unselfish. His unwavering friendship for young Henry
+is the one redeeming feature in the reckless warrior’s character, and
+this feeling, which death itself had not destroyed, now inspired him with
+a song of noblest pathos. It is a dirge as sad and as true as ever friend
+has sung for friend. I have attempted the following literal translation
+of three stanzas, in which the metrical peculiarities of the original
+are strictly adhered to. These peculiarities, which frequently serve the
+troubadours for the display of their consummate skill, are here made
+the vehicle of genuine emotion, and give truth and colour to the poem.
+Note particularly the repetition of the same words at the end of the
+first, fifth, and eighth lines of each stanza, which strikes the note of
+unrelieved sadness with the monotony of a death-knell:—
+
+ PLANH.
+
+ Si tuit li dol el plor el marrimen
+ E las dolors el dan el caitivier
+ Que hom agues en est segle dolen,
+ Fosson ensems, sembleran tuit leugier
+ Contra la mort del jove rei engles,
+ Don reman pretz e jovens doloiros,
+ El mons escurs e tenhs e tenebros,
+ Sems de tot joi, pies de tristor e d’ira.
+
+ Estenta mort, plena de marrimen,
+ Vanar te pods quel melhor cavalier
+ As tolt al mon qu’anc fos de nulha gen;
+ Quar non es res qu’a pretz aja mestier,
+ Que tot no fos el jove rei engles:
+ E fora meils, s’a deu plagues razos,
+ Que visques el que mant autr’ enojos
+ Qu’anc no feron als pros mas dol et ira.
+
+ D’aquest segle flac, plen de marrimen,
+ S’amors s’en vai, son joi tenh mensongier,
+ Que ren noi a que non torn en cozen;
+ Totz jorns veiretz que val mens oi que ier:
+ Cascus se mir el jove rei engles
+ Qu’era del mon lo plus valens dels pros.
+ Ar es anatz sos gens cors amoros,
+ Dont es dolors e desconortz et ira.
+
+ _Translation._
+
+ COMPLAINT.
+
+ If all the pain, the grief, the bitter tears,
+ The sorrow, the remorse, the scornful slight,
+ Of which man in this life the burden bears
+ Were thrown a-heap, their balance would be light
+ Against the death of our young English King.
+ Valour and youth stand wailing at his loss;
+ The world is waste, and dark, and dolorous,
+ Void of all joy, full of regret and sorrow.
+
+ All-present death, cruel and full of tears,
+ Now mayst thou boast that of the noblest knight
+ Whose deeds were ever sung to human ears,
+ Thou hast deprived the world. No fame so bright
+ That it could darken our young English King.
+ ’Twere better, if it pleased our Lord, to give
+ Life back to him, than that the traitors live
+ Who to good men cause but regret and sorrow.
+
+ The world is base and dark and full of tears.
+ Its love has fled, its pleasure passed away;
+ A falsehood is its truth. Each day appears,
+ But to regret its better yesterday.
+ Look up, ye all, to our young English King,
+ The best among the brave and valorous!
+ Now is his gentle heart afar from us,
+ And we are left to our regret and sorrow.
+
+With the death of young Henry the rebellion was practically at an end.
+Again the barons tried to make peace with Richard and the King; again
+they submitted to the most humiliating terms of submission; but again
+also Bertran de Born’s courage remained undaunted, although against him,
+as the evil counsellor of young Henry, the wrath of the King was hottest.
+Soon the army of the allies arrived before Castle Autafort, and little
+hope of rescue remained. Still Bertran held out, and ultimately succumbed
+only to the treachery of a friend.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+
+SIEGE OF AUTAFORT—BERTRAN’S DEATH.
+
+
+The manuscripts tell a curious story with regard to this treachery. The
+reader will remember that at the beginning of the war Henry had entered
+into a league with the King of Aragon. This king was Alfonso II., well
+known as one of the most liberal protectors of the troubadours, who in
+return lavished their praise upon him. Bertran de Born was on terms of
+intimacy with him, and the manuscript tells us that ‘he was very glad
+that King Alfonso was amongst the besieging army, for he was his most
+especial friend.’ It appears that Castle Autafort was better provided
+with meat and drink than the camp, for King Alfonso, on the ground of
+their intimacy, asked Bertran for a supply of bread, wine, and meat.
+This the troubadour generously granted, but in return asked another
+favour, which was nothing less than that the King of Aragon should use
+his authority to remove the besieging engines from a certain side of
+the castle where the wall was rotten and would give way easily. Such a
+demand implied the fullest confidence in him to whom it was made, and
+this confidence unfortunately turned out to be misplaced. The King of
+Aragon immediately betrayed the secret to Henry; the assault was directed
+against the weak point of the defences, and the castle fell.
+
+Such is the story as told by Bertran’s biographer, and, if true, it fully
+accounts for the troubadour’s implacable hatred evinced by many poetic
+onslaughts on the private and political character of Alfonso. But we
+ought to hesitate in condemning on such doubtful evidence the conduct of
+a king who by the all but unanimous testimony of contemporary writers was
+a model of knightly virtues and wholly incapable of the base treachery
+here laid to his charge.
+
+However this may have been, Bertran’s castle was taken, and he a prisoner
+in the hands of his bitterest enemies. But even in this extremity
+Bertran’s genius did not forsake him, and it is on this occasion chiefly
+that we catch a glimpse of that undauntable strength of character which,
+combined with a keen insight into the secret springs of human impulse,
+explains his extraordinary sway over men’s minds. I follow closely the
+graphic account of the Provençal manuscript:—‘After the castle was taken
+Sir Bertran, with all his people, was brought to the tent of King Henry.
+And the King received him very ill, and said to him,
+
+‘“Bertran, Bertran! you have boasted that never half of your sense would
+be needful to you at any time, but know that now you stand in need of the
+whole of it.”
+
+‘“Sir,” replied Bertran, “it is true that I have said so, and I have
+spoken the truth.”
+
+‘And the King said, “Then now, it seems, you have lost your wits
+altogether.”
+
+‘“Sir,” said Bertran, “it is true that I have lost all my wits.”
+
+‘“And how is that?” replied the King.
+
+‘“Sir,” said Bertran, “the day that the valiant young Henry your son died
+I lost sense and cunning and consciousness.”
+
+‘And the King, when he heard Bertran’s words, wept for his son, and great
+grief rose to his heart and to his eyes, and he could not constrain
+himself, and fainted away from pain. And when he recovered himself he
+called out to Bertran, and said, weeping,
+
+‘“Sir Bertran! Sir Bertran! you are right and wise in saying that you
+lost your sense for the sake of my son, for he loved you better than any
+other man in the world; and for the love of him I release your person,
+your lands, and your castle, and I will receive you to my grace and
+favour, and I give you five hundred marks of silver for the damage you
+have suffered at my hands.”
+
+‘And Bertran fell at his feet, tendering him service and gratitude.’
+
+We may feel inclined to look upon the substantial data of the closing
+sentences with some amount of scepticism; but the consummate skill with
+which Bertran at first excites the curiosity of the King, the way in
+which he finally acts upon his feelings, all the more powerfully as his
+own grief is true and powerful—all this is much beyond the invention of a
+simple-minded Provençal scribe. These traits are too intrinsically real
+for mere fiction; they are inherent in the nature of a strong man and
+a great poet. It is also an undeniable fact that soon after the events
+described, Bertran was again in possession of his castle, and that the
+remonstrances of his unfortunate brother Constantine were treated with
+scorn by both Richard and King Henry.
+
+To the former Bertran now seems to have attached himself, and during
+the incessant feuds in which the lion-hearted monarch subsequently
+was involved with the King of France and his own unruly vassals the
+troubadour seems to have remained faithful to him, barring always
+such inclinations towards whoever might be the aggressive party,
+which Bertran’s unbounded love of fighting made excusable. We possess
+a _sirventes_ dated many years later in which the poet rejoices at
+Richard’s release from the German prison, ‘because now again we shall see
+walls destroyed and towers overthrown and our enemies in chains.’
+
+But I must not detain the reader with further stories of feuds and
+battles, of which most likely he has had already more than his fill.
+It remains to add a few words with regard to another side of Bertran’s
+life and poetry, his love affairs. These, it must be hoped, will form a
+somewhat more harmonious conclusion to an account of a wild, reckless
+career.
+
+Bertran’s love-songs are not the emanations of a pure guileless heart,
+such as the _canzos_ of Guillem de Cabestanh or Folquet of Marseilles.
+Upon the whole one is glad to find that they are not and do not pretend
+to be such; for a lover’s unselfish devotion could be nothing but
+pretension in a man of his character. Bertran was, and appears even
+in his _canzos_, a man of the world, to whom his love affairs are of
+secondary importance. Yet these _canzos_ are not without passion, and not
+seldom have a peculiar charm of simple grace, all the more delightful
+because of its contrast with the warlike harshness of his ordinary
+strains. What, for instance, can be more sweet and graceful than the
+following stanza, which occurs at the beginning of one of Bertran’s
+_sirventeses_?—
+
+ When the young blossoms of the spring appear
+ And paint the bushes pink and white and green,
+ Then in the sweetness of the nascent year
+ I clothe my song; at all times such has been
+ The wont of birds; and as a bird am I
+ Who love the fairest lady tenderly:
+ I dare to love her longing for love’s fruit,
+ But never dare to speak; my heart is mute.
+
+After such an opening the reader expects a love-song of tenderest
+pathos. But no. After another stanza, Bertran suddenly changes his
+mind. Perhaps the lady whom he silently adored did not understand or
+appreciate his passion. ‘As without a lady’—he now exclaims—‘one cannot
+make a love-song, I am going to sing a fresh and novel _sirventes_.’ And
+forthwith he begins his ordinary strain of invective against a whole
+catalogue of hostile barons.
+
+Of the objects of Bertran’s passion—for we know of two, and there may
+have been others of whom we do not know—the old manuscripts give us a
+prolix account. We first hear of a Lady Maenz or Matilda of Montignac,
+wife of Count Talairand (for as a matter of course she was married), and
+sister to two other ladies celebrated by the troubadours for their beauty
+and courteous demeanour. The Lady Maenz was wooed by many noble knights
+and barons; and even three scions of royalty, the Princes Richard and
+Geoffrey of England and King Alfonso of Aragon, are mentioned amongst
+her suitors. But Bertran’s valour and fame as a poet gained the victory
+in her heart over power and riches. Such at least is the account of the
+old biography, founded, it seems, on a somewhat vague statement in one
+of Bertran’s own poems, to the effect that his lady ‘refused Poitou, and
+Tolosa, and Bretagne and Saragosa, but has given her love to the valorous
+poor knight’—meaning of course himself.
+
+Unfortunately the course of true love did not run smooth for long; the
+blast of jealousy troubled its waters. Bertran had written a few songs in
+praise of another lady, the wife of his friend the Viscount of Camborn.
+Pure gallantry, he alleged, was the motive, but the Lady Maenz refused
+to view the matter in this innocent light, and angrily discarded her
+lover. Bertran was in despair; he knew, the manuscript says, ‘that he
+could never regain her, or find another lady so beautiful, so good, so
+gentle, and so learned.’ In this dilemma Bertran had recourse to the
+following pretty conceit of gallantry. Whether he had heard the story of
+the Athenian artist who, from the combined charms of the most beautiful
+women, moulded the type of the Goddess of Love, seems doubtful; but the
+coincidence of ideas between the troubadour and the antique sculptor
+is striking. For Bertran de Born, the biographer tells us, went to the
+most beautiful ladies of the country asking from each the loan of her
+greatest charm (metaphorically it must be understood), and from these he
+reconstructed the ideal type of his lost love. The poem in which this is
+done is a model of grace and gallantry, flattering alike to the divers
+ladies whose beauties are commemorated, and to the one who in her being
+concentrates and surpasses the charms of all others.
+
+But her heart was unmoved, and, in a fit of amorous despair we must
+suppose, the troubadour now offered his services as knight and poet to
+another lady, complaining at the same time bitterly of the cruelty of
+his former love. His offer was not accepted, neither was it disdainfully
+rejected. It would have been a breach of courtesy and good faith to
+deprive a lady of her lover, and much as the Lady Tibors (this was the
+name of Bertran’s new flame) may have been desirous of the praise of one
+of the greatest troubadours of the time, she resisted the temptations
+of vanity. Her answer to Bertran is a model of good sense; at the same
+time it smacks a little of that technical pedantry with which the ladies
+of Provence were wont to treat difficult cases of love. ‘Either,’ said
+the Lady Tibors, ‘your quarrel is of a slight and temporary kind—and in
+that case I will try to effect your peace with your lady; or else you
+have been guilty of a serious offence towards her—and, if so, neither I
+nor any good lady ought to accept your services. But in case I find on
+inquiry that your lady has left you from fickleness and caprice, I shall
+be honoured by your love.’ The first of these surmises fortunately turned
+out to be true. By the interference of Lady Tibors the lovers’ quarrel
+was settled, and in commemoration of the event Bertran was ordered to
+write a song in which he declares his immutable love for Lady Maenz,
+paying at the same time a grateful and graceful tribute to the kind
+peacemaker.
+
+This is all we hear of the beautiful Lady Maenz. But Bertran appears
+presently as the passionate admirer of another lady, of much more exalted
+rank. It must have been soon after his reconciliation with Count Richard
+that the troubadour met in his camp the Count’s sister Mathilda, the
+wife of the celebrated Duke Henry of Brunswick. The inflammable heart of
+the poet caught fire at her beauty, and his enthusiastic praise seems to
+have been received with much condescension. It tends to prove Bertran’s
+importance that it was by Richard’s express desire that his sister showed
+kindness to the troubadour, who, the manuscript adds, ‘was a renowned
+man and valorous, and might be of great use to the Count.’ In the praise
+of Mathilda Bertran wrote several beautiful _canzos_, one of which is
+particularly remarkable for an allusion in the first line to so prosaic a
+subject as dinner—the poem having been composed, it is said, one Sunday
+when that meal failed to be forthcoming at the ill-provided camp.
+
+In addition to these amorous entanglements Bertran was also married,
+although neither he nor his biographer deigns to mention so unimportant a
+personage as his wife. We know, however, that his children at Bertran’s
+death came to a compromise with their uncle Constantine as to the
+possession of Castle Autafort and its dependencies. One of his sons
+inherited with his father’s name some of his father’s poetic talent and,
+it appears, all his fierce passions. By this younger Bertran de Born, who
+has sometimes been mistaken for the great poet, we possess a _sirventes_
+against King John worthy of the paternal example. The luckless king
+is mercilessly assaulted. The loss of his continental possessions is
+attributed to cowardice and irresolution, and the king’s immoderate love
+of the chase does not escape notice. The barons also come in for their
+share of vituperation. In fact everything is done _more patrio_. Bertran
+died at an advanced age, having entered a monastery not long before his
+death.
+
+Such was the not inappropriate close of a life passed in the wildest
+turmoil of political strife. As a type of the warlike mediæval baron,
+reckless and ruthless, Bertran stands unsurpassed in history or
+literature. But we have seen that the refining and softening influences
+of friendship, of love, of knightly courtesy, were not wholly absent from
+his career.
+
+Another consideration suggests itself. Would it not be worth while for
+the authorities of the Record Office to secure a competent hand to glean
+from the biography of this and other troubadours the many important and
+hitherto totally neglected facts bearing on the continental policy of the
+Plantagenets?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+
+THE MONK OF MONTAUDON.
+
+
+Of the life of the Monk of Montaudon the old manuscripts tell us little.
+We are ignorant even of his name, and only know that he was descended
+from a noble family residing at Castle Vic in Auvergne. Being a younger
+son he was, as the biography naïvely puts it, ‘made a monk of,’ and
+entered the Abbey of Orlac (Aurillac), in the vicinity of his father’s
+castle; some time afterwards he became Prior of Montaudon. Soon, however,
+it became apparent that the cowl had not made the monk; he began to
+compose gay stanzas and satiric _sirventeses_ on the events of the day.
+The knights and barons of the adjacent castles were pleased with the
+poet’s gay, genial ways. They asked him to feasts and tournaments, and
+rewarded his songs with rich gifts, conscientiously remitted by him to
+the treasury of his cloister; a circumstance which goes far to explain
+the leniency with which his superiors looked on his infringements of the
+monastic rules. At last the monk asked permission of the Abbot of Orlac
+to regulate his way of living according to the commands of King Alfonso
+of Aragon, known to us as the revenger of Guillem de Cabestanh’s death,
+and a great protector and friend of troubadours in general. The granting
+of this comprehensive prayer tends to prove at once the lucrativeness of
+the monk’s poetic endeavours, and the considerate tolerance of the worthy
+prelate. For no sooner was the permission given than Alfonso bade the
+monk eat meat, compose gay songs, and court the favour of a lady. ‘Et el
+si fes,’ ‘and so he did,’ the manuscript adds significantly.
+
+There were held at that time certain gay assemblies at Puy Sainte Marie,
+where the noble ladies and gentlemen of many miles round met for a season
+to enjoy courteous pastimes. The knights measured their strength in the
+lists, the troubadours sang their sweetest _canzos_ for prizes, made
+more valuable by the beautiful hands which distributed them. At this gay
+court the Monk of Montaudon was now created master of the revels, and in
+this capacity had to hold the celebrated sparrow-hawk, a time-honoured
+ceremony, performed by him with portly dignity, we may imagine. At the
+beginning of each of these annual feasts the ‘Master of the Court of
+Puy’ stood in the midst of the noble guests, took a sparrow-hawk on his
+fist, and calmly waited till one of the great barons relieved him of his
+burden. The acceptance of the bird involved the obligation of bearing the
+not inconsiderable expenses of the whole feast, and was therefore the
+exclusive privilege of the richest and most liberal nobles. Perhaps it
+was owing to this pretty but frequently ruinous custom that the Court
+of Puy itself came to an untimely end. After its expiration the Monk of
+Montaudon went to Spain, where his abbot conferred upon him the dignity
+of Prior of Villafranca, in acknowledgment, most likely, of his exemplary
+life. This monastery, also, the monk enriched with the gifts of his
+literary patrons. He lived to an advanced age, and died much esteemed and
+loved by his brethren. He flourished about the end of the twelfth century.
+
+From this short sketch of the monk’s life some anticipatory notion of his
+poetry may be formed. There is in his works a spirit of freshness and
+animal vigour which ought somewhat to atone for a considerable admixture
+of grossness in thought and expression. Whatever the poet’s faults may
+be, hypocrisy is not amongst them; and, to leave no doubt whatever as
+to his tastes, he has dedicated three entire songs of moderate size to
+the enumeration of all the things in the world which excite his just
+displeasure. A fourth and supplementary poem describes the more agreeable
+aspects of life by way of contrast. This _catalogue raisonné_ of lights
+and shadows is exceedingly curious, and outspoken beyond the imagination
+and endurance of polite minds and ears.
+
+Amongst the most detestable things, the monk ranks quarrelsome and
+arrogant people, a halting horse, a young knight without a rent in
+his shield, a monk with a long beard, a proud though poor lady, and
+finally, an over-affectionate husband. This last point is again highly
+characteristic of the Provençal conception of marriage already referred
+to. Our poet also abhors a small piece of meat in a large dish; and that
+a little wine with a great quantity of water is not to his taste, we
+would willingly believe without the testimony of St. Martin, solemnly
+invoked. His culinary principles being thus established, the monk
+proceeds to take us into his confidence with regard to the tender secrets
+of his heart. We conclude, from his confessions, that he has met with
+some ill-treatment at the hands of those members of the fair sex who,
+although of maturer beauty, have not yet abandoned their claims to
+admiration. Only personal experience can account for the poet’s bitter
+resentment. Three times he returns to the point, growing more venomous
+with every new attack. In one instance he goes so far as to use the
+ungallant expression, ‘Vielha caserna’—old barracks.
+
+In this manner he goes on grumbling and complaining of contrary winds
+when he wants to start on a voyage, of badly-lined fur caps, false
+friends, bad fiddlers, and other miscellaneous evils of this wicked
+world. A whole litany of saints is called to witness frequently on such
+precarious points, as to remind one of the Italian brigand, who prays to
+his Madonna previously to cutting purses or throats, as the case may be.
+
+But the monk is not an entire pessimist. His praise is as eloquent as his
+vituperation. He likes gaiety and carousals, courteous knights and noble
+ladies. A powerful man, he wishes to be friendly to his friends, hostile
+to his foes. The same un-Christian sentiment is repeated still more
+emphatically in the further course of the poem.
+
+ The hated foeman’s death I cherish,
+ The more, if by my hand he perish.
+
+Milder impulses, however, are not wanting. In two charming, melodious
+stanzas the poet depicts the delights of a summer’s day passed with his
+love by the side of the murmuring brook, while the air is sweet with the
+fragrance of blossoms and the song of the nightingale. Truth compels me
+to confess, that in close juxtaposition to this charming idyl, the very
+material wish is expressed of having a ‘_grans salmos ad hora nona_’—that
+is, a large salmon for supper.
+
+The Monk of Montaudon, as the reader will perceive, was little given to
+sentimentality, and the love-songs which he wrote, in compliance with the
+custom of the time, show accordingly more cleverness than true feeling.
+They are, however, full of happy turns of expression, and particularly
+abound with well-chosen similes—a proof that the poet was by no means
+wanting in imagination. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that satire
+was his true field of action, and we are not surprised at seeing a man
+of his keen sense of ridicule turn this weapon against those objects of
+superlative romantic adoration—women. The weaknesses of the fair sex are
+indeed the theme of two remarkable _sirventeses_ by our troubadour, which
+we now must consider a little more closely. They deserve attention, both
+by the original boldness of their satire and by the quaint disguise in
+which this main purpose is clad. The form adopted by the monk is that
+of a vision, familiar to the reader from those two great monuments of
+mediæval literature, the ‘Divina Commedia’ and ‘Piers the Ploughman.’
+Heaven itself, indeed, is the scene of the troubadour’s poem, but a
+heaven how different from the celestial abode to which the inspired
+Italian singer was welcomed by Beatrice!
+
+The Monk of Montaudon introduces us into the midst of a legal action, the
+cause of which is, I am almost ashamed to say, that immemorial privilege
+of the fair sex to counteract the ravages of time by the rosy bloom of
+artificial colour. The scene of the action, as has been seen before,
+is heaven; the Judge, the Deity itself; the monks act as accusers; the
+ladies are defendants. The painted cheeks of the latter are alleged to
+outshine the votive pictures in the monasteries. Painting, and the mixing
+of colours, the monks assert to be their own inventions, to the use
+of which the ladies have no claim or title. This monstrous allegation
+the ladies, of course, deny indignantly. Colouring, they say, is their
+natural birthright, and has been practised by them long before either
+monks or votive pictures were thought of.
+
+At this juncture a compromise is proposed by the bench, to the effect
+that ladies on the right side of twenty-five shall be allowed to retain
+the bloom of youth by what means they please for a further term of
+twenty years. But the vicious monks refuse to grant more than ten years;
+and it is only by the intercession of those accomplished diplomats,
+SS. Peter and Lawrence, that a medium time of fifteen years is at last
+agreed upon by the contending parties. Forty years, then, is the limit up
+to which, to judge from this decision, a Provençal lady might, without
+incurring ridicule, play youthful parts in life’s comedy. ‘But,’ the monk
+adds, ‘I see that the ladies have broken their promise, which is unfair
+and wicked; few only have been faithful to their vow.’ He further enters
+upon a detailed enumeration of the various ingredients of paint which, by
+the way, seems to throw some new light on that interesting question in
+the history of mediæval art, the composition of colours previous to the
+introduction of the oil-medium. ‘The old monks,’ we hear, ‘are deprived
+of their beans, the only thing which they can eat; and they are therefore
+left without any food. The price of saffron also, which ought to be used
+for the sauces of _ragoûts_, has been driven up by the ladies to such a
+degree, that people over the sea begin to complain, as pilgrims tell us.
+Let the ladies take the cross, and go themselves to Palestine, to fetch
+the saffron of which they stand in such need.’
+
+In the second poem the ladies have been charged with the breach of the
+former treaty, and it seems that the monk has been summoned to heaven
+for a preparatory consultation. The Supreme Judge is indignant at such
+audacity. ‘Monk,’ he says, ‘I hear the ladies have broken their promise;
+go down, for the love of me, to tell them that if they again use colour,
+I shall take dire revenge.’ But the poet has evidently been under gentle
+pressure since the last trial. He now takes the part of the ladies in the
+warmest terms. ‘Gently, gently, my lord!’ he interposes; ‘you must have
+patience with the ladies, for it is their nature to sweetly adorn their
+countenance.’ To this opinion he adheres with obstinacy. In vain it is
+alleged against him that the ladies, by trying to perpetuate their youth,
+infringe the unalterable laws of Nature. The monk is not to be shaken.
+There is only one alternative, he thinks—either to grant unfading beauty
+to the ladies, or else to deprive the whole human race of the art of
+painting.
+
+This is, in brief outline, the argument of two of the quaintest
+productions mediæval literature can show. The bold cynicism with which
+the delicate secrets of the dressing-room are revealed justly surprises
+us in a troubadour of noble family and liberal education; but much more
+are we astonished at the familiarity with which the Deity itself is mixed
+up with these worldly matters. It is true that, in the old Mysteries
+and Miracle-plays, tolerated and even countenanced by the Church,
+sacred topics are treated with a naïve simplicity strange to modern
+religious feeling. But the experienced eye can almost always discern the
+under-current of sacred awe at the bottom of the wildest outburst of
+popular imagination. Even the ‘Wanton Wife of Bath,’ whose tongue is a
+match for all the saints in heaven, ‘trembles at his sight,’ when the
+Saviour himself appears in his glory. This sacred tremor is entirely
+unknown to the Monk of Montaudon, who, moreover, as an artistic poet
+addressing a refined audience, is without the excuse of popular rudeness
+and ignorance. Yet I think we should be unjust in ascribing to him any
+conscious intention of blasphemy, or even irreverence. Supposing even he
+had been a sceptic, he was at the same time too much attached to life and
+its pleasures to parade his heresies at the risk of his neck. The only
+way of solving the psychological puzzle is to follow the ancient example
+of the monk’s superiors, and to make ample allowance for the reckless
+buoyancy of a poet’s fancy, difficult to check at a certain point when
+once let loose. To give an idea of the ease with which he moves in the
+celestial regions, I will quote the opening stanza of another poem, the
+tone of which reminds one somewhat of the ‘Prelude in Heaven’ of Goethe’s
+‘Faust.’ It seems to have been written at a time when, after a prolonged
+stay at his monastery, the author was fain to set out on another
+expedition.
+
+ Up to heaven I found my way
+ Lately: you may trust my word,
+ Welcome sweet bade me the Lord,
+ He whose all-command obey
+ Land and sea, and hill and dell.’
+ ‘Monk, why do you seek my throne?
+ Tell me how fares Montaudon,
+ Where thy pious brethren dwell?
+
+The drift of the poem is easily discernible. Some of his monastic
+brethren had evidently remarked upon the poet’s worldly ways; and to
+silence these, the very highest authority is now brought to bear on the
+subject. This is the reassuring answer the monk receives to his pretended
+conscientious scruples: ‘I like you to laugh and sing, for the world
+grows merrier, and Montaudon gains through it.’ By such an argument,
+coming from such a quarter, the sourest of ascetics was reduced to
+acquiescence.
+
+A troubadour who, as we have seen, wholly disregarded the rules of
+courteous gallantry could not be expected to use much consideration where
+his own sex and his rivals in art were concerned. Accordingly, we find
+that one of the most venomous literary satires of that libel-loving age
+owes its existence to our author. It ought, however, to be mentioned, in
+justice to him, that another troubadour had set the example of wholesale
+abuse. The Monk of Montaudon’s _sirventes_ is, indeed, avowedly founded
+on a similar production by Peire of Alvernhe, in which that distinguished
+poet gives vent to his affectionate feelings towards no less than twelve
+contemporary troubadours, some of them celebrated poets, others entirely
+unknown to us, but evidently men of considerable reputation at the time.
+One of his victims, the sweet singer of love, Bernart of Ventadorn, has
+been mentioned before. Of another no less renowned troubadour, Guiraut
+de Bornelh, it is said that ‘he resembles a dry blanket in the sun, with
+his thin, miserable voice, which sounds like that of an old woman crying
+out water in the street. If he saw himself in a mirror [meaning, “as
+others see him”], he would not think himself worth a roseberry.’ In this
+manner Peire of Alvernhe goes on through twelve stanzas, battering down
+reputations in order to erect on their ruins the column of his own glory.
+‘Peire of Alvernhe,’ he winds up, ‘has a fine voice, and can sing high
+and low, filling the air with sweetest sound. His would be the highest
+praise, but for the obscurity of his words, which hardly any one can
+understand.’ The candid reader who would see in this last qualification a
+remnant of modesty would be vastly mistaken; for a dark, involved style
+was considered by connoisseurs as the sign of highest genius, and it was
+chiefly to his _motz oscurs_ (dark words) and _rims cars_ (rare rhymes)
+that Arnaut Daniel owed that place of honour awarded to him in Petrarch’s
+beautiful lines—
+
+ Fra tutti il primo Arnaldo Daniello
+ Gran maestro d’amor; ch’ alla sua terra
+ Ancor fa onor col suo dir nuovo e bello.[25]
+
+It is satisfactory to notice that in Peire of Alvernhe’s case exceeding
+pride has met with due castigation. For in some of the manuscripts the
+opening lines of the self-laudatory stanza have been travestied by a
+witty copyist into a very differing meaning. ‘Peire of Alvernhe,’ this
+altered version reads, ‘sings like a frog in a pond, although he praises
+himself above all the world.’ The remainder of the stanza, however, has
+been left unaltered, for Peire’s high literary position was an undeniable
+fact. The manuscripts call him ‘the best troubadour in the world till
+Guiraut de Bornelh (his “dry blanket”) came,’ and Nostradamus relates
+that Peire found such favour with the ladies as to enjoy the privilege of
+kissing the fairest amongst his audience after each _canzo_ he had sung.
+
+Such is the model the Monk of Montaudon has chosen, and it must be owned
+that the disciple is worthy of the master. The monk’s acquaintance with
+the most intimate details of his rivals’ biographies would do credit to
+a modern interviewer. ‘As Peire of Alvernhe,’ he begins, ‘has sung about
+the troubadours of past days, I am going to do the same for those that
+have come since, and I hope they won’t be angry with me for exposing
+their evil doings.’ And then he sallies forth on his crusade of abuse,
+devoting with laudible equality the space of six verses to each victim,
+‘a character dead at every stanza,’ as Sir Peter Teazle would say. The
+reader will be glad to hear that no mercy is shown to Peire of Alvernhe.
+‘He wears his coat these thirty years,’ we are told. ‘He is as lean
+as firewood, and his singing is getting worse and worse. Since he has
+joined company with a lewd woman at Clermont, he has not made a single
+good song.’ ‘Arnaut Daniel (Petrarch’s “great master of love”) has never
+in his life written anything tolerable, but only composed stuff which
+nobody can understand.’ Folquet of Marseilles, whose conversion from a
+gay troubadour to a religious zealot has been briefly mentioned before,
+is reminded that his father was a pedlar. ‘He swore a foolish oath when
+he said he would write no more songs, and it has been said that he
+consciously perjured himself.’
+
+But the most piercing darts of his quiver the monk reserves for a
+troubadour whose immeasurable vanity, almost bordering on madness, was
+indeed a tempting mark for the satirist. I am speaking of Peire Vidal, of
+whose life and works and follies the reader has had a full account. Only
+a few leading points need here be recapitulated.
+
+He was the son of a furrier, but had forgotten and made others forget
+his low origin. He believed himself to be an irresistible breaker of
+hearts, and had to pay dearly for his vain boasting of favours never
+granted. For a jealous husband, whose wife the Peire counted amongst his
+victims, had the poet’s tongue pierced, which, however, did not prevent
+the incorrigible braggart from continuing to call himself the dread of
+husbands, ‘who fear me worse than fire or pointed iron, God be thanked.’
+At one time he took part in a crusade, and married a Greek lady at
+Cyprus, with whom he returned home. For some reason or other he imagined
+his wife to be the niece of the Greek Emperor, and, as her husband,
+claimed a right to the imperial throne. In the meantime he adopted the
+style and title of an Emperor, and even thought of equipping a fleet to
+enforce his right to the throne. His follies naturally excited universal
+merriment, and we need not wonder at finding the Monk amongst the
+foremost of the scoffers. ‘Peire Vidal,’ he exclaims, ‘is one of the very
+last of poets. He has not got all his limbs, and a tongue of silver would
+be desirable for him. Once he was a miserable furrier, but since he has
+dubbed himself a knight he has lost his last remnant of wits.’
+
+In this strain the monk continues through fifteen stanzas, scattering
+abuse broadcast, and if his wit sometimes seems to desert him, it must,
+at least, be owned that his spite is genuine and unflagging. But in his
+case also the manuscripts contain an additional stanza of retributive
+justice, most likely by a later copyist. ‘With the sixteenth stanza,’ it
+says, ‘the false Monk of Montaudon will be satisfied, he who quarrels and
+fights with every one. He has deserted God for a flitch of bacon, and for
+his ever attempting to write _canzos_ and verses he ought to be hung up
+in the wind.’
+
+Such was literary criticism amongst the troubadours—a not very edifying
+spectacle, upon which, the reader perhaps may think, too many words
+have been wasted already. So we will drop the curtain on the Monk of
+Montaudon, not without a good-natured smile at his weaknesses, nor
+without wonderment at an age which burnt and quartered thousands of
+virtuous Albigeois, and tolerated, or even approved of, such doings and
+such utterances in a monk.
+
+But, before leaving the subject finally, I must warn the reader not to
+judge the general tone of the Provençal _sirventes_ by the few examples
+of personal satire here specified. The troubadours grow, as Schiller
+says, with their greater purpose. In reproving the moral evils of their
+time, the decay of piety, the avarice of the great, the outrages of
+clerical pride, they frequently attain to an almost Dantesque power
+of conception and imagery. I know of few grander ideas in poetry than
+Marcabrun’s picture of the enormous tree, whose branches mingle with the
+clouds, whose roots spread down to mid-earth. To it are tied innumerable
+multitudes of all classes, from king to beggar. For the tree is the
+eternal evil of the world, and avarice and covetousness are the bonds
+which fetter mankind.
+
+But such objective depth of idea must not be expected from the Monk of
+Montaudon. He is a broadly humorous figure, and although characteristic
+in many ways of his time and country, he must not blind us to the serious
+currents of thought moving the age in which he lived, and the literature
+of which he represents one feature. We must look at him as one of those
+burlesque types by which the terrible seriousness of man’s life and
+thoughts is fortunately relieved at intervals—a product of nature’s
+creative humour in one of her most whimsical moods.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+
+THE REFORMATION OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
+
+
+The great struggle for religious liberty, which began with Huss and
+Wycliffe, culminated in the age of Luther, Calvin, and Cranmer, and
+continues to pervade modern thought and feeling, is apt to blind us to
+earlier movements in the same direction. The sixteenth century is so
+inseparably linked with our ideas of the Reformation, that to connect
+the word with a previous epoch seems almost like a paradox. But the
+intellectual night of the middle ages was not quite as dark as modern
+Protestant pride is apt to fancy, neither did nations and individuals
+bow without resistance to the yoke of Rome. The thirteenth century
+especially may be justly described as an epoch of religious revolution.
+Heresy raised its multifarious heads in all countries of Europe, from the
+Danubian principalities to the English shores of the Atlantic. Everywhere
+the vices of the clergy were laid bare with merciless satire, in many
+places the cry for liberty of thought and doctrine was raised, and the
+translation of the Bible into the language of the people is frequently
+found amongst the demands of heterodox theologians. And whatever the
+dissensions amongst the various sects might be, they were united in their
+hatred and opposition to the Church of Rome.
+
+This alarming circumstance was fully realised by the man to whose
+energy the resistance and final victory of Papal supremacy were in a
+great measure due, Pope Innocent III. Speaking of the various classes
+of heretics, he says: ‘Species quidem habentes diversas, sed caudas ad
+invicem colligatas.... Magisterium Ecclesiae Romanae refugiunt.’ As to
+the extraordinary knowledge of the Bible amongst some of the sects,
+another unimpeachable witness may be cited,—Reinerius, a Catholic
+convert and violent assailant of the Waldenses, who professes to have
+known a common peasant able to recite the whole of the book of Job, and
+several others who knew the New Testament by heart. It was not without
+reason, the reader will perceive, that about this time the Church became
+more and more anxious to wrench such a dangerous source of dissent and
+argumentation from the hands of the common people. Hence the notion,
+frequently insisted upon in ecclesiastical writings of the period, of the
+Bible being a book of unfathomable depth, all but incomprehensible to the
+greatest scholars, and useless, if not dangerous, to the vulgar.
+
+No country in those days offered a more favourable soil to the growth of
+heresy than the south of France. Its wealth, its practical independence
+from the central power of the French kings, and the natural spirit of its
+inhabitants, had fostered a degree of local freedom all but unequalled
+in other parts of feudal Europe. Particularly the citizens of the large
+towns showed a remarkable spirit of pride and political ambition. As
+early as the thirteenth century, we hear of a legally constituted
+‘_tiers état_,’ consisting of delegates of the towns, at the provincial
+assemblies of the county of Toulouse. A population of this kind was not
+likely to bow in silent awe to a priesthood, the vices and weaknesses
+of which were notorious, and formed a favourite butt for the satire of
+the troubadours. The step from antagonism to the representatives of the
+Roman Church to the rejection of its doctrine was easy, and hence we are
+not surprised to see the south of France described as the brood-nest of
+foulest heresy; nay, even the Provençal language, or _langue d’oc_, was
+harsh and repulsive to orthodox ears, and, as was mentioned before, Pope
+Innocent IV., in a bull dated 1245, forbade its use to the students.
+
+The chief sect existing in the county of Toulouse and its dependencies
+derived its name from the town or diocese of Albi. But it must be
+remembered that Albigenses, or, in its French form, Albigeois, is a
+collective name used by the Catholics almost synonymously with heretics,
+and without regard to the most important doctrinal and moral variations.
+The Vaudois or Waldenses, for instance, although frequently mixed up
+with the Albigenses, seem to have had little in common with them beyond
+their opposition to Roman supremacy.[26] My task being a purely literary
+consideration of the subject, I must deal with the Albigeois doctrine
+in the briefest fashion. Our knowledge of that doctrine is, moreover,
+anything but satisfactory or complete, being mainly derived from the
+statements of Catholic controversialists, the confessions of heretics
+preserved amongst the documents of the Inquisition, and the decrees of
+councils and provincial synods. The fanaticism of mediæval monks seems to
+have been fatal to the utterances of their adversaries. We do not indeed
+possess a single authentic document from an Albigeois source, and the
+celebrated embodiment of the Vaudois creed, called ‘The Noble Lesson.’
+which Raynouard dated from the eleventh century, is now generally
+acknowledged to belong to a much later period, when the sect was cooped
+up in its Alpine recesses, and had lost its real importance and vitality.
+It seems at any rate doubtful whether this curious document contains the
+pure doctrine of the original ‘Poor Men of Lyons.’
+
+From such sources as those indicated above, it may be concluded with
+tolerable certainty that the Albigenses were part of that great
+new-Manichean heresy, which, taking its rise amongst the Slav populations
+of the Balkan peninsula, gradually spread over almost every part of
+Western Europe, leaving traces of its name and aspirations in more than
+one modern language. The self-laudatory term of Cathari (from the Greek
+word καθαρός, pure) assumed by some of the heretics, was converted by the
+Germans into the generic term of ‘Ketzer,’ or heretic; and the Italian
+word ‘bugiardo,’ liar, is a lasting testimony of the repute in which
+Bulgarian veracity, deservedly or undeservedly, was held; not to mention
+other still more opprobrious epithets derived from the same root.
+
+In common with other new-Manichean sects, the Albigenses seem to have
+rejected a Trinity, and to have placed in its stead a dualism of
+creative principles: one good, the other evil; one representing the
+invisible and spiritual, the other the physical and tangible. More
+obnoxious perhaps than this merely speculative attempt at the solution
+of an old metaphysical problem must have been, in the eyes of Romish
+priests, those doctrines which more immediately clashed with Papal dogmas
+and rites. To these belong the abolishment of mass and sacraments, and
+of the veneration of the saints. The idea of transubstantiation the
+Albigenses treated with scorn, and, moreover, they founded this and other
+heterodox opinions on the exclusive authority of the Bible, or rather
+of the New Testament, for against the Hebrew books they had a strange
+prejudice. The spiritual tinge of their doctrine made them adverse
+to marriage or any form of sexual intercourse, from which indeed the
+initiated abstained totally. From a similar point of view we have to
+explain another of their moral precepts, viz., vegetarianism, founded
+not on the nature-worship of Buddhism, or on Shelley s humanitarian
+enthusiasm, but on the abhorrence of the flesh and everything procreated
+by the flesh. For the same reason the prohibition did not extend to fish.
+
+It is less apparent on what grounds they insisted upon another demand
+of modern philanthropists, the abolition of capital punishment. And it
+is not unlikely that our admiration of this almost unique instance of
+humanity in those cruel times would be considerably diminished by our
+knowledge of its motive. Most probably some absurd theological crotchet
+was at the bottom of it. For in that respect mediæval heretics were by no
+means in advance of their Catholic contemporaries. One of the questions,
+for instance, hotly discussed by Pope Innocent III. and the heretics,
+was, whether the number of nails used at the Crucifixion was three or
+four. The heretics inclined to the lower figure, and were soundly rated
+for that reason by a learned controversialist, who denounces their
+doctrine as unworthy of Catholics and Christians.
+
+The charges of all manner of vices raised against the Albigeois by
+monkish chroniclers ought naturally to be received with great caution.
+Sometimes even these bear unwilling testimony to the general purity of
+their manners. It is said that on one occasion Folquet, the fanatical
+Bishop of Toulouse, asked a knight recently converted to Catholicism, why
+he and his friends did not drive the heretics from the country. ‘It is
+impossible,’ was the answer; ‘we have grown up amongst them, our friends
+and relations are of them, and we know that they lead honest lives.’ It
+is, however, by no means improbable that the exaggerated asceticism of
+their moral code frequently led to secret vice and hypocrisy.
+
+The anecdote just related may at the same time give the reader an idea
+of the power and extension of the Provençal heresy, about the beginning
+of the thirteenth century, the period which chiefly concerns us here. It
+proves, and we know from other sources, that the sect was by no means
+limited to the lower orders. We hear, for instance, of a great teacher
+of the Albigeois, by name Guillabert de Castres, who had many followers
+amongst the highest nobility of Southern France. At one of his religious
+meetings, in 1204, he received amongst his flock five high-born ladies,
+one of them the sister of Count Raimon Roger of Foix, one of the most
+powerful lords of the country, of whom we shall hear again. The ladies,
+the old account runs, surrendered themselves to God and the Gospel. They
+consented to abstain from flesh, eggs, and cheese; the use of oil and
+fish, on the other hand, was conceded to them. They also promised never
+to take an oath nor to speak an untruth. Vows of perfect chastity, and
+of adherence to their creed at the risk of their lives, were further
+conditions of their reception amongst the faithful. The Count of
+Foix, and many knights and citizens, are said to have witnessed this
+conversion, and there is little doubt that the former himself followed,
+or perhaps had preceded, his sister’s example. But the same is not by
+any means certain of Raimon VI., Count of Toulouse, the champion of
+the national and religious freedom of Southern France. There is little
+evidence with regard to him of even an inclination towards the doctrinal
+views of the heretics, and he died a faithful son of the Catholic Church,
+although she refused him her comfortings in his last hours, and a grave
+after death. But it is just this orthodoxy of his dogmatical opinions
+which makes his position in the struggle so interesting. He is an almost
+unique instance in the middle ages of a strict adherent, nay a martyr, to
+religious toleration.
+
+Raimon VI. was not, like his friend the Count of Foix, a fighting baron
+in the ordinary sense. His personal courage on the battle-field was
+unimpeachable, but he did not love the fight for the fight’s sake. When
+the spreading of the heresy in his territories, fostered by his leniency,
+first began to alarm the watchfulness of Rome, he did everything in his
+power to avoid the thunders of the Church. Many were the penances and
+humiliations and promises of amendment to which he submitted without
+much personal reluctance, it would seem. But all attempts at a final
+reconciliation were frustrated by his one unalterable resolve, not to
+give over his subjects to the tender mercies of the Inquisition. Their
+safety and freedom were to him dearer than his lands and castles, more
+sacred even than the vows extracted from him under compulsion. Much fault
+may be found with Raimon’s general conduct in these transactions; even in
+his noble principle of toleration he may have been influenced by the ties
+of relationship and other personal motives. But the fact remains, that
+at a time when heretics were treated worse than robbers and murderers, a
+great prince struggled and fought, at the risk of his life and property,
+for the religious freedom of his subjects, whose belief he did _not_
+share.
+
+Raimon’s great antagonist—intellectually, and perhaps morally, infinitely
+his superior—was Pope Innocent III. He is one of those characters in
+history which leave their impress on periods of which they at the same
+time represent the highest development in one direction or another.
+Without him the Church of Rome might have succumbed to the aggressions
+of temporal and spiritual enemies, but neither would he have been
+possible except as the representative of a great spiritual power, full
+of latent vitality, and with a strong hold on the minds of the people.
+The one great idea of his life was the consolidation and enlargement of
+the Church, with regard to its dogma, its discipline, and its political
+power. To this aim he devoted the energy of his mind and the great stores
+of his acquired knowledge; to it he sacrificed his personal interests,
+perhaps his conscience. For, even accepting his own standard of duty, it
+is difficult to justify at least the one act of his reign which concerns
+us most immediately. This is, the diverting of the enthusiasm which found
+its tangible result in the Crusades, from the Turk, the common enemy of
+Christianity, to a comparatively harmless sect in his more immediate
+neighbourhood. I am alluding to the celebrated crusade preached by him
+against the Provençal heretics, fatal alike to the political freedom and
+to the independent literature of Southern France.
+
+When Innocent, in 1198, at the early age of thirty-seven, ascended the
+chair of St. Peter, one of his first desires was to impart new life
+to the hitherto somewhat sluggish action against the Albigenses. The
+bishops of the threatened dioceses were admonished to take immediate and
+energetic measures, and a number of Papal legates were successively
+despatched to stem the current of heresy by preaching, personal
+persuasion, and, if need be, severe repression. Amongst the priests most
+devoted to the cause of Rome, and most fanatical in their orthodox zeal,
+two names stand out prominently—that of Folquet, Bishop of Toulouse, once
+a gay troubadour, now an ascetic; and that of St. Dominic, branded by
+history as the originator of the Inquisition.
+
+Count Raimon’s attitude in the meantime seems to have been one of
+diplomatic evasion. When taken to task for his notorious connivance at
+the heretical movement, he meekly confessed his guilt, and promised
+the immediate expulsion of the culprits from his dominions. But no
+result followed; not even after the severest punishment of the Church,
+the Interdict, had been twice inflicted on him and his subjects.
+The instrument of the Papal wrath on the second occasion was Pierre
+de Castelnau, the legate; and his death at the hands of two unknown
+assassins, with which Count Raimon was charged, is the tragic close of
+the first scene of the Albigeois drama.
+
+This event gave new zest to the extreme measure resolved upon by the Pope
+shortly before—the preaching of a crusade against the heretics and their
+protector. The political wisdom of such a measure is at once apparent,
+and fully accounts for its ultimate success. The fertile valleys and
+wealthy cities of Provence offered a tempting bait to pious plunderers,
+who at the same time avoided a wearisome and dangerous journey to the far
+East without losing any of the spiritual privileges connected with the
+more onerous task. Moreover, the Papal mandate was chiefly addressed to
+the ruler and the nobles of the French kingdom, who for a long time had
+looked with a covetous eye on the broad acres and rich vineyards of their
+southern neighbours.
+
+The year 1209 marks the opening of the first crusade. The legates of
+the Pope guided the sacred army. Amongst the worldly leaders, the name
+of Simon de Montfort, father of the celebrated Earl of Leicester, is
+the most prominent. The incidents of this war, which lasted over twenty
+years, and laid waste the most flourishing provinces of France, are
+matter of history. Suffice it here to allude briefly to the revolting
+cruelties of the crusaders, and to such memorable events as the sieges
+of Lavaur and Beziers, and the decisive battle of Muret, at which Peter
+II. of Aragon, the brother-in-law and ally of Count Raimon, perished
+with the flower of his chivalry. It was at the sack of Beziers that that
+man of God, Arnaud, Abbot of Citeaux, when asked by the soldiers how to
+distinguish Catholics and heretics, spoke the pious words: ‘Kill them
+all; the Lord will know his own!’
+
+In the end, the Church remained triumphant. Raimon died with a broken
+heart and a broken fortune. His valour in the field of battle had been
+in vain; even his most humiliating attempts at reconciliation with the
+Roman See had come to naught, owing, in great part, to the personal
+hatred of the legates and local clergy, who, out-heroding Herod,
+frustrated the milder intentions of the Pope. It ought to be added, in
+alleviation of the guilt of the priests, that religious intolerance was
+supported in this case by worldly ambition and covetousness. The crusade
+soon took the form of a political war between the North and the South of
+France; it was a struggle of provincial autonomy against centralisation.
+This issue also was gained by the invaders. As early as 1215, the lands
+of the Count of Toulouse were by the Pope given to his champion, Simon
+de Montfort, who, it is true, never enjoyed their quiet possession, and
+died in the defence of his ill-gotten title. By his eldest son, Amaury,
+these claims were ceded to the King of France, who in the meantime had
+taken a prominent part in the crusade. In the final peace concluded with
+the crown of France at Paris, in 1229, Count Raimon VII., son of Raimon
+VI., barely succeeded in retaining possession of the scanty remains
+of his heritage during his own lifetime. His daughter and heiress was
+married to the brother of the King of France. This marriage sealed the
+doom of southern independence; its customs, its traditions, and its
+literature were rapidly merged in the overpowering influence of northern
+centralisation. The _langue d’oc_ descended to the level of a local
+patois.
+
+It is sad to relate that the last recorded action of Raimon VII. was
+his personal attendance at the conviction and burning alive of eighty
+heretics. With the Treaty of Paris, the last hope of the Albigeois
+movement had vanished, and its remnants were gradually hunted down by
+the bloodhounds of the Inquisition, now an established institution in
+beautiful Provence.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+
+THE EPIC OF THE CRUSADE.
+
+
+On the tombstone of Count Raimon VI. the following two lines, in
+Provençal, were engraved:—
+
+ Non y a homes sus terra, per gran senhor que fos,
+ Quem gites de ma terra, si la glieza non fos;
+
+that is—‘No man on earth, how great a lord he may be, can drive me from
+my land but for the Church.’ These lines are taken from a narrative of
+the crusade against the Albigenses, in the _langue d’oc_—a work equally
+interesting as a contemporary source of history, and as a literary
+document. In the latter respect alone it concerns us here, and the reader
+is asked to consider the preceding historic remarks mainly as a necessary
+elucidation of the following extracts. A few dates as to the genesis and
+character of the poem itself may perhaps be welcome.
+
+The ‘Song of the Crusade against the Albigeois’ is evidently written by
+an eye-witness of many of the events described, and was, no doubt, at
+its first appearance, what we should call a most successful book. Its
+popularity is proved by the quotation already alluded to, as also by
+the fact that at an early date an abridgment of its contents in prose,
+for more popular use, was found necessary. In spite of this, only one
+manuscript[27] of the poem has reached our time. It was edited amongst
+the ‘Documents inédits sur l’histoire de France,’ by the well-known
+scholar, M. Fauriel, in 1837. The author of the poem is by no means
+reticent as to his identity or merits. ‘In the name of the Father, the
+Son, and the Holy Ghost,’ he opens his poem, after the manner of his
+time, ‘here begins the song which Master W(illiam) made; a clerk who
+was brought up at Tudela, in Navarra. He is wise and valorous, as the
+story says, and he was much cherished by clerks and laymen. Counts and
+viscounts loved him, and trusted his advice, owing to the destruction
+which he knew and foresaw by means of geomancy, which he had studied
+long. And he knew that the country would be burnt and laid waste, because
+of the foolish belief it had adopted.’
+
+But in spite of this emphatic declaration, M. Fauriel saw reason to
+call in question not only the authorship, but the very existence of the
+wise clerk of Tudela. The pretension of proficiency in the black art
+boldly put forward, seemed to him a suspicious circumstance, and his
+doubt was confirmed by linguistic difficulties, into which we cannot
+enter here. These latter, however, have been conclusively solved by
+more recent scholars, and William’s posthumous fame would be securely
+established, but for another circumstance fatal to at least part of
+his claim. Fauriel already had pointed out that after about the first
+third of the poem—at verse 2769 later scholars have determined—a sudden
+change takes place in the author’s opinions. Hitherto he has been a warm
+defender of the crusaders; the French invaders are called ‘our French
+barons,’ and the author would be thankful to any one ‘who would hang
+those robbers and villains who kill the crusaders.’ Folquet, the zealous
+Bishop of Toulouse, seems to him to have ‘no equal in kindness’ (‘degus
+de bontat ab el no s’aparelha’); and Simon de Montfort, the great enemy
+of Provence, is described as a ‘good cavalier, liberal and brave and
+kindly, sweet-tempered and open-hearted, and of good understanding.’ The
+heretical creed the author calls, as has been said, a ‘fola crezensa,’
+and the full measure of his wrath is emptied on its adherents. He
+complacently relates the cruelties committed against them, and objects
+only to the indiscriminate slaughter of innocent and guilty.
+
+But all this is changed in the second portion of the poem. The French
+have now become ‘homicides’ and ‘men of the sword;’ sometimes even the
+uncomplimentary epithet of ‘taverners,’ or pothouse-keepers, is applied
+to them. Folquet is summarily alluded to as the ‘avesque felon,’ or
+‘wicked bishop;’ and the Pope himself is reproached with his cruelty to
+Raimon. But the most striking contrast between the two portions of the
+poem becomes apparent in the judgment of Simon de Montfort’s character.
+The author’s hatred against him in the second part vents itself in
+bitterest invective, and is not appeased by death itself. The description
+of the great leader’s fall in our poem is extremely vivid; it is painted
+with the colours of hatred. At the same time the triumph at the enemy’s
+fall bears involuntary witness to his greatness. Simon is besieging
+Toulouse, the rebellious capital of the dominions lately granted to him
+by the Pope, and the author describes an assault made by the crusaders,
+and valiantly repelled by the inhabitants. Montfort, incensed at the
+little progress made by his troops, is complaining to his brother,
+who has just been hit by an arrow. There was in the city, the author
+continues, a machine for throwing stones, worked by women, both girls and
+matrons. A stone is thrown, and goes ‘straight where it ought to go.’
+This ‘ought to go’ is an admirable trait of the fatalism of hatred. ‘It
+hits,’ the author continues, evidently gloating over the details, ‘Count
+Simon on his helmet, with such force that his eyes and brain, and the top
+of his head, and his forehead, and his jaws, are knocked to pieces. And
+the Count falls to the ground, dead, and bleeding, and black.’
+
+The terror and grief caused by this sudden event amongst the crusaders
+are then briefly alluded to, but the author is again in his element when
+he describes the unbounded joy of the besieged, fully shared by himself.
+The suggestions of making a martyr and saint of Simon, in his epitaph,
+the author treats with the utmost scorn. ‘If by killing men,’ he says,
+‘and shedding blood, by destroying souls and consenting to murder, by
+trusting in false counsels and by incendiarism, by ruining the barons and
+shaming nobility, by fostering evil and crushing good, by the massacre of
+women and children, one can gain Jesus Christ in this world, then Simon
+must wear a crown and shine in heaven.’
+
+It is difficult to believe that the same hand which thus heaped shame on
+Simon’s grave should have penned the eulogistic lines of the first part
+of the poem, particularly if one considers that the change of opinion
+from the particular point formerly alluded to coincides with certain
+metrical and dialectical variations totally overlooked by Fauriel, but
+since pointed out by M. Paul Meyer. The theory of there being only one
+author, however, has by no means been totally abandoned. Its champions
+explain the revolution in the poet’s feeling partly from the impression
+made on him by the cruelties of the invaders, partly from a change in his
+situation during the interval of several years, which undoubtedly lies
+between the end of the first and the commencement of the second part of
+his work. Into the philological details of this interesting controversy
+this is not the place to enter. Suffice it to say that, all things
+considered, the dualistic supposition seems to be decidedly the more
+probable of the two, both on external and internal grounds.
+
+One or two specimens from the interesting poem must serve the reader to
+judge of the poetic gift of William, or whoever the author or authors
+may have been. It has already been said that in his dealings with Count
+Raimon the conduct of Innocent III. himself was marked by greater
+leniency than that of his legates. This feature in the Pope’s character
+has suggested to our author a most curious scene, which he introduces
+into his elaborate account of the Council of the Lateran in 1215. Raimon
+of Toulouse, the Count of Foix, and several others of the threatened
+nobles of Provence, attended personally to plead their cause before
+the Holy Father. The legates and many of the local clergy of the south
+of France—the implacable Folquet, Bishop of Toulouse, foremost amongst
+them—upheld the claims of Simon de Montfort. A long and passionate
+dispute on the subject between the Count of Foix and the Bishop of
+Toulouse is given verbatim. The Pope tries to quiet them. ‘Friends,
+justice shall be done,’ he exclaims. At last he retires for a few minutes
+to his orchard. But the zealous prelates will not let him rest. The Pope
+asks for a few minutes of reflection. He opens a book, and concludes
+from the passage that first meets his eye that the Count of Toulouse may
+yet hold his own. ‘My lords,’ he says to the prelates, ‘I cannot agree
+with you. How can I disinherit the Count, who is a true Catholic?’ But
+the prelates do not, it appears, believe in book messages. They clamour
+against the sentence, and Folquet, the most dangerous of all, unites his
+sweet persuasion with their violent remonstrance. The Archbishop of Auch
+and—awful to relate—three hundred cardinals follow suit. No wonder that
+the poor Pope at last grants the decree in Simon’s favour. ‘My lords,’
+he finally exclaims, ‘the cause is decided. The Count (Raimon) is a
+Catholic, and of loyal conduct; but let Simon hold the lands.’
+
+These speeches cannot be accepted in their literal meaning, any more than
+those found in the pages of Xenophon or Thucydides. The circumstance
+also of the Pope deciding clearly and confessedly against his own
+conscience is evidently the high-coloured statement of a partisan of the
+oppressed Count. (The scene, it must be remembered, occurs in the second
+and anti-clerical division of the poem.) But the incidents are related
+with so much freshness of individual characterisation that the author’s
+intimate acquaintance with the persons and events described cannot be
+doubted for a moment. At any rate it is a quaint picture, and not without
+historic significance, to see the great Pontiff, the breaker of thrones
+and the umpire of nations, quailing under the storm of fanaticism raised
+by himself. Moreover, the idea which suggested the situation to the poet
+is not without its grain of sober truth. For, as has already been said,
+it is an historic fact that Innocent III. on several occasions showed an
+unfortunately abortive desire to protect Raimon against the unfettered
+rage of legates and monks.
+
+From the council-chamber we follow our author to the battle-field. Here,
+also, he is perfectly at home, and his descriptions, although naturally
+less attractive as regards psychological observation, are none the less
+vigorous and interesting. There is the true ring of the ‘chanson de
+geste,’ the genuine popular epic, in his lines. A few historic remarks
+must precede our quotation. The reader will remember the name of Peter
+II., the valiant king of Aragon, whose sister was the wife of Raimon of
+Toulouse. Although by no means favourably inclined towards the heretics,
+Peter could not calmly look on while his brother-in-law was despoiled
+of his heritage. His attempts at mediation between Raimon and Simon de
+Montfort were many. He appealed to the Pope and the King of France. At
+last, when his peaceful efforts proved in vain, he resolved to brave
+temporal and eternal perils rather than forsake his friend. He assembled
+a large army, and in September 1213 joined his forces with those of the
+Count of Toulouse. The immediate object of the allies was the siege of
+Muret, a small fortified town, not far from Toulouse, into which Simon
+had thrown himself. I now leave the word to the old chronicler.
+
+‘The good King of Aragon, on his good charger, is come to Muret, and has
+raised his banner and laid siege to the town with many rich vassals whom
+he has called from their fiefs. He has brought with him the flower of
+Catalonia, and many great knights from Aragon. They think that no one
+will offer resistance to them, or dare to attack them. He sends a message
+to the husband of his sister at Toulouse to join him with his barons and
+his army and his warlike men. He (the king) is ready to restore their
+fiefs to the Count of Cominges and all his relations; after that he
+will go to Beziers, and from Montpelier to Rocamador he will not leave
+a single crusader in castle or tower. All shall die a miserable death.
+The brave Count, when he hears the message, is well pleased, and goes
+straight to the Capitol.’
+
+The next tirade[28] relates to the deliberations of the Count of Toulouse
+with the chief magistrates of his city, whom, in accordance with the
+freedom enjoyed by the burgesses of Provence, he has to consult on this
+important occasion. It further describes the departure of the army, and
+winds up with a truly epical prognostication of their tragic fate. ‘They
+arrive before Muret, where they were to lose all their own; so much
+beautiful armour and so many valiant men. Great pity it was, so help me
+God, and the whole world felt the loss.’
+
+‘The whole world felt the loss, believe me I speak truth. Paradise
+itself was shaken and damaged and all Christendom shamed and downcast.
+But listen, sirs, how the thing came to pass. Assembled are at Muret the
+good King of Aragon and the Count of St. Giles, with his barons, and all
+the citizens and commonalty of Toulouse. They mount their stone-throwing
+machines, and batter the walls of Muret on all sides. They enter the
+new town all together, and the French who are there are so hard pressed
+that they have all to seek shelter in the castle. At once a messenger
+is sent to the king. “Sir King of Aragon, know for true that the men of
+Toulouse have done so well that, by your leave, they have taken the city.
+They have destroyed the houses, and driven the French into the castle.”
+When the king hears this he is not well pleased. He goes to the consuls
+of Toulouse and admonishes them to leave the men of Muret in peace.
+“We should be foolish,” he says, “in taking the town, for I have had a
+letter—a sealed message—to say that Simon de Montfort will to-morrow
+enter the town, and when he is once enclosed in it, and when my cousin
+Nunos has arrived, we will attack the town on all sides, and take all the
+French and crusaders captive.”’
+
+The troops vacate Muret accordingly, and retire to their tents. They have
+hardly sat down to dinner when Simon, with a band of chosen knights,
+appears and at once enters the city. ‘The river was shining with their
+helmets and their blades as if it were made of crystal. Never, by St.
+Martial, were so many brave vassals seen among so small a band.’
+
+The night is passed by the two armies in preparations for the morrow’s
+combat. Disagreement reigns in the camp of the allies. In the council of
+war the Count of Toulouse, who does not wish to risk a pitched battle
+with his army of citizens, and advises the fortification of the camp, is
+cried down by hot-headed fools, and no plan is finally agreed upon. The
+confusion of the leaders naturally grows worse confounded amongst the
+motley crowd of soldiers and ill-trained citizens. Simon de Montfort’s
+scheme, on the other hand, is devised with masterly skill. He desires
+what Count Raimon tries to avoid—a pitched battle in the open country.
+Bishop Folquet gives his blessing to the departing army. The catastrophe
+foreshadowed in the manner alluded to is told briefly, in accordance with
+the rapidity of the actual disaster.
+
+‘They (the French) march straight to the tents across the fens, their
+banners floating in the air. The whole meadow is resplendent with their
+gilt armour. When the good King of Aragon sees them he awaits them with
+a small number of followers. But the people of Toulouse come running
+by. They listen neither to king nor count. They never hear a word till
+the French are come, who all rush to where they know the king to be. He
+cries out, “I am the king,” but they hear him not, and so cruelly is he
+wounded, that his blood is shed over the land, and there he fell down,
+at full length, dead. The others who behold him give themselves over
+for lost. Every one flies. No one defends himself. The French follow at
+their heels and kill them all. And so roughly have they handled them that
+those who escape with their lives think themselves delivered indeed.’ A
+general stampede of the men of Toulouse, who had remained in the camp,
+and many of whom are now drowned in the swollen waves of the Garonne,
+forms the closing scene of this wild battle piece. ‘All their goods,’
+the poet once more complains, ‘remained in the camp, and the loss was
+greatly felt all the world over. For many a man there remained lying on
+the ground quite dead. Great is the pity!’
+
+Such is the description of the battle of Muret by a contemporary, most
+likely an eye-witness. For here again the characters of the different
+leaders, their speeches, and their demeanour, are sketched with a
+boldness of individualisation which can have been derived from personal
+knowledge alone. As a historic source, the work under discussion is
+absolutely invaluable. English students especially ought to give it every
+attention. For the struggle which it describes involved questions of the
+utmost importance to the continental dependencies of the English crown.
+
+It ought to be added, that the battle of Muret was a fatal blow to
+Raimon’s cause, from which it never recovered. For years he continued
+the fight; but it was a struggle against fate, a hope against hope. A
+different issue of that day might have changed the development of France.
+It might also have given new and lasting vitality to the Reformation of
+the thirteenth century.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+FOLQUET OF MARSEILLES.
+
+
+The question remains to be asked,—which side did the troubadours take
+in this struggle? Did they prove themselves to be men of mettle in a
+contest in which their own literary existence was at stake no less than
+the freedom of their country? Both these questions can, with a very few
+exceptions, be answered in their favour; as a class, they stood to the
+cause of their natural friend and protector; and it must be remembered
+that that cause at the time was identical with religious toleration and
+opposition to the tyranny of Rome. With the theological side of the
+contest the troubadours, however, did not concern themselves much; it was
+their duty and joy to lash the vices of the priests with their satire,
+and to defend their country and their beautiful language against French
+intrusion; the subtleties of dualism and doketism they wisely avoided.
+It is true that the great Peire Cardinal once ventured to speak on the
+mooted point of purgatory and eternal punishment; but we shall presently
+see how untheological, or, which is the same, how purely human, was his
+interest in the subject. It seems, indeed, doubtful whether many of the
+troubadours espoused the opinions of their Albigeois countrymen. Of some
+of the fiercest antagonists of the priests we know the contrary, and of
+one troubadour only, Aimeric de Pegulhan, we are told parenthetically
+that he died in Italy, ‘en eretgia segon c’om ditz’—‘a heretic, as people
+say.’
+
+Of the few troubadours prominently mentioned on the side of the Pope,
+one, Uc de St. Cyr, lived chiefly in Italy; another, Perdigon, had to pay
+dearly for his apostasy. When, after the battle of Muret, he rejoiced
+in the misfortune of his benefactor, the noble Peter of Aragon, society
+seems to have laid its interdict on him, and he had to hide his shame in
+a convent, where he died. Of much greater importance than either is the
+celebrated Folquet of Marseilles, whose name, as Bishop of Toulouse, and
+as one of the most zealous persecutors of his heretical countrymen, has
+more than once been mentioned in these pages. The life and character of
+this man are a psychological problem of deepest interest; his career was
+varied and inconsistent in itself—so inconsistent that the identity of
+troubadour and bishop has been doubted. But there is no reason for such a
+doubt, historical or psychological, as we shall presently see.
+
+The birthplace of Folquet cannot be ascertained with absolute certainty.
+Most likely he was a native of Marseilles, where his father possessed a
+large amount of property. It had been acquired by mercantile pursuits,
+continued for a time by the poet himself after his father’s death, if
+we may believe an allusion in the Monk of Montaudon’s satire. Folquet,
+however, did not follow his father’s calling for long. He lived amongst
+the gay and fashionable at the courts of the great nobles, where his
+graceful bearing and his poetical gift made him a welcome guest. One of
+his protectors was Barral, Viscount of Marseilles, and it was his wife,
+Azalais, who became the poet’s idol, and may be regarded as the final aim
+and cause of all his further thoughts and deeds; including his ultimate
+conversion, I do not hesitate to add. Their intercourse was not one of
+the conventional flirtations so common between troubadours and high-born
+ladies. Neither was it a mutual and guilty passion, such as existed
+between Guillem de Cabestanh and Margarida. The old biographer lays
+particular stress on the fact, that ‘neither by his prayers nor by his
+songs could he ever move her to show him favour by right of love; and for
+that reason he always complains of love in his songs.’
+
+These songs fully bear out the statement of the manuscript. Their one
+almost incessant theme is love’s disappointment. But this theme Folquet
+treats like an artist. He avoids monotony by an ever new array of
+striking similes and allegories in which he clothes his longing. What,
+for instance, can indicate the hesitation of a timorous though passionate
+lover better than the image of a man who has reached the middle of a
+tree, and does not ascend further or regain the earth, for fear of losing
+his chance or his life? Two stanzas of the poem in which it occurs
+may follow here in the original. They are full of sweetness, and will
+not offer serious difficulties to the reader, if he will consult the
+subjoined translation, which I have tried to make as literal as possible.
+The graceful intertwining of the rhymes bears witness to Folquet’s
+consummate workmanship, and deserves the attention of modern poets.
+
+ CANZOS.
+
+ S’al cor plagues ben for’ ueimais sazos
+ De far canson per joia mantener;
+ Mas tan mi fai m’aventura doler,—
+ Quan bem cossir los bes els mals qu’ieu ai—
+ Que tug dizon que ricx sui e bem vai.
+ Mas cel qu’o ditz non sap ges ben lo ver:
+ Benenansa non pot negus aver
+ D’aquela re, mas d’aquo qu’al cor plai.
+ Per que n’a mais us paubres s’es joyos
+ Q’us ricx ses joy, qu’es tot l’an cossiros.
+
+ E s’ieu anc jorn fui gays ni amoros,
+ Er non ai joy d’amor ni non l’esper;
+ Ni autres bes nom pot al cor plazer,
+ Ans mi semblan tug autre joy esmai.
+ Pero d’amor lo ver vos en dirai:
+ Nom lais del tot ni no m’en puesc mover
+ Ni sus no vau, ni no puesc remaner;
+ Aissi cum sel qu’en mieg de l’arbr’estai,
+ Qu’es tan poiatz que non pot tornar jos
+ Ni sus no vai, tan li par temeros.
+
+ _Translation._
+
+ But for my heart, this would the season be
+ To sing of love and joy a joyous song;
+ But grievously I suffer from the wrong,—
+ Seeing the good and evil of my case—
+ Which all men do me when my fate they praise;
+ Who speaks suchwise is of the foolish throng,
+ Who know not that the joys of life belong
+ To none but who receives them with good grace.
+ Wherefore a joyous heart in poverty
+ Is better far than wealth and misery.
+
+ Maybe I once was happy for a space,
+ But joy and hope of love have passed away;
+ No other good can make me blithe and gay,
+ For all the world I hold in dire disdain.
+ Of love the full truth let me now explain:
+ I cannot leave it, nor yet on my way
+ Pass back or forward, neither can I stay;
+ Like one who mounts a tree mid-high, and fain
+ Would mount still higher, or downward move apace,
+ But fear and tremor bind him in his place.
+
+His father’s wealth, it is evident, was of little use to poor Folquet,
+and we can quite understand his chafing at the folly of men who would
+insist on envying his brilliant misery. For all his early dreams of
+happiness had been dispelled by the stern virtue of a woman.
+
+It seems, however, that although unwilling to grant him any favour,
+the fair Azalais was extremely jealous of the poet’s praise. This, at
+least, would appear from an anecdote in the manuscript. Count Barral
+had two sisters residing at his court, with whom Folquet lived on terms
+of intimate friendship. But his mistress did not believe in Platonic
+relations between troubadours and young ladies at court. Her jealousy
+fixed on one of her sisters-in-law, the lady Laura, of whom she declared
+Folquet to be enamoured. She refused to see her lover again, ‘and would
+have no more of his prayers and fine words,’ as the biographer naïvely
+adds. Folquet was in despair; ‘he left off singing and laughing, for
+he had lost the lady whom he loved more than the whole world for one
+with whom he had no connection beyond courtesy.’ This assertion of the
+manuscript deserves our belief. It is quite possible, and indeed seems
+indicated by a passage in one of his songs, that Folquet affected a
+tender feeling for Laura in order to divert the attention of spies, but
+his real passion was all for Azalais. His songs and his conduct leave no
+doubt on the subject. It is an open question whether the intercession
+of a noble lady sought by Folquet obtained him the full pardon of his
+mistress. But certain it is that he remained invariably attached to
+her through good and evil report. For misfortune was in store for the
+countess. Barral, for some reason or other, got tired of his wife,
+obtained an invalidation of his marriage, and wedded another lady.
+Folquet’s position was difficult. The count was his oldest friend and
+protector, whom he loved sincerely, as is proved by the beautiful elegy
+on his death, which ensued soon afterwards. But no considerations of
+worldly prospects or friendship could shake his allegiance to the lady of
+his love. We possess songs dedicated to her subsequent to the separation,
+in one of which, written the year after Barral’s decease, the praise of
+the count is, curiously enough, addressed to his divorced widow. Perhaps
+the great peacemaker Death had taken the sting from her resentment, and
+the pair loved to linger over the memory of the departed.
+
+From one of Folquet’s songs it has been concluded that, tired of his
+purposeless endeavours, he at last broke off his relation with Azalais.
+The poem is one of Folquet’s finest and most characteristic efforts,
+containing a violent impeachment of Love himself. ‘Too late,’ the poet
+says, ‘I have discovered Love’s falsehood. I am like one who swears
+never to gamble again after he has lost his whole fortune.’ He further
+complains that for more than ten years Love has been his bad debtor,
+promising payment and never keeping the promise, and at last he solemnly
+renounces his allegiance to the faithless god. The protest is forcible
+and well expressed; but it is by no means proved that the poet acted
+upon his wise resolution. On several previous occasions he had expressed
+similar resolutions, but always with little or no effect either on
+himself or on his cruel lady; and we find, indeed, not without a smile at
+the incongruity of the poetic mind, that the identical song in question
+is dedicated to Azalais.
+
+At last the lady’s death relieved him from his thraldom, but only to
+deliver him over to another still more fateful passion. The manuscript
+relates how this event, together with the loss of some of his dearest
+friends, preyed on the poet’s mind, and how in a fit of melancholy
+he renounced the world, together with his wife and two sons, who are
+mentioned for the first time on this occasion. Folquet joined the order
+of Citeaux, and soon became abbot of a rich monastery, from which
+position he not long afterwards was raised to the still more important
+one of Bishop of Toulouse. To his new vocation he brought the same
+zeal, the same perseverance, which marked his wooing of Azalais. It was
+the same flood of passion turned into a different channel. So far there
+is nothing to reproach in Folquet’s conduct, and we even can sympathise
+with a man in whom all worldly desire dies with the one object of his
+passion. But his zeal against the heretics, carried to the pitch of cruel
+persecution, forms an unjustifiable complement to his asceticism. Neither
+can we excuse Folquet’s violent hatred against Raimon VI. of Toulouse,
+at whose father’s hands the troubadour had received much kindness.
+Considered in this light, the scene at the Council of the Lateran, where
+the glib-tongued poet is employed to compass the Count’s ruin, gains a
+new and sinister meaning. Poetry itself Folquet seems to have abandoned
+on his entering the monastery. We possess of him only one religious song,
+a passionate expression of remorse and of terror at an impending eternal
+punishment, which most likely belongs to the time of his conversion.
+It is pleasant to think that his art at least remained undefiled by
+fanaticism.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+
+GUILLEM FIGUEIRA AND PEIRE CARDINAL.
+
+
+Against Folquet of Marseilles scores of troubadours might be named,
+who boldly espoused the cause of their country and of liberty against
+Frenchmen and priests. The opposition to the encroachments of the latter
+was of course not confined to Provence. The weaknesses of the clergy
+were known equally well to trouvères and troubadours, to Walther von der
+Vogelweide and the German minnesingers, and to Chaucer, and the author
+of ‘Piers the Ploughman.’ But nowhere was the conflict between clerical
+and temporal powers more bitter, nowhere were the questions at stake
+more important and more universally felt to be such, than in the South
+of France. Moreover, the satire of many of the troubadours received
+additional sting from personal injury. The prolonged siege which Guy of
+Cavaillon had to sustain in his castle was not likely to incline him
+favourably towards his oppressors, and the furious onslaught on the
+avarice of the French conquerors from the pen of Boniface de Castellane
+is evidently founded on bitterest and most immediate experience. Neither
+is there cause for wonder that the gentry in black gowns and white
+hoods, mentioned by Guillem de Montanhagol in his powerful _sirventes_
+against the cruelties and folly of the Inquisition, were not an
+altogether lovely sight in the eyes of that poet.
+
+Amongst the troubadours prominently engaged in the great struggle of
+their time, two distinct types may be recognised. One is the poetic
+freelance impatient of all restraint, and therefore doubly incensed at
+the oppression of both moral and religious liberties, the word ‘liberty,’
+in his parlance, being not unfrequently a synonym of ‘licence.’ A man
+of this stamp was Guillem Figueira, the hater of priests. ‘He was,’ the
+manuscript says, ‘of Toulouse, the son of a tailor, and a tailor himself.
+When the French took Toulouse, he went to live in Lombardy, and he knew
+well how to make songs and how to sing them; and he became a joglar among
+the citizens. He was not a man to get on with barons or gentle-folks,
+but he made himself most agreeable to loose women and landlords and
+pothouse-keepers; and whenever he saw a good courtier come near him he
+grew wroth and melancholy, and at once he set about humiliating him.’
+
+This by no means flattering portrait ought to be received with caution;
+maybe it was drawn by one of the ‘good courtiers’ who had experienced
+the poet’s cynical humour. A cynic Guillem no doubt was, a lover of
+low-life realism, defying polite society among his boon companions of the
+tavern, a genius akin to Rutebœuf, and Villon, and Rabelais. But there
+is nothing debased or debauched in his poetry, as far as we can judge
+by the specimens remaining to us, although the unreserved violence of
+his invective is remarkable even amongst the works of those keenest of
+satirists, the troubadours. One of his _sirventeses_ is noticeable by
+the word ‘Rome,’ uttered with the emphasis of hatred at the beginning of
+every stanza. In it the Church is held responsible for an infinitude of
+political and moral crimes, and the climax of invective is reached in the
+final outburst of angry passion.
+
+‘Rome, with wily prudence thou layest thy snares, and many a vile morsel
+thou devourest in spite of the hungry. Thou hast the semblance of the
+lamb, thy countenance is so innocent, but in thy heart thou art a rabid
+wolf, a crowned snake engendered by a viper, wherefore the devil greets
+thee as the friend of his heart.’
+
+It is a curious fact that the Church on this occasion was valiantly
+defended by a lady, Gomonde of Montpelier, who pays the furious poet in
+his own coin, and threatens him with the death of the heretic.
+
+Another _sirventes_ by Guillem directed against the vices of the clergy
+is marked by the same immoderate language, but a foundation of truth is
+unmistakably at the bottom of his extravagant structure of abuse. The
+following stanza, for instance, is eminently characteristic of orthodox
+tactics:—
+
+‘If you say a word against them (the priests), they accuse you, and you
+find yourself excommunicated. If you refuse to pay, there is no peace or
+friendship to be hoped from them. Holy Virgin, Lady Mary, let me see the
+day when I need no longer go in fear of them.’
+
+A man of a very different stamp from the well-meaning but somewhat
+inconsiderate and irresponsible Guillem Figueira, was the great Peire
+Cardinal, who may represent the second and much higher type of the
+anti-clerical troubadour. A biographical notice of about twenty lines,
+signed by one Michael de la Tor, is all the information we possess of the
+poet’s life. According to this sketch, Peire Cardinal was born at Puy
+Notre Dame, in the province of Velay, or Veillac, as the old manuscript
+calls it. He was of good parentage, ‘the son of a knight and a lady,’
+and was in his childhood destined for the Church. ‘And when he came to
+man’s estate he was attracted by the vanity of the world, for he found
+himself gay and handsome and young. And he made many beautiful poems and
+songs; few _canzos_, but many _sirventeses_ fine and excellent. And in
+these _sirventeses_ he gave many good reasons and examples for those who
+rightly understand them; and he greatly reproached the false clergy, as
+is shown by his _sirventeses_. And he went to the courts of kings and
+gentle barons with his joglar, who sang his _sirventeses_.’ According
+to the same account, Peire Cardinal lived up to nearly a hundred
+years. Another remarkable circumstance told of him is his knowledge
+of reading and writing—an accomplishment by no means common amongst
+troubadours—which he owed to his early training for the Church.
+
+Peire Cardinal is the unrivalled master of the _sirventes_, in its
+most important forms—the personal, the political, the moral, and the
+religious. The last two only concern us here more immediately. But a
+few remarks are necessary to indicate the poet’s manner and his general
+conception of the world. This conception is melancholy to a degree. Like
+most great masters of satire and humour, Peire Cardinal is a confirmed
+pessimist. The world appears to him as one vast conglomeration of
+selfishness and vice—a madhouse, inhabited by fools, whose remaining
+sense is just sufficient for them to recognise and hate a man of genius.
+This moody philosophy he has embodied in the original and striking
+treatment of a well-known story, which deserves our particular attention
+as one of the very few instances of narrative illustration in the poems
+of the troubadours.
+
+‘There was a city,’ Peire Cardinal says, ‘I don’t know where, in which
+rain fell one day of such a kind, that all the inhabitants who were
+touched by it lost their reason. All went mad but one, who happened to
+be asleep in his house at the time. This one, when he woke, rose, and,
+as the rain had ceased, went out amongst the people, who were all raving
+mad. One had his clothes on, the other was naked; one was spitting up
+to the sky, another threw stones, another logs of wood, another tore
+his gown.... One thought he was a king, and put on noble airs; another
+jumped over benches. Some threatened, others cursed; some were crying,
+some laughing, others talking they knew not what about, others making
+grimaces. He who had kept his sense was much astonished, for he saw they
+were mad; and he looked up and down to see if he could discover any one
+reasonable, but in vain: there was none. And he was greatly surprised
+at them, but much more were they at him when they saw he remained
+reasonable. They were sure he must be mad, as he failed to do as they
+did.’
+
+The surprise of the fools soon is converted into rage. They knock him
+down, and trample on him; they push him, and pull him, and beat him; at
+last, he is glad to escape into his house, thrashed, covered with mud,
+and more dead than alive.
+
+‘This fable,’ the poet exclaims, ‘depicts the world and all who inhabit
+it; and our age is the city chokeful of madmen. The highest wisdom is
+to love and fear God, and to obey his commandments. But now that wisdom
+is lost, the rain has fallen: covetousness has come, and pride and
+viciousness, which have attacked all the people. And if God honours one
+amongst them, the others think him mad, and revile him, for God’s wisdom
+appears to them folly. But the friend of God, wherever he be, knows them
+to be the fools, for they have lost the wisdom of God; and they think him
+mad, because he has abandoned the wisdom of the world.’
+
+These are words of a man of genius, who has experienced the buffetings
+of adverse fortune, and the scorn of a world incapable or unwilling
+to fathom his depth. Morbid words, if the reader likes, but forcibly
+uttered, and instinct with a noble disdain of the fashions and follies of
+the day. But Peire Cardinal’s grievances were not of a narrow, egotistic
+kind. His poems reflect the sad time in which he lived, and the national
+disaster which he witnessed with deepest indignation. The avarice and
+selfishness of clergy and laity, the want of patriotic feeling, the
+barbarism prevailing amongst the nobles, and other evils fostered
+by those troublous times of internal and external warfare, are the
+favourite subjects of the poet’s satire. It need hardly be added that his
+sympathies were all with the South against the North. Raimon VI. is his
+chosen hero, whom he encourages with his songs, and in whose temporary
+success he rejoices. ‘At Toulouse,’ he sings, ‘there is Raimon the Count;
+may God protect him! As water flows from the fountain, so chivalry comes
+from him. Against the worst of men—nay, against the whole world—he
+defends himself. Frenchmen and priests cannot resist him. To the good he
+is humble and condescending; the wicked he destroys.’
+
+In his accusations of the clergy, Peire is violent and sweeping; almost
+as violent as Guillem Figueira himself. But his censure almost always
+proceeds from a general motive; the difference between the two is that
+between a scholar and politician and a pamphleteer. Peire’s language,
+when he speaks of the domineering propensities of the priests, is
+as bitter as can be imagined, but his anger is founded on historic
+considerations of deepest import. It is the decay of the temporal power
+he deplores. ‘Formerly, kings and emperors, dukes, counts and comtors[29]
+and knights used to govern the world; but now priests have usurped
+its dominion with rapine and treachery and hypocrisy, with force and
+persuasion. They are incensed if everything is not conceded to them, and
+it must be done sooner or later.’ In another _sirventes_, Peire Cardinal
+alludes to the amiable habit of the priests—also mentioned by Guillem
+Figueira—of calling everyone a Vaudois or heretic who dares to resist
+their encroachments.
+
+One of the most forcible of Peire’s songs is directed against the
+avarice and covetousness of the priests, whom he compares to vultures
+scenting a dead body. In the same _sirventes_ we meet with one of those
+grand reflections which raise Peire Cardinal from the level of the mere
+satirist to that of the great moral poet. ‘Do you know,’ he says, ‘what
+becomes of the riches of those who have unjustly acquired them? A mighty
+robber will come, who will leave them nothing. His name is Death; he will
+prostrate them, and entangle them in a net four yards in length, and they
+will be sent to a house of misery.’
+
+It remains to point out one more feature of Peire’s works, which
+distinguishes them from those of all his brother poets. The troubadours,
+it has been said, had a wise and beneficial horror of theology. There
+is, as far as the present writer is aware, not a trace in their works
+of the slightest interest taken by any of them in the scholastic
+controversies of Catholics and heretics. The only exception to this
+rule is a _sirventes_ by Peire Cardinal, to which short reference has
+previously been made. Peire, as has been mentioned before, had received a
+learned education; he could read and write, and was evidently not without
+considerable claims to scholarship, according to the standard of his
+age. He was no doubt well versed in the absurd and hideously realistic
+conceptions of hell and purgatory with which mediæval theologians and
+preachers loved to fill the imagination of their audiences. His poem
+reads like a gentle satire, from the poet’s point of view, on their
+barren discussions. The boldness of his conception and language is at the
+same time astonishing in a writer of the thirteenth century,
+
+‘I will begin a new _sirventes_,’ he says, ‘which I shall repeat on the
+day of judgment to Him who made and fashioned me out of nothing. If He
+reproaches me of anything, and wishes to give me over to damnation, I
+shall say: ‘Lord, have mercy on me, for I have struggled with the wicked
+world all my life; now save me by your grace from torment.’
+
+‘And His whole court shall wonder when they hear my plea. For I say that
+He is unjust towards His own if He delivers them to eternal punishment.
+For he who loses what he might gain cannot complain of his loss.
+Therefore He ought to be gentle and indulgent so as to retain the souls
+of sinners.
+
+‘His gate ought not to be guarded, and St. Peter has little honour
+through being the porter. Every soul that wishes ought to be allowed to
+enter smiling. For that court is little to my liking where one laughs
+while others cry; and however great the king may be we shall find fault
+with him if he refuses us entrance.
+
+‘I will not despair, and on you, O Lord, my good hope is founded.
+Therefore you must save my soul and body, and comfort me in the hour of
+death. And I will propose to you a good alternative. Either send me back
+to where I came from on the day of my birth, or forgive me my faults. For
+I should not have committed them if I had not been born.’
+
+And with this poem, which teaches a deep truth in a half-playful manner,
+we must take leave of Peire Cardinal. His character is of an elevated
+type, and his gifts would do honour to any literature. He is undoubtedly
+the foremost representative of moral poetry amongst the troubadours.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+
+LADIES AND LADY TROUBADOURS.
+
+
+In a poetry so thoroughly imbued with one prevailing passion as is
+that of the troubadours, and in the civilisation of which this poetry
+is the utterance, woman naturally occupied a most important place. But
+to define this place is a matter of some difficulty. The poems of the
+troubadours themselves give us but scanty information in this respect.
+We there hear a great deal of the incomparable charms of Provençal
+ladies; their loving-kindness is extolled, or their cruelty complained
+of. But in few cases only are we enabled to realise from generalities
+of this kind an individual human being with individual passions or
+caprices. It would, indeed, be impossible even to decipher the numerous
+_senhals_ or nicknames under which the poets were obliged to hide the
+real names of their lady-loves from the watchfulness of evil tongues and
+cruel husbands, but for the aid of the Provençal biographies of the old
+troubadours, which in most cases offer a welcome clue to the identity of
+these pseudonymous flames.
+
+It is by this means that we gain cognisance of the beautiful ladies
+of Provence—such as the three sisters, Maenz of Montignac, Elise of
+Montfort, and Maria of Ventadour—praised in impassioned song by Bertran
+de Born, Gaucelm Faidit, and other troubadours; and of that lovely lady
+with an unlovely name, Loba (she-wolf) of Penautier, who turned the
+fantastic brain of Peire Vidal, and sent him into the wilderness clad
+in a wolf’s skin—a practical pun on the name of his mistress. From such
+hints as are found in these biographies and other contemporary sources,
+one may form a tangible idea of a Provençal lady of the twelfth or
+thirteenth century; of her position in society; and, most of all, of her
+decisive influence on the poetry of the troubadours.
+
+What was the type of the lady of Provence of whom so much has been said
+in verse and prose? Was she a demure, well-conducted person clad in sober
+colours, mending stockings and cutting bread and butter for the children;
+a model housewife, in fact, such as might be found in a best-possible
+world of Mrs. Lynn Linton’s devising? Or was she, on the other hand, a
+progressively minded female, despising the frivolities of society, and
+thirsting for medical degrees and the franchise, or whatever may have
+been the mediæval equivalents of these much-desired prerogatives? I fear
+that even Margarida de Rossilho, ‘the lady most praised of her time for
+all that is praiseworthy, and noble, and courteous,’ would have fallen
+far short of these divergent ideals of our latter days. Her main purpose
+of existence was—shocking though it may sound—altogether not practical,
+but ornamental. It was her choice and her duty to wield in a society,
+only just emerging from barbarism, the softening influence to which we
+owe the phenomenon of a highly finished literature and of an astonishing
+degree of social refinement at the very outset of the mediæval epoch.
+Whether this result was altogether unworthy of woman’s mission in the
+history of civilisation graver judges must decide.
+
+There is extant, dating from about the middle of the thirteenth
+century, a curious poem in rhymed couplets entitled ‘L’essenhamen de la
+donzela que fe Amanieus des Escas com apela dieu d’amors;’ _Anglicè_:
+‘Instruction to a young lady, composed by Sir Amanieu des Escas, called
+God of Love.’ In this treatise we are supplied with a minute account of
+the accomplishments expected from a well-educated young lady, and of the
+bad habits most prejudicial to her character. The poet is supposed to
+be addressing a noble damsel living at the court of some great baron,
+as a sort of ‘lady-help’ to his wife; this being a not unusual, and
+undoubtedly a most efficient, method of polite education in Provence.
+The young lady has accosted Amanieu on a lonely walk, asking for his
+advice in matters fashionable. This the poet at first refuses to tender,
+alleging that ‘you (the damsel) have ten times as much sense as I, and
+that is the truth.’ But, after his modest scruples are once overcome,
+he launches forth into a flood of good counsel. He systematically
+begins with enforcing the good old doctrine of ‘early to rise;’ touches
+delicately on the mysteries of the early toilet, such as lacing, washing
+of arms, hands, and head, which, he sententiously adds, ought to go
+before the first-mentioned process; and, after briefly referring to the
+especial care required by teeth and nails, he leaves the dressing-room
+for the church, where a quiet, undemonstrative attitude is recommended;
+the illicit use of eyes and tongue being mentioned amongst the
+temptations peculiarly to be avoided. Directions of similar minuteness
+assist the young lady at the dinner table; the cases in which it would be
+good taste, and those in which it would be the reverse, to invite persons
+to a share of the dishes within her reach are specified; and the rules
+as to carving, washing one’s hands before and after dinner, and similar
+matters, leave nothing to be desired. ‘Always temper your wine with
+water, so that it cannot do you harm,’ is another maxim of undeniable
+wisdom.
+
+After dinner follows the time of polite conversation in the _sala_
+(drawing-room), the arbour, or on the battlements of the castle; and
+now the teachings of Amanieu become more and more animated, and are
+enlivened occasionally by practical illustrations of great interest.
+‘And if at this season,’ he says, ‘a gentleman takes you aside, and
+wishes to talk of courtship to you, do not show a strange or sullen
+behaviour, but defend yourself with pleasant and pretty repartees. And
+if his talk annoys you, and makes you uneasy, I advise you to ask him
+questions, for instance: “Which ladies do you think are more handsome,
+those of Gascony or England; and which are more courteous, and faithful,
+and good?” And if he says those of Gascony, answer without hesitation:
+“Sir, by your leave, English ladies are more courteous than those of
+any other country.” But if he prefers those of England, tell him Gascon
+ladies are much better behaved; and thus carry on the discussion, and
+call your companions to you to decide the questions.’ I defy any modern
+professor of deportment to indicate a more graceful and appropriate way
+of giving a harmless turn to a conversation, or cutting short an awkward
+_tête-à-tête_.
+
+And the same sense of tact and social ease pervades the remainder of the
+poem, which consists chiefly of valuable hints how to accept and how to
+refuse an offer of marriage without giving more encouragement or more
+offence than necessary. Upon the whole, it must be admitted that ‘Amanieu
+des Escas, called God of Love,’ although undoubtedly a pedant, is the
+least objectionable and tedious pedant that ever preached ‘the graces’
+from the days of Thomasin of Zerclaere to those of Lord Chesterfield. But
+the important point for us is the enormous weight attached to these rules
+of etiquette in the education of the Provençal lady. Again and again the
+advantages of _cortesia_, _avinensa_, and whatever the numerous other
+terms for a graceful, courteous behaviour may be, are emphasised: ‘even
+the enemy of all your friends ought to find you civil-spoken,’ the poet
+exclaims in a fit of polite enthusiasm. However exaggerated and one-sided
+this point of view may appear to the reader, he ought to remember that
+in primitive societies the code of ethics can be enforced alone by the
+power of custom; the derivation, indeed, of our word morality from the
+Latin _mores_ is by no means a mere etymological coincidence.
+
+Prepared by an education such as I have tried to sketch, the lady
+generally contracted a marriage at an early age, the choice of a husband
+being in most cases determined by her parents or her feudal overlord. In
+the higher classes of society—and these alone concern us here—her own
+inclination was taken into little account. Her position at the head of
+a great baron’s family was by no means an easy one. She had to soften
+the coarse habits and words of the warlike nobles; and, on the other
+hand, to curb the amorous boldness of the gay troubadours who thronged
+the courts of the great barons. The difficulties and temptations of such
+a situation were great, and further increased by the perfect liberty
+which, in ancient as in modern France, married ladies seem to have
+enjoyed. Indirect, but none the less conclusive, evidence establishes
+this point beyond doubt. We hear, for instance, of ladies travelling
+about the country without attendance; like the pretty wives of Sir Guari
+and Sir Bernart, whom Count William of Poitiers deceived by acting a
+deaf-and-dumb pilgrim. Even the dueña, as a regular institution at least,
+seems to have been unknown in Provence. There certainly were jealous
+husbands who tried to protect their wives from gallant intrusion by
+watchfulness and strict confinement. The husband of the lovely Flamenca
+is an example of such fruitless care. But his fate could not invite
+imitation; and the universal horror expressed by all gallant knights and
+ladies at this fictitious and at some real instances of similar cruelty,
+sufficiently proves the high degree of personal freedom enjoyed by the
+ladies of Southern France.
+
+That this freedom was frequently abused is, unfortunately, no matter
+of doubt. France is not, and never has been, a prosperous climate for
+the growth of wedded happiness. The heroines of all the love-stories
+connected with the history of the troubadours are, indeed, with not
+a single exception that I am aware of, married ladies. This fact is
+certainly of deep significance, but its importance ought not to be
+overrated. We must remember that the troubadours and their biographers
+were by nature and profession inclined to magnify the force and
+extension of the great passion. Frequently they may, and in some cases
+we positively know that they did, mistake gracious condescension for
+responsive love; and to accept all their statements _au pied de la
+lettre_ would be about as advisable as to judge the institution of
+marriage in modern France solely by the works of Flaubert and Ernest
+Feydeau. In many cases, however, the perfect innocence of the relations
+between the troubadour and the lady he celebrates is fully acknowledged
+by all parties. It was the privilege of high-born and high-minded women
+to protect and favour poetry, and to receive in return the troubadours’
+homage. It is in this beautiful character as admirer and patroness of
+the literature of her country, that I wish first to consider the lady of
+Provence. In the choice of an individual instance of the relation alluded
+to, I have been guided by a feeling of historic, not to say poetic,
+justice.
+
+History and fiction have vied with each other in painting the picture
+of Eleanor, wife of Henry II. of England, in the darkest colours. The
+former convicts her of faithlessness to two husbands, and of conspiracy
+with her own sons against their father; the latter charges her with the
+murder of Rosamond Clifford. Any redeeming feature in such a character
+ought to be welcome to the believer in human nature. Her connection with
+Bernart de Ventadorn, one of the sweetest and purest of troubadours, is
+such a feature. The poet came to her court in sorrow. The lady he loved
+had been torn from him, and it was by her own desire that he left her and
+the country where she dwelt. He now turned to Eleanor for comfort and
+sympathy, and his hope was not disappointed. The old Provençal biography
+of Bernart is provokingly laconic with regard to the subject. ‘He went to
+the Duchess of Normandy,’ it says, ‘who was young and of great worth, and
+knew how to appreciate worth and honour, and he said much in her praise.
+And she admired the _canzos_ and verses of Bernart. And she received
+him very well, and bade him welcome. And he stayed at her court a long
+time, and became enamoured of her, and she of him, and he composed many
+beautiful songs of her. And while he was with her King Henry of England
+made her his wife, and took her away from Normandy with him. And from
+that time Bernart remained sad and woful.’
+
+This statement is incorrect in more than one respect, and may be cited
+as another instance of the desire on the part of the ancient biographers
+to give a dramatic, and at the same time an erotic, turn to the stories
+of their heroes. The allegation of the poet’s prolonged courtship of
+the Duchess of Normandy having been interrupted by the lady’s marriage
+with Henry is self-contradictory, for the simple reason that she became
+Duchess of Normandy and took up her residence in that country in
+consequence of this identical marriage, which took place in the same year
+with her separation from Louis VII. of France. Moreover, all the songs
+known to us as having been addressed by the poet to Eleanor are written
+after Henry’s accession to the English throne. One of these songs, in
+which Bernart calls himself ‘a Norman or Englishman for the king’s sake,’
+was most likely composed in England, whither Bernart had followed the
+court of his supposed rival.
+
+The same songs tend also to throw grave doubts on another statement
+of the old manuscript—that with regard to the mutual passion between
+lady and troubadour. It is true that his devotion frequently adopts the
+language of love; but there is no evidence to show that this love was
+returned by anything but friendship and kindness. He never boasts of
+favours granted, as troubadours were but too prone to do, and the joyful
+expectation expressed in one of his poems is evidently and confessedly
+a hope against hope. One somewhat obscure remark of the poet seems to
+indicate that King Henry did not regard the matter in an altogether
+innocent light. The line reads thus in the original Provençal: ‘Per vos
+me sui del rei partiz;’ which means, ‘For your sake I have parted from
+the king,’ and seems to indicate some sort of disagreement between the
+poet and the lady’s husband. But, supposing even that Henry’s jealousy
+were proved by this vague hint, we are not for that reason obliged
+to adopt his suspicions. Internal evidence points strongly towards a
+different relation—a relation much more common between the ladies and
+poets of Provence than is generally believed, and which is marked by
+fervent admiration on the one side, and by helpful and gentle, but
+irreproachable, kindness on the other.
+
+Frequently, however, the case was different. Not all ladies were
+inexorable: not all troubadours contented with a purely ideal worship.
+Ardent wooings led to passionate attachments, and lovers’ bliss was
+frequently followed by lovers’ quarrels. Such quarrels—or, it might be,
+differences of opinion on abstract points of love and gallantry—were,
+as we know, discussed in a poetic form: the ‘_tenso_,’ or ‘song of
+contention,’ being especially reserved for that purpose. It was mostly
+on occasions of this kind that ladies took up the lute and mingled their
+voices with the chorus of Provençal singers. The names of fourteen
+gifted women have in this manner been transmitted to us—a very modest
+figure, seeing that the entire number of the troubadours is close upon
+four hundred. But even of these fourteen lady-troubadours few, if any,
+seem to have been professional or even amateur poets. The works of most
+of them are exceedingly few in number, consisting, in several cases, of
+a single song or part of a _tenso_. This reticence on the part of the
+ladies cannot be praised too highly; it explains to us at the same time
+their position in the literary movement of their time. Literature in the
+twelfth and thirteenth centuries was a lucrative and honourable calling,
+followed by many members of the poorer nobility and of the lower classes.
+Professional singers of this kind naturally depended on their productions
+for a livelihood. Hence the number, and hence also the occasional
+coldness and formality, of their songs.
+
+But this was different with women. With them poetry was not an
+employment, but an inward necessity. They poured forth their mirth
+or their grief, and after that relapsed into silence. Even Clara of
+Anduse, the brilliant and beautiful lady who conquered the obstinate
+indifference of Uc de St. Cyr, the celebrated troubadour, and who is
+described as ambitious of literary fame, does not seem to have sinned by
+over-production. Only one of her songs remains to us, and there is no
+reason to believe that time has been more than usually destructive to her
+works.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI.
+
+BEATRICE DE DIE.
+
+
+The only lady-troubadour of whose poems we possess a sufficient number
+to allow of a fair judgment of her capability is the Countess Beatrice
+de Die. She may also serve to illustrate the essentially subjective
+conception of the art of poetry which marks the phase in literature
+alluded to. The unvarying subject of her songs is the story of her love;
+without this passion she would have remained mute. Her first song is the
+embodiment of new-awakened happiness; her last a dirge over hopes dead
+and lost.
+
+‘The Countess de Die,’ says the old manuscript, ‘was the wife of Guillem
+de Poitou and a good and beautiful lady; she became enamoured of Rambaut
+of Orange, and wrote many fine poems of him.’ This Rambaut was the third
+ruler of that name of the country of Aurenga or Orange, in the south of
+France, from which the Dutch line of the house of Nassau derived its
+name. The English cavaliers, by the way, were considerably out in their
+etymological reckoning when they derisively squeezed the orange.
+
+Rambaut is well known as the author of numerous poems, some of them
+rather coarse in character. One of his songs is metrically curious by the
+poet relapsing at the end of every stanza into a few lines of prose, in
+which admirers of Walt Whitman will perhaps discover rhythm. In another
+poem he gives an elaborate prescription for gaining the hearts and
+bending the minds of women, quite in the spirit of the coarsest scenes
+of the _Taming of the Shrew_. The apparent disagreement of the poet with
+his own rules expressed in one stanza does not much alter the case in his
+favour, neither can we consider his calling one of his lady-loves by the
+nickname ‘my Devil’ a sign of refinement on his part. The exaggerated
+and boldly uttered opinion of his own poetic power is an additional
+unpleasant feature of Rambaut’s character. His songs to Beatrice de Die,
+of which several remain, are marked by extravagant gallantry rather than
+by true feeling. It may, for instance, be doubted whether the lady had
+much reason to be pleased with compliments of this kind: ‘The joy you
+give me is such that a thousand doleful people would be made merry by my
+joy. And on my joy my whole family could live with joy without eating.’
+
+The reader will notice the frequent repetition of the word ‘joy,’ which
+occurs once in every line of the stanza. This is an instance of the
+artificialities in which many troubadours, Rambaut of Orange foremost
+amongst the number, took pride. A similar metrical contrivance is found
+in another song by the same poet, most likely also addressed to the
+Countess de Die. It is called the ‘_rim dictional_,’ and consists of the
+combination, in the rhyming syllables, of two words which can be derived
+from each other by either adding or deducting one or more syllables.
+Thus, for instance, the feminine and masculine forms of the adjective
+and participle; _at-ada_, _ut-uda_ stand in the relation of ‘dictional
+rhymes.’ It is sadly significant to see that this silly contrivance has
+been adopted by Beatrice de Die in the song which expresses the fulness
+of her loving bliss. Perhaps it would be too bold to conjecture without
+additional evidence that, in this as in so many cases, the teacher had
+developed into the lover; but this sign of intellectual dependence is
+at any rate highly characteristic. To give the reader an idea of the
+sweetness of Beatrice’s metre and diction, I will quote one stanza of the
+poem alluded to in the original.
+
+ Ab joi et ab joven m’apais
+ E jois e jovens m’apaia;
+ Qar mos amics es lo plus gais
+ Per q’ieu sui coindet’ e gaia.
+ E pois ieu li sui veraia
+ Bes tanh q’el me sia verais.
+ Qanc de lui amar nom estrais
+ Ni ai en cor quem n’estraia.
+
+‘With joy and youth I am content; may joy and youth give me contentment!
+For my friend is most joyous, therefore I am amiable and gay. And as I am
+true to him, true he must be to me. For I do not withhold my love from
+him, so neither can I think that he should withhold his from me.’
+
+Unfortunately the serene sky of this happiness was soon to be
+overclouded. We can distinctly recognise the mutual position of the
+lovers. Count Rambaut, if he had at any time felt a serious passion for
+Beatrice, soon got over that weakness. In vain he tries to hide his
+apathy from the keen glance of the loving woman. She is appeased for
+the moment by his grandiloquent vows of eternal devotion; but soon her
+suspicion awakes again with renewed strength. Such are the feelings which
+have inspired the admirable _tenso_ respectively ascribed to Rambaut and
+Beatrice, but most likely composed by both of them in alternate stanzas
+of reproach and excuse. The poet, taxed with indifference and fickleness,
+explains that the rareness of his visits is caused by his fear of the
+evil tongues and spies ‘who have taken my sense and breath away.’ But
+the lady is little impressed with this tender care for her reputation.
+‘No thanks do I owe you,’ she says, ‘for refusing to see me when I send
+for you, because of the harm I might suffer through it. And if you
+take greater care of my welfare than I do myself, you must forsooth be
+over-loyal; more so than the Knights of the Hospital.’ Only by the most
+extravagant promises of amendment is the poet able to gain from the lady
+the qualified concession: ‘Friend, I will trust you so far, so that I
+find you true and loyal to me at all times.’
+
+A second song of the countess marks a further stage of this unfortunate
+amour. The poet now has dropped the mask; the lady is deserted—deserted
+for another love. The sight of her misery is pathetic, although, perhaps,
+less dignified than would be the silent pride of a noble-hearted woman.
+But pride is strange to the heart of poor Beatrice. Her desire is not to
+upbraid, but, if possible, to regain, her truant lover; and nothing she
+considers beneath her dignity that may accomplish this sole desire of her
+heart. Abject flattery of her lover and even the praise of her own beauty
+are resorted to by her with a naïve openness which, somehow, makes us
+forget her utter want of dignity. There is about her poem the true ring
+of simple pathos, which I have tried to retain as far as possible in the
+subjoined rendering of three of the stanzas:
+
+ CANZO.
+
+ A chantar m’er de so qu’eu no volria
+ Tant me rancur de lui cui sui amia;
+ Car eu l’am mais que nuilla ren que sia:
+ Vas lui nom val merces ni cortezia,
+ Ni ma beltatz ni mos pretz ni mos sens;
+ C’atressim sui enganad’ e trahia
+ Com degr’esser, s’eu fos dezavinens.
+
+ Meraveill me cum vostre cors s’argoilla
+ Amics vas me per qu’ai razon quem doilla.
+ Non es ges dreitz c’autr’amors vos mi toilla,
+ Per nuilla ren queus diga nius acoilla.
+ E membre vos cals fol comensamens
+ De nostr’amor; ja dompnedeus non voilla
+ Qu’en ma colpa sial departimens.
+
+ Proeza grans, qu’el vostre cors s’aizina,
+ E lo rics pretz qu’avetz m’en ataina.
+ C’una non sai, loindana ni vezina,
+ Si vol amar vas vos no si’ aclina:
+ Mas vos, amics es ben tant conoissens,
+ Que ben devetz conoisser la plus fina;
+ E membre vos de nostres partimens.
+
+ _Translation._
+
+ It is in vain, this silence I must break;
+ The fault of him I love moves me to speak.
+ Dearer than all the world he is to me;
+ But he regards not love nor courtesy,
+ Nor wisdom, nor my worth, nor all my beauty—
+ He has deceived me. Such my fate should be,
+ If I had failed to him in loving duty.
+
+ Oh, strange and past belief that in disdain
+ Your heart, oh friend, should look upon my pain;
+ That now another love should conquer you,
+ For all that I may say, that I may do!
+ Have you forgotten the sweet first communion
+ Of our two hearts? Now sorely would I rue
+ If by my guilt were caused this last disunion.
+
+ The noble worth, the valour you possess,
+ Your fame and beauty add to my distress.
+ For far and near the noble ladies all,
+ If love can move them, listen to your call.
+ But you, my friend, whose soul is keenest-sighted,
+ Must know who loves you, and is true withal.
+ And ah! remember now the troth we plighted.
+
+The reader need hardly be told that this touching appeal proved in vain.
+We have another song of Beatrice, in which she deplores the final loss
+of her friend. It is remarkable that even now no word of anger escapes
+her lips. She blames herself for a reticence of feeling which, if she had
+possessed it, might have averted her fate. This is the first stanza of
+the plaintive ditty:
+
+ Ah, sadly, sadly do I miss
+ A knight of valour once mine own!
+ To all at all times be it known,
+ My heart was his—was only his.
+ Foolishly my secret keeping,
+ I hid my love when he was near;
+ But in my heart I held him dear,
+ Day and night, awake and sleeping.
+
+And here we must take leave of the beautiful Beatrice de Die. She is not
+without interest from a psychological point of view, and represents the
+literary capabilities of her class by the intensely subjective character
+of her work, which is the immediate outgrowth of her feeling.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII.
+
+THE COURTS OF LOVE.
+
+
+There is yet one other important character in which I should wish to
+introduce the lady of Provence to the gentle reader. It has already been
+pointed out that to her influence the refinement of manners and the
+high conception of the duties of gallantry in the early middle ages are
+mainly due. But nowhere did her gentle sway exercise a more irresistible
+power than in that truest domain of womanhood—love. This love was little
+restrained in Provence by the legitimate bounds of marriage, but it was
+not altogether lawless for that reason. There were certain rules of
+conduct instinctively felt rather than definitely formulated, but which,
+nevertheless, no lady or gallant cavalier could transgress with impunity.
+Discretion, for instance, was a demand most strictly enforced by these
+self-imposed laws of the loving community. No lady of good feeling would
+have accepted the services of a knight who had failed in this respect
+to a former mistress. Neither was it thought compatible with correct
+principles for a lady to deprive another lady of her lover. Inquiries
+into the antecedents of intended _cicisbeos_ were of frequent occurrence,
+and only when a troubadour could prove his ‘being off with the old
+love’ could he hope for a favourable reception of his vows. We indeed
+know of one case at least where a lady, although herself desirous of the
+services of a poet, effected his reconciliation with a rival beauty.
+But this loyal feeling did not extend to that bugbear and scapegoat of
+gallant society in Provence—the husband. No amount of verbal falsehood
+or hypocrisy was thought unjustifiable in the endeavour to dupe his
+well-founded suspicion. His resentment of injuries received was, on the
+other hand, punished by the general interdict of polite society. Such, at
+least, is the no doubt somewhat high-coloured picture drawn by Provençal
+poets and romancers.
+
+To the great influence of noble ladies on public opinion, and to the
+_esprit de corps_ evinced by their recorded words and doings, we have to
+trace back the general and time-honoured idea of the ladies’ tribunal,
+or ‘court of love.’ To us in England Chaucer’s poem of that title has
+sanctioned the name.[30] A prettier picture moreover can hardly be
+imagined than that drawn by many old and modern writers of an assembly
+of beautiful women sitting in judgment on guilty lovers, and gravely
+deciding knotty points of the amorous code. The slight tinge of pedantry
+in such a picture only adds to its mediæval quaintness. The only drawback
+is that, like so many other pretty and quaint pictures, it has no
+counterpart in the reality of things; not as far, at least, as the south
+of France and the times of the troubadours are concerned. Friederich
+Diez, the lately deceased great philologist to whom the history of
+Romance literature and languages owes so much, has once and for ever
+destroyed the fable of the ‘courts of love’ in connection with the
+troubadours. This was done in 1825; but ever since the uprooted notion
+has gone on producing fresh and powerful shoots in the fertile soil of
+periodical and generally unscientific literature. It is, indeed, one of
+the few dainties of genuine or pseudo-Provençal composition which have
+been frequently and _ad nauseam_ dished up to the general reader of this
+country.
+
+The state of the case is briefly this:—
+
+In 1817 the well-known French scholar, M. Raynouard, published his large
+collection of Provençal poems, entitled ‘Choix des Poésies originales
+des Troubadours.’ In the second volume of this work he has inserted a
+long and elaborate inquiry of his own into the subject of the ‘courts
+of love.’ He determines the period of their duration as the time from
+the middle of the twelfth to the end of the fourteenth century or
+thereabouts, and gives a somewhat minute description of the legal and
+polite customs observed at these extraordinary tribunals. According to
+him the members of the court were noble ladies guided by a written code
+of love, their decisions again making precedent. An appeal to a different
+tribunal was admissible. The parties had, as a rule, to plead their
+cause in person; at other times, however, written documents—affidavits,
+as we should say—were accepted, the latter frequently taking the form
+of _tensos_. To these _tensos_, therefore, we ought to look for some
+confirmation of these statements; and, according to Raynouard, such
+confirmation is forthcoming in more than sufficient abundance. It is, as
+we know, the custom in these songs of contention for the two disputants
+to refer their case to the arbitration of third parties. ‘This _tenso_
+will last for ever,’ says one troubadour, after having exhausted his
+arguments. ‘Let us take our cause to the Dauphin; he will decide and
+conclude it in peace.’ But here is the rub. The umpires mentioned on
+this and many other occasions are always one or two, more rarely three,
+individuals, generally friends of the contending parties, or else
+well-meaning and courteous persons, men or women, who decide according
+to the rules of common sense, or quote the opinions of celebrated
+troubadours by way of rule and guidance. Not once is a ‘court of love’
+mentioned in these _tensos_, nor indeed in any other poem, by a genuine
+troubadour, The expression as well as the thing was unknown to them. Both
+belong to a much later time.
+
+The period of spontaneous production in the literature of most nations is
+followed by that of classification. Byzantine scholarship and Athenian
+tragedy belong to different phases of intellectual life. When the poetry
+of the troubadours began to decay, grammarians and metrical scholars
+sprang up, and artificial poetry flourished at the _Jeux Floraux_. In the
+same sense it may be said that ‘courts of love’ could not exist while
+love itself was alive. The laws of gallantry were inscribed in the hearts
+of ladies and troubadours while the brilliant, buoyant life of Southern
+France was in its acme. When this civilisation was crushed, when these
+beautiful times lived but in the remembrance of a few, it might become
+necessary to preserve in dead formulas and codes the remnants of a better
+past. But even in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries the south of
+France seems not to have been a favourable soil for the ‘courts of love,’
+as certain amateur societies of gallant and literary ladies and gentlemen
+then began to be called. The chief witness on the subject, Andreas
+Capellanus, who quotes several sentences delivered by these _curiæ
+dominarum_, seems to refer chiefly to the north of France.[31] Another
+Frenchman, Martial d’Auvergne, an advocate in Paris, has introduced the
+technical language of the law into these amorous discussions; much to the
+edification of his contemporaries (he lived in the fifteenth century), to
+judge from the number of editions published of his work.
+
+The sober truth arrived at by these and many other considerations too
+long to mention may be summed up thus: ‘Courts of love,’ as established
+tribunals with written codes, are altogether fictitious. Amateur
+societies of that name occur in the late middle ages, but chiefly in the
+north of France. To the troubadours the name and essence of ‘courts of
+love’ were entirely unknown.
+
+
+
+
+_PART III._
+
+TECHNICAL
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII.
+
+THE ORIGIN OF RHYME.
+
+
+The foundation of poetry, that is of the expression of human feelings in
+verse, is rhythm. According to Aristoxenus, the greatest metrical scholar
+of Greece, rhythm is the division of time into equally recurring shorter
+and longer parts; but it becomes perceptible only by being applied to
+certain movements performed in this time (τὸ ῥυθμιζόμενον). This object
+of rhythm is, of course, different in the different arts. In music, it
+is the notes of a melody (μέλος); in dance, the movements of hands and
+feet (σωματικὴ κίνησις); and in poetry, the words (λέξις). In ancient,
+and especially in Greek, poetry, rhythm was the first and chief principle
+of verse; and Greek poets observed this principle with the greatest
+consistency, measuring their lines exclusively according to the length or
+shortness of the syllables, without taking any notice of the rhetorical
+accent of each word, which depends, of course, greatly on its meaning.
+This metrical system, founded entirely on the beauty of sound, agrees
+perfectly with what we know of the plastic art of the Greeks, where
+also the graceful and harmonious form predominates over the emotional
+expression of the features. There is something analogous to be found in
+the primitive poetry of the Teutonic nations. The aim of their poets was
+to impress the audience by the strong and heroic sound of their verses;
+and in consequence the principle of their metrical system was purely
+rhythmical. In _Beowulf_, as well as in the _Hildebrandliet_, or the
+_Wessobrunner Gebet_, each line contains a certain number of long and
+highly-accented (_hochbetont_) syllables, which are further emphasised by
+alliteration. The rhetorical importance of these syllables does not in
+the least influence their metrical value.
+
+Latin poetry was not at first equally strict. The earlier Roman poets
+always tried to make the rhetorical and the metrical accent coincide.
+This was the more easy for them, as their rules of quantity were not yet
+clearly defined. Only the later Roman poets, and among them especially
+Horace, who were under the influence of Greek literature, introduced the
+accurate rules of Hellenic prosody into their own language, and at the
+same time made the metrical accent quite independent of the rhetorical.
+A remarkable sign of the difference between the Roman and Greek metrical
+systems is the way in which the two nations used the most important terms
+of rhythmical art, arsis and thesis. Aristoxenus, founding his metrical
+system entirely on the rhythms of dance and music, called arsis the weak
+part of the metre, because there the dancer raised his foot (αἴρω), and
+thesis the strong part, when the dancer trod the ground (τίθημι)—exactly
+contrary to the modern use of these words made familiar by Bentley.
+The best Roman metrical scholars, such as Atilius Fortunatianus and
+Terentianus Maurus, on the other hand, led by the rhetorical accent of
+their language, called arsis the first, and thesis the second, part
+of the metre, whether weak or strong, following, however, in this the
+metrical ἐγχειρίδιον of an unknown late-Greek author.[32] The only
+exception is Martianus Capella, the author of ‘De Nuptiis Philologiæ
+et Mercurii,’ a work considered, during the middle ages, as a standard
+authority for all the branches of human knowledge. In his translation of
+Aristides Quintilianus, he adopted from him the use of arsis and thesis,
+although it was in direct contradiction to his own definition: ‘Arsis
+est elevatio, thesis depositio vocis ac remissio.’ The introduction of
+Greek prosody into the Latin language was simply a matter of art; and its
+reign could last only so long as the great poets of the classic period
+kept down the influence of popular poetry. As soon as the unlimited sway
+of these grand traditions ceased, the original tendencies of the Roman
+language began to oppose the Greek-Augustan orthodoxy; and this struggle,
+which lasted for many centuries, ended in the complete overthrow of the
+ancient prosody. It would lead too far to follow the traces of this
+process through its different phases; it is enough to say that, at the
+beginning of the middle ages, the rhetorical as against the metrical
+accent had more than reconquered its original rights in Latin poetry. In
+the grand religious songs of mediæval monkish poetry, such as ‘Dies iræ,
+dies illa’ or ‘Stabat mater dolorosa,’ the verses are measured entirely
+according to the modern principle of rhetorical accent. Even where the
+mediæval poets tried to keep up the appearance of ancient versification
+they could not abstain from yielding to the powerful influence of
+rising mediæval art. The best example of this fact is the favourite
+metre of monkish scholars, the Leonine hexameter. The poems written in
+this metre—as may be seen by the following two lines from the poem ‘De
+contemptu mundi,’ of the eleventh century,
+
+ Cumque laborum | cumque dolorum | sit sitabundus,
+ Nos irritans | nos invitans | ad mala mundus—
+
+utterly neglect the fundamental rules of ancient prosody. The same might
+be said, even in a higher degree, of Godfrid of Viterbo. He goes so far
+as to join two leonine hexameters and one pentameter in a stanza; for
+example:
+
+ Imperii sidus | plaudunt tibi mensis et idus,
+ Metra tibi fidus | regalia dat Gotefridus
+ Quæ tibi sæpe legas | ut bene regna regas.
+
+The principle of dividing the stanza into three parts which is the basis
+of Italian and German strophes, can be easily recognised here; and the
+mediæval poet might have written his sham hexameters much more properly
+in this way:—
+
+ { Imperii sidus
+ { Plaudunt tibi mensis et idus.
+ Pedes {
+ { Metra tibi fidus
+ { Regalia dat Gotefridus.
+
+ Cauda { Quæ tibi sæpe legas
+ { Ut bene regna regas.
+
+One of the most striking features of this rising poetry is the rhyme—an
+element quite independent of the metrical principle, and founded entirely
+on the sound and rhetorical accent of the words. This rhyme is used no
+longer as an occasional effect, in different places of the verse, but
+defined by the strictest rules of art. It has been a favourite subject
+of investigation with literary scholars, to determine who first used
+the rhyme. Monkish mediæval poets and Provençal troubadours have found
+enthusiastic defenders of their claims to this great invention. It
+appears however that the question itself was a mistake. Nobody invented
+the rhyme: it has existed as long as poetry itself. Horace and Homer knew
+it as well as Byron and Goethe; but the rhythmical principle prevailed
+too largely in the Latin and Greek languages to allow the rhyme, as
+a rhetorical element, to attain that influence which it gained by a
+natural process, when verses began to be measured according to the
+modern principle of rhetorical accent. Wilhelm Grimm, in his monograph
+‘Zur Geschichte des Reims,’ has collected with great care the numerous
+instances of rhyme in the classic Roman period. The rule is, as Grimm
+shows, that the chief cæsura in the third foot of the hexameter rhymes
+with the end of the verse; but in other places also the rhyming words
+may be found. Grimm, however, decidedly goes too far when he sees an
+intentional rhyme in all these cases. The Latin language, owing to its
+consonant final syllables in declensions and conjugations, possessed an
+immense quantity of rhyming material, and moreover each adjective had to
+agree with its noun, if it followed the same declension. It is therefore
+difficult to see how the poet could have avoided bringing into the same
+verse very often two or even more words ending in the same way. In a
+verse, for instance, like that quoted by Grimm from Virgil’s ‘Bucolics,’
+
+ Vare tuas cupiant et tristia condere bella,
+
+no Roman poet could have intended, nor a Roman ear have noticed, a rhyme
+between ‘tristia’ and ‘bella;’ especially as the different metrical value
+of the two syllables modified the sound of the two _a_’s. Grimm seems
+not to have been able to free himself altogether from the propensity
+of biographers to overrate the importance of their heroes. However, in
+innumerable other cases rhyme has decidedly been used of set purpose
+by the Roman poets, especially where the corresponding words are found
+either in the chief cæsura and the end of the same verse, or at the end
+of two verses following each other. Of both cases an example may be cited
+from Horace, whose fine ear and ability to avail himself of beauties of
+rhythm and sound make him an important witness for the intentional use of
+rhyme.
+
+ Ille gravem du_ro_ terram qui vertit arat_ro_,[33]
+
+affords an excellent instance of rhyme in the chief cæsura; while the
+lines
+
+ Non satis est pulchra esse poemata, dulcia sunto
+ Et quocumque volent animum auditoris agunto,[34]
+
+prove even the existence of a sort of feminine rhyme in Latin poetry.
+Horace also shows how the Roman poets used the rhyme for onomatopoetic
+purposes. In the celebrated line,
+
+ Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus,[35]
+
+the quick jump of the little animal could not have been better
+illustrated than by the rhyme of the two words immediately following each
+other—‘Schlagreim,’ as the German meistersingers appropriately call it.
+Though there can be no doubt that the Latin poets of the classic period
+knew and occasionally used rhyme, it never was to them of the same vital
+importance that it is to modern poets; and in fact it never could be, so
+long as the rhythmical accent preserved its unlimited power; for this
+is decidedly unfavourable to rhyme. In all those cases, for instance,
+where the chief cæsura of the hexameter rhymed with the end of the same
+verse, which, as we have seen, was the usual way, the two corresponding
+syllables had different metrical accents. In the line already cited,
+
+ Īllĕ grăvēm dūr_ō_ tērrām quī vērtĭt ărātr_ŏ_,
+
+the _o_ of _duro_ stands in the arsis, and therefore has quite a
+different sound from the _o_ in _aratro_, which stands in the thesis.
+This becomes the more evident in those very rare cases where the rhyme in
+this position contains two syllables, or is, as we should say, feminine.
+In Horace there is only one instance of this; and indeed what could be
+the use of a rhyme which, if the verse were read according to rhythmical
+principles, would be scarcely audible?—
+
+ Frātrēm mœ̄_rēntīs’_ rāptō dē frātrĕ dŏ_lēn’tĭs_.[36]
+
+But by the same fact the destructive influence of rhyme on the rhythmical
+principle becomes evident. The line, for instance, already quoted from
+Godfrey of Viterbo, would, if properly scanned, have sounded thus:
+
+ Mētră tĭbē _fīdūs’_ rēgālĭă dāt Gŏtĕf_rī’dŭs_.
+
+But this way of destroying the feminine rhyme by the rhythmical accent
+certainly did not tally with the feeling of the mediæval poet; and it
+may be assumed that he accentuated _fídus_ exactly like Gotef_rídus_, as
+if it were a trochee. This at the same time agreed perfectly with the
+rhetorical accent of the word. Reading the whole verse according to the
+same principle, the first part of it,
+
+ Métra tíbi fídus,
+
+became quite trochaic in character, and the idea of the hexameter is
+utterly destroyed. This destruction of the rhythmical principle in
+mediæval Latin poetry was almost contemporary with the same phenomenon
+in Teutonic literature. Here also the dominion of purely rhythmical
+measurement and alliteration was victoriously contested by rhyme and
+rhetorical accent. At the beginning of the middle-high-German period,
+alliteration as a principle of art disappeared; and by the great
+minnesingers of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries it was used only
+occasionally, and without any strict rule, just as rhyme was by the old
+Roman poets. It was chiefly preserved in old alliterative formulæ, such
+as ‘Haus und Hof,’ or our ‘Kith and Kin.’ A beautiful example of this is
+found in the last stanza but one of the ‘Nibelunge Nôt’:
+
+ Mit leide was verendet des künges hochgezît
+ als ie diu _l_îbe _l_eide z’aller jungeste gît.
+
+Rhythmical accent, however, existed side by side with rhetorical accent
+much longer in German than in any of the Romance languages; and traces
+of its influence may be found almost till the beginning of the modern
+high-German epoch.
+
+In the Romance languages the decline of the rhythmical principle was
+even more complete than in the mediæval Latin or in any of the Teutonic
+idioms. The feeling for rhythm in those languages was so entirely
+lost that they were not able even to preserve the rhetorical accent
+in sufficient strength to make it of any avail for metrical purposes.
+Although in most of the poems written in the Romance languages there is
+a certain resemblance to the iambic or trochaic fall, yet the scanning
+of a whole stanza according to these metres would in most cases prove
+impossible. In modern French, which has gone farthest in neglecting the
+rhythmical difference between the syllables within the same word, there
+is scarcely a single line of the most finished poets which could be read
+metrically without altering even that remnant of rhetorical accent which
+has been preserved. In the following verse, taken from Boileau’s sixth
+Satire,
+
+ Căr à peĭ_nē_ lĕs cōqs cŏm_m_ēnçănt leūr rămāgĕ,
+
+there are two striking examples of this fact; for the accent of the
+(if anything) iambic metre in the word _peine_ is on a syllable which
+in prose is scarcely pronounced at all, and in _commençant_ the last
+syllable is at least as long as the last but one. Where modern French
+poets try to introduce something resembling rhythm, they generally do
+so less by means of the rhetorical accent in words of several syllables
+than by putting the more or less important parts of the sentence, such
+as article and noun or personal pronoun and verb, in thesis and arsis
+respectively. In the main it may fairly be said that in Romance poetry
+metre is entirely founded on counting the syllables of the verse, and
+rhythm, properly speaking, has disappeared, except so far as it shows its
+influence in the combination of verses of different lengths in a stanza.
+
+This leads us to another consideration, which is of the highest
+importance in studying Provençal versification. Rhythm showed its
+influence on the poetry of the troubadours, not only in the single
+verses, but also in the composition of several verses of different sizes
+and cadences into an organic whole—the strophe. The harmonious beauty and
+impulsive lyrical pathos of Pindar’s odes excite the same admiration as
+does the steady epical flow of Homer’s hexameters; and to the inheritance
+of the strophe, and its development into the stanza, mediæval poems, and
+especially the canzos of the troubadours, owe their greatest charm. To
+the relics of ancient literature already mentioned was added the rhyme,
+defined by strict rules and made obligatory; and this new principle
+contributed not a little to give variety and harmonious beauty to the
+mediæval stanza. In investigating Provençal versification, it will
+therefore be necessary to consider (1) rhythm, as shown in the manifold
+measures of verse, (2) rhyme, and (3) the mode in which by these two
+elements combined the stanza of the troubadours was formed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX.
+
+RHYTHM.
+
+
+In no other language of Western Europe has the artistic development of
+poetical forms ever reached so high a degree of perfection as that to
+which it was raised by the troubadours. The craftsmanship of the poets
+and singers, the refinement of the audiences in appreciating beauties
+of rhyme and metre which the modern ear can scarcely realise, are the
+more astonishing, since the period of the poetry of the troubadours is
+comparatively a very early one, and since their civilisation in other
+respects shows the characteristics of the early middle ages. Through
+various favourable circumstances, the _langue d’oc_ succeeded, first
+of all Romance idioms, in forming itself into a distinct and regular
+language, with strictly defined grammatical rules. The great number of
+final syllables of the same sound, which existed in the comparatively
+well preserved forms of declensions and conjugations, offered an
+immense quantity of rhymes; and this ease of rhyming, combined with the
+liveliness and sanguine temperament of southern Frenchmen, naturally
+gave rise to an early poetry. The primitive stages of this poetry
+have, as we know, disappeared; and we have lost in these popular songs,
+which undoubtedly existed, the most valuable material for the history
+of Provençal metrical art. The first troubadour, Count Guillem IX. of
+Poitou (1071-1127), appears as a finished poet, in full possession of all
+the refinements of Provençal metre, without any predecessor or previous
+document of lyrical poetry to account for his great accomplishments
+and experience. In fact, after him there is no important progress of
+metrical art; and, although several troubadours formed new stanzas and
+used difficult rhymes of their own, it may be said that, in the main, the
+first troubadour knew as much of the harmonious beauties of stanza and
+rhyme as the last—Guiraut Riquier, who died about two hundred years after
+the birth of Guillem.
+
+This great stability of the metrical rules soon led to a desire of
+fixing them by a theoretical system; and we know of several attempts to
+perform this difficult task. The most important and voluminous work of
+this kind must be our guide in the maze of Provençal subtlety; though
+in many cases it is more difficult to follow the mediæval scholar
+through his confused definitions than to abstract the rules from the
+poems themselves. The author of ‘Las Leys d’Amors,’ as he calls his
+compilation, considered, in accordance with the notions of his time, that
+it was a sign of highest scholarship to accumulate the greatest possible
+amount of undigested knowledge, without taking the trouble of grouping
+his heterogeneous materials. He desires to show his familiarity with
+almost all the branches of human knowledge. Grammar and rhetoric, prosody
+and dialectics, the trivium and quadrivium, have been objects of his
+study; and his work is undoubtedly one of the most valuable exponents of
+mediæval scholarship. In fact, it may be called the aggregate expression
+of the literary ideas of his time and country, the more so as it can
+scarcely be said to have been written by one author only. In the middle
+of the fourteenth century (1356 is the exact date of the work), the time
+of the great troubadours had long passed away; and their pure language
+was yielding more and more to the influences of southern patois and the
+northern _langue d’oïl_. To oppose the further decline of the language
+and poetry, several institutions were founded by patriotic and cultivated
+men, who, however, being scholars rather than poets, could not revive the
+spirit of the troubadours. One of the most renowned of these societies,
+which resembled modern academies, named the ‘Seven Poets of Toulouse,’
+commissioned their chancellor for the time being, Guillaume Molinier, to
+write, or rather to compile from the works of other scholars, and under
+their own supervision, a compendium of the rules of poetry. The result
+was ‘Las Leys d’Amors,’ which, founded entirely on the traditions of
+the troubadours, although written after their time, is of the greatest
+importance for the metrical analysis of their works. M. Gatien-Arnoult,
+keeper of the manuscripts of the Académie des Jeux Floraux at Toulouse,
+has published an accurate edition of the work from the manuscript
+belonging to that Academy.
+
+Another mediæval work, which it will often be necessary to refer to, is
+Dante’s treatise ‘De Vulgari Eloquentia.’ His remarks on the measurement
+of verse and the construction of stanzas were originally meant to apply
+to poems written in his own language. But the affinity between the poets
+of the _lingua di sì_ and those of the _langue d’oc_, and especially the
+great influence of the troubadours on Dante’s own metrical system,[37]
+make it permissible to apply the rules laid down by the great Italian to
+the works of the Provençal poets.
+
+In the fifth chapter of his treatise Dante defines the limits of
+the length of a verse in this way: ‘Nullum adhuc invenimus carmen
+in syllabicando endecasyllabum transcendisse nec a trisyllabo
+descendisse.’[38] By trisyllabus and endecasyllabus he means lines, or
+carmina, as he calls them, which in reality may consist of no more than
+two and ten syllables. For in Italian poetry feminine rhymes are so
+predominant in number that Dante does not think it necessary to take into
+consideration the small minority of masculine rhymes, and counts the last
+short syllable of the feminine rhyme even in those few cases where in
+reality it does not exist. The ‘Leys d’Amors,’ according to its national
+view, follows a totally different principle of measuring verse. It first
+states the difference between masculine and feminine rhymes, calling
+the former accen agut, and the latter accen greu. Then it counts the
+syllables of each verse really existing, neglecting, however, the last
+short syllable if the verse ends with a feminine rhyme. An example will
+best show the difference of the two systems. Of the two following lines,
+
+ anz li mal trag mi son joi e plazer
+ sol per aiso, car sai q’amors autreja,
+
+the first consists actually of ten syllables, the last of which has
+the metrical accent. This, therefore, the ‘Leys d’Amors’ would call a
+‘bordo de x. syllabas con accen agut.’ The second line, though actually
+containing eleven syllables, it would call a ‘bordo de x. syllabas
+con accen greu.’ Dante, on the other hand, would call both verses
+endecasyllabi, not taking any notice of the rime tronco in the first.
+The ‘Leys d’Amors,’ therefore, differs widely, and even more than might
+at first appear, from Dante, in saying that the shortest verse possible
+is that of four, and the longest possible that of twelve, syllables. For
+what Dante calls a trisyllabus may be, as we have seen, in reality a
+line of two syllables; and the ‘bordo de quatro syllabas’ of the ‘Leys
+d’Amors’ may consist actually of five syllables. Verses shorter than four
+syllables, according to the ‘Leys d’Amors’ are permissible only in the
+form of bordos empeutatz or biocatz. By bordos empeutatz are meant the
+different parts of a verse divided by a middle rhyme, such as
+
+ Perdut ai—e cobrarai.
+
+Bordos biocatz are short verses which are mixed with others of greater
+length, and form, if rhyming, a sort of echo; for instance:
+
+ El contrari far vol
+ E col.
+
+These limits, however, are too narrow, at least in one direction. In
+one of the poems of Guillem IX. of Poitiers there is a line consisting
+of no less than fifteen syllables, and therefore by far exceeding the
+number allowed by Dante or the ‘Leys d’Amors.’ This verse displays,
+notwithstanding its great length, a certain rhythmical beauty, which,
+considering the rarity of effects of that sort, makes it all the more
+remarkable. In the first stanza of the poem it runs thus:
+
+ q’una domna s’es clamada de sos gardadors a me.[39]
+
+The extreme in the other direction is reached by the troubadour
+Marcabrun, who has verses of one syllable only, such as Ay, and Oc.
+
+Between these extremes, verses of all lengths may be found now and
+then in the poetry of the troubadours; but nevertheless a preference
+for certain forms is visible. Dante’s views on the subject, which, on
+the whole, may fairly be applied to Provençal verse, are contained in
+the following sentence: ‘Pentasyllabum [viz., carmen, _i.e._ line]
+et eptasyllabum et endecasyllabum in usu frequentiori habentur, et
+post hæc trisyllabum ante alia: quorum omnium endecasyllabum videtur
+esse superbius tam temporis occupatione quam capacitate sententiæ,
+constructionis et vocabulorum.’ This, rendered by Provençal terms, means
+that verses of four, six, and ten syllables (con accen agut), and next to
+them those of two syllables, are most in use, but that the finest of all
+is the decasyllabic line. It may be useful to illustrate this rule by a
+few examples. The bordo of two syllables, as has been shown, is allowed
+only in bordos biocatz or empeutatz, and cannot form an independent
+foundation for a stanza. Of much greater importance is the verse of four
+syllables. The troubadours appreciated its graceful and easy fall, and
+used it with predilection. The beautiful poem of Guillem de Cabestanh,
+‘Li douz cossire,’ the finest of his, perhaps of all, Provençal canzos,
+is founded on this verse. Here it occurs with feminine rhyme only, in
+connection with the verse of six syllables, _e.g._:
+
+ _En sovinensa_
+ tenc la car’el dous ris
+ _vostra valensa_
+ el bel cors blanc e lis.
+
+The ‘Leys d’Amors’ quotes a poem, very likely invented for the occasion,
+where the stanza consists entirely of this verse. Here it occurs in
+both forms, with accen agut and accen greu. Notwithstanding a certain
+monotony, it is impossible to deny the merits of harmonious beauty and
+lyrical pathos to a stanza like the following:
+
+ Que fers de lansa
+ mays no m’acora;
+ que mi transfora
+ lo cor el cors
+ l’enveios mors
+ e verenos
+ coma poyzos
+ dels vilas motz,
+ quem fan jos votz
+ per maestria.
+
+The verse of six syllables has been used by Bernard de Ventadorn for the
+stanza of one of his best canzos, where it occurs alternately with accen
+greu and agut:
+
+ De domnas m’es vejaire
+ que gran falhimen fan;
+ per so quar no son gaire
+ amat li fin aman.
+
+However well suited in this case to the sentimental purposes of the
+troubadour, this verse is hardly fit to be used by itself in longer
+stanzas. There is a certain ‘entre deux’ about it, which deprives it of
+the graceful ease of shorter metres, without giving as an equivalent the
+grandeur of, for instance, the decasyllabic line. Its effect is much
+finer where it occurs combined with other verses in a stanza, as, for
+instance, in another poem of Bernard de Ventadorn, where it is found in
+connection with the verse of eight syllables, both showing accen greu:
+
+ Tant ai mon cor plen de joja
+ tot me desnatura;
+ flors blanca vermelh’e bloja
+ m sembla la freidura.
+
+This is at the same time one of the few examples where the octosyllabic
+verse is used in lyrical Provençal poetry. Dante, in consequence of
+its rarity, does not even mention it. But it is nevertheless of great
+importance, being the favourite metre of the romance. The two most
+important Provençal romances, ‘Flamenca’ and the ‘Roman de Giaufre,’ are
+written in it, as is also a novelette by Raimon Vidal, the author of a
+Provençal grammar. The first lines exhibit him as a ‘laudator temporis
+acti,’ after the manner of the later troubadours:
+
+ En aquel temps c’om era jais
+ e per amor fis e verais
+ cuendes e d’avinen escuelh.
+
+The octosyllabic verse with accen agut is more often found in lyrics than
+that with accen greu. In epic poetry both occur promiscuously.
+
+Of all the different verses the most important both in lyrical and in
+epical poetry, in Italian, French, and Provençal, is the endecasyllabus,
+or verse of ten syllables. The variety of different forms in which it
+occurs, and of purposes for which it is used, make a short account of
+its origin and development almost necessary. This variety is effected by
+the manifold ways in which the cæsura, one of the few relics of ancient
+metrical art, is used. The ‘Leys d’Amors’ says: ‘E devetz saber que en
+aitals bordos la pauza es la pauza en la quarta syllaba; e ges no deu hom
+transmudar lo compas del bordo, so es que la pausa sia de VI. syllabas
+el remanen de quatre, quar non ha bella cazensa.’ The pauza here spoken
+of is the cæsura, effected by a stronger accent being given to a certain
+syllable of the verse, and by a short rest which the voice naturally
+takes afterwards. This rest or pause may also be filled up by a short
+unaccentuated syllable which is not counted. In this case the pauza is
+feminine, or with accen greu: otherwise it has accen agut. As has been
+seen, the ‘Leys d’Amors’ lays down that the cæsura must be after the
+fourth syllable; and this indeed is the rule in lyrical poetry, from
+which that work takes all its examples. But the endecasyllabus occurs in
+much older documents in the _langue d’oc_ and _langue d’oïl_, namely, in
+the old popular epic; and to this it is necessary to refer in order to
+give a full account of its development. The oldest poetic monument in
+the Provençal language is a fragment of what seems a long didactic poem,
+and is commonly called ‘Boethius,’ because the parts of it which remain
+treat of an episode in the life of that author. Boethius, we may here
+recapitulate, a Coms de Roma, and one of the wisest and most religious
+men of his age, has been thrown into prison, on a false pretence, by his
+enemy the Pagan emperor Teirix. In his misery, Philosophy, the heroine of
+Boethius’s work ‘De Consolatione Philosophiæ,’ comes to comfort him. She
+appears to him under the form of a beautiful maiden, the daughter of a
+mighty king. In the hem of her raiment are wrought the Greek characters
+Π and Θ as symbols of ‘la vita qui enter es’ and ‘la dreita lei.’ In
+the middle of this description the manuscript breaks off, and leaves no
+indication of what was to follow. The time of this interesting document
+is, as Diez has shown by linguistic reasons, not later than about 960;
+and its great age adds to its value for metrical purposes. The metre is
+essentially the same as in all French poems of the Charlemagne cycle,
+viz., the decasyllabic; and it is used in very nearly the same way. In
+both languages it was the rule to give the fourth syllable of each verse
+the strongest metrical accent, and thus to effect after this syllable the
+cæsura or ‘pauza de bordo’ which has been explained above. ‘Boethius’
+has only verses con accen agut; and therefore to avoid monotony most of
+the pauzas are with accen greu, so that generally each line has eleven
+syllables, _e.g._:
+
+ Nos jove _ó_mne | quandiu que nos estam
+ de gran follía | per folledat parllam.
+
+The following lines afford examples of the masculine cæsura:
+
+ E qui nos pais | que no murem de fam
+ cui tan amet | Torquator Mallios.
+
+In a few cases, the second part of the verse contained one syllable less
+than usual, generally after a feminine pauza, which, as it were, covered
+this want, for instance:
+
+ donz fo Boécis | corps ag bo e pro.
+
+In these cases it might almost be supposed that the cæsura had been left
+out by neglect. But this supposition is disproved by the fact that also
+after a pauza con accen agut the second half of the verse is shortened
+in the same manner, a phenomenon which can be explained only from the
+effect of the interval after the accent on the fourth syllable. An
+instance of this is the line:
+
+ Qu’el era cóms | molt onraz e rix.
+
+Here the verse consists of only nine syllables. The metre in ‘Boethius’
+could therefore vary from nine to ten or eleven syllables. This variety
+was even greater in other poems, where the feminine rhyme occurs together
+with the feminine pauza, so as to bring the length of the verse to twelve
+syllables, _e.g._:
+
+ En autra térra | irai penre linhatge.
+
+The hiatus in the cæsura, as is evident from this and many other
+examples, was not considered a fault; and the first vowel was certainly
+pronounced. This seems to mark the transition to the more modern French
+heroic verse, the Alexandrine, which was not used in the old chanson de
+geste. In epic poetry also the position of the cæsura after the fourth
+syllable is almost universal. But there are some exceptions to this rule.
+In ‘Girartz de Rossilhon,’ the most important popular epic of the _langue
+d’oc_, the pauza del bordo occurs always after the sixth syllable, _e.g._:
+
+ Vecvòs per miei l’estorn | lo vilh Draugo
+ lo paire don Girárt | l’oncle Folco,
+
+or with feminine pauza and masculine ending of the verse:
+
+ Tan vos vei entrels vóstres | queus an cobrit,
+
+or with both feminine:
+
+ E fan lor cavals córre | per la varena.
+
+The same form of the decasyllabic verse is also found in some northern
+French epics, as in ‘Audigier,’ a later parody of the old heroic chanson
+de geste. The equal flow of this verse did not make it adaptable for the
+formation of stanzas; and there was the less occasion for such formation
+in the older epic poetry, as the rhyme or assonance remained unchanged
+through a great number of verses. This explains the tirade monorime which
+is the characteristic of the popular in contrast to the artificial epic.
+To break the monotony of this metre, however, many of the popular joglars
+introduced after a certain number of decasyllabic verses a shorter line,
+a bordo biocatz according to the expression of the ‘Leys d’Amors,’ which
+at the same time by its rhyme formed a transition to the following
+tirade. An instance occurs in the first part of the chronicle of the
+Albigeois, while in the second the shorter line is without any rhyme—one
+reason more for believing that the two parts were not both written by
+the same author, Guillem de Tudela. Moreover, lyric poets used a kind of
+tirade monorime intermixed with shorter verses, such as is found in the
+song by which Richard Cœur de Lion beguiled the hours of his imprisonment
+in Germany. The first stanza of this song may be quoted as an example of
+this form:
+
+ Ja nus homs pres non dira sa razon
+ adrechament, si com homs dolens non;
+ mas per conort deu hom faire canson:
+ pro n’ay d’amics, mas paubre son li don.
+ Ancta lur es, se per ma rezenson
+ soi sai dos ivers pres.
+
+The word ‘pres’ recurs at the end of each of the shorter verses, and
+forms a sort of burden. The same song also exists in French, and the
+latter seems indeed to be the original version.
+
+It would lead us too far to follow the traces of the decasyllabic
+verse through the Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese languages. In Italy
+the position of the cæsura was not fixed by strict rules as in the
+_langue d’oc_ and _langue d’oïl_; sometimes there are two accents and
+corresponding pauzas on the fourth and seventh or eighth syllables,
+and sometimes only one on the sixth. The cæsura in the decasyllabic
+metre which occurs in the canzos and sirventeses of the troubadours, is
+different from that in the tirade monorime of the popular epic. It has
+been seen that here in case of a pauza con accen greu the first part
+of the verse, and therefore the whole verse, became one syllable too
+long. The stricter metrical rules of lyric poetry did not admit of such
+liberties. Hence, if the lyrical cæsura is masculine, the chief accent
+is on the fourth syllable; if it is feminine the chief metrical accent
+goes back to the third syllable, and the fourth, which in epic poetry is
+always strongly accentuated, becomes weak. The masculine lyrical cæsura,
+which shows no difference from the epical, is found, for instance, in the
+beginning of Bertrand de Born’s sirventes:
+
+ Pos als barós | enoja e lor peza
+ d’aquesta pátz | qu’an faita li dui rei;
+
+while the lyrical pauza con accen greu occurs in the third stanza of the
+same poem:
+
+ Cum aquésta | ni autra c’om li grei.
+
+The epical cæsura in its feminine form is found very seldom in the poetry
+of the troubadours. Two of the rare instances occur in a canzo of Guillem
+de Cabestanh; and there the case is the more remarkable, as the epical
+and lyrical pauzas appear intermixed. The two verses are:
+
+ Don mi remémbra | douza terra el pais,
+
+and
+
+ En autra térra | irai penre lenhatge.
+
+In both cases the epical pauza might be got rid of by a slight
+alteration, which, however, is not confirmed by the authority of any
+manuscript. In the first case, ‘membra’ might easily be written instead
+of ‘remembra,’ by which means the epical cæsura would become lyrical;
+and in the second case the _a_ of ‘terra’ might be supplied by an
+apostrophe, by means of which the pauza would altogether disappear. In
+the last stanza of the same poem, as preserved in several manuscripts, is
+found the only example in lyrical poetry of the second hemistich being
+shortened after the feminine pauza, which, as has been seen above, occurs
+several times in ‘Boethius.’ The line is this:
+
+ Q’ieu non vólgra | qe fos ma cusina.
+
+But the difficulty is not serious; for this and other reasons, metrical
+and philological, prove that the stanza is a spurious addition of a
+later ignorant scribe. This instance shows how important a knowledge of
+metrical rules is for the critical editing of a Provençal author.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX.
+
+RHYME.
+
+
+The immense number of rhyming words in the Provençal language has been
+already referred to. Of the fifty-four forms of the verb of the first
+conjugation, only nine have the accent on the root, while forty-five have
+it on one of the final syllables; hence all the verbs of this conjugation
+rhyme with each other in these forms. Again, all the derivative syllables
+of the adjectives and nouns, like at-ada, ut-uda, or atge, ansa, ensa,
+and many others, have the accent on these syllables, and offer great
+choice of material to the poet in search of rhymes. Consequently, in all
+Provençal poetry, the rhyme plays a principal part, and metrical scholars
+considered it their most important task to introduce the student into
+the minutest subtleties of its beauty. Dante intended to speak of rhyme
+‘secundum se’ in one of the later parts of his book, which he never
+wrote; in the existing parts he speaks of it only in connection with
+the stanza. In accordance, however, with the ‘Leys d’Amors,’ it will be
+necessary to consider the essence of rhyme in itself, before proceeding
+to its influence on the combination of verses in a stanza, and of
+stanzas in a poem.
+
+The ‘Leys d’Amors’ uses the word rim or rima in a perfectly different
+sense from the modern rhyme. Its definition is this: ‘Rims es certz
+nombres de syllabas, ajustat a lui autre bordo per pario d’aquela
+meteysha accordansa e paritat de syllabas, o de diversas am bela
+cazensa.’ Rim exists therefore not only if the accordansa is the same,
+which constitutes approximately what is now called rhyme, but also though
+the ends of the two verses concerned sound quite differently, provided
+that a certain harmony or cazensa is effected simply by their lengths
+or accents. This must be borne in mind while we consider the division
+of rims into four classes as given by the ‘Leys d’Amors,’ viz., rims
+estramps, accordans, ordinals, and dictionals. The division is not very
+logical; for some of the rims enumerated have nothing to do with the
+essence of rhyme. Rim estramp in its exact meaning is nothing but the
+absence of rhyme or even assonance between two verses. In the poetry of
+the troubadours there is scarcely a line which has not its corresponding
+rhyme, either in its own or in another stanza, so that rims estramps
+are of no importance for the present purpose. Everything that is now
+called rhyme and was used by the troubadours is contained under the
+second head, rims accordans. This accordansa may be sonan, consonan, or
+leonisme; and the rims sonans and consonans must be again subdivided into
+bords (French, bâtard) and lejals. Rim sonan bord is what is now called
+assonance, and is very frequently found in Spanish poetry. The ‘Leys
+d’Amors’ gives examples of it con accen agut,
+
+ Encarcerat tenetz mon cor am_or_s,
+ E delivrar nol pot autra mas v_o_s;
+
+and con accen greu,
+
+ La mors quieu port a mi dons es tan g_randa_,
+ Quieu lo thezaur del realme de F_ranza_, etc.
+
+In the poems of the troubadours this assonance was not permissible.
+Accordingly, the ‘Leys d’Amors’ does not approve of it, though admitting
+that it was daily used in the mandelas, or popular chansons. ‘For these,’
+says the author, with all a scholar’s contempt for popular poetry, ‘I
+do not care, because I do not see nor can I find a known author for
+them.’ Rim sonan lejal, which exists only with accen agut, is what is now
+called masculine rhyme; that is to say, the last syllable in the rhyming
+lines must contain the same vowel with identical consonants (if any)
+after, but different ones before, it. The examples of this are of course
+innumerable. The second kind of rims accordans is called consonan. This
+also is subdivided into bord and lejal. The rim consonan bord is always
+con accen greu, so that only the second and unaccentuated syllable agrees
+with the corresponding one in the other verse, _e.g._:
+
+ Sino de liei que del sieu foc m’abran_d_a
+ Quar ela sab la maniera quos tu_d_a.
+
+The modern ear would not discern this kind of rhyme; and the troubadours
+also never used it. Perhaps the author of the ‘Leys d’Amors’ introduced
+it merely in order to give completeness to his system. Rim consonan
+lejal has always accen agut, and is found where the last and accentuated
+syllable in two verses is exactly the same in spelling, but different
+in meaning. Examples of this class are numerous in the poetry of the
+troubadours: the following is from a canzo of Serveri de Gironne:
+
+ E costumatz tanh que sia tan gen (adj. gentilis)
+ Que governar se puesca tota gen (noun, gentem).
+
+The same rhyme is also found in mediæval and modern French poetry, where
+it is called ‘rime riche.’ The chief characteristic of an accordansa
+consonan is the identity of vowels and consonants in the last syllable,
+but in the last syllable only. On the other hand, in the third division
+of accordansa, the leonisme, the last syllable but one, also must to a
+certain extent agree in the corresponding verses. Leonismetat is again
+subdivided into rims leonismes simples, and parfaitz. In the former the
+consonants before the vowel in the last syllable but one must differ: in
+the latter they must be identical. Rim leonisme simple con accen greu is
+what is now called feminine rhyme, as in
+
+ tot autra dona d’esser bella
+ lai on es cesta damaisella.
+
+Con accen agut, it is again one of those cases where, as in the rim
+consonan bord, the rhyme is extended to an unaccentuated syllable, which
+in this case appears before the rhyming syllables. The ‘Leys d’Amors’
+gives the following example:
+
+ Tan prozamens feric G_ă_st_ó_s
+ De lansa massas e b_ă_st_ó_s.
+
+The following is rim leonisme parfait con accen greu:
+
+ l’autrui beautat tein es ef_fassa_.
+ li viva colors de sa _fassa_;
+
+con accen agut:
+
+ Al arma dona s_anĕ_t_á_t
+ Qui fug a tota v_anĕ_t_á_t.
+
+The former would be called in German ‘weiblicher rührender Reim;’ and of
+the latter the same may be said as of the leonisme simple con accen agut.
+In this case the rhyme is extended backwards as far as the last syllable
+but two; sometimes even the last four or five syllables are included in
+the accordansa leonisme. The ‘Leys d’Amors’ gives an instance of what it
+calls rim mays perfait leonisme, in which the last five syllables are
+intended to rhyme in two different verses:
+
+ So don le cors p_ren noyridura_
+ Lo fai tornar _en poyridura_.
+
+In case the leonismetat is effected by two separate words, these words
+of course must always differ in their meaning. It may also be mentioned
+that rims consonans as well as leonismes are called contrafaitz, if the
+syllables or letters forming the rhyme are divided by the end of a word;
+as, for instance:
+
+ a celz que la vezo ni l’auzon
+ quan las donas sa beutat lauzon.
+
+Such is the division which the ‘Leys d’Amors’ gives of rhymes in
+general. The system shows a certain scholastic consistency; but the real
+essence and origin of rhyme are entirely overlooked, or even wrongly
+defined. Entirely different things are brought under the same head, as,
+for instance, assonance and masculine rhyme (rim sonan); while, on the
+other hand, things which decidedly belong together are separated. Thus
+the simple rhyme is called rim lejal sonan, while the simple feminine
+rhyme, which is obviously derived from it, is classed together with
+the rim leonisme, from which it differs essentially. The same is the
+case with the rims consonan lejal and leonisme parfait con accen greu.
+In subsequent chapters the work gives a complete list of the different
+artificial rhymes. They are too numerous to be discussed here; besides
+which, many of them are nothing but subtleties of the author, and are
+hardly ever used by the better troubadours. It is only necessary to
+consider those which are of real importance in studying the relics
+of Provençal poetry. The order also in which the different kinds are
+enumerated need not be followed: it is sometimes arbitrary, and sometimes
+utterly confused.
+
+After expounding what rhyme is, the ‘Leys d’Amors’ very properly proceeds
+to ask where rhyme is to be found. Every possible combination in this
+respect is brought under a new head, viz., rims ordinals. This expression
+is exceedingly ill chosen; for the words rims ordinals suggest some new
+kind of rhyme essentially different from rims consonans or sonans, while
+in reality they indicate only the different positions which these same
+rhymes can have in verse or stanza. The author avoids giving a definition
+of rims ordinals, but begins at once to explain how ‘aytals ordes se fai.’
+
+Rhyme, it is explained, may connect the different parts of one and the
+same line with each other, or with the end of this line. The middle rhyme
+is called, in correspondence with the bordos empeutatz, rim empeutat
+or multiplicatiu. An example of the former mode occurs in one of Peire
+Cardinal’s sirventeses:
+
+ Car los—garzos—vezon en patz sezer.
+
+In the following line both kinds are combined, the rhyme being the same
+in the middle parts of the verse and at the end of it:
+
+ Mon port—conort—e mon cofort.
+
+In some cases, as for instance between the cæsura of the decasyllabic
+verse and its end, the middle rhyme was strictly prohibited. But this
+middle rhyme is found very often between the same sections of different
+verses, as for instance in the above-mentioned sirventes of Peire
+Cardinal:
+
+ que fan—l’efan—d’aquela gent engleza
+ qu’avan—no van—guerrejar ab Frances;
+ mal an—talan—de la terr’ engolmeza
+ tiran—iran—conquistar Gastines.
+
+In order to display his art, the poet moreover made each pair of rhymes
+in the same line a rim consonan lejal. This kind of rhyme was sometimes
+carried to such an extent that each syllable of a whole verse agreed
+with the corresponding syllable of another. This was called a rim
+serpenti. Of such exaggeration there is probably no instance in the good
+troubadours; the ‘Leys d’Amors’ gives the following:
+
+ Bos—dieus—clarratz[40]—cara
+ Los—mieus—gardatz—ara.
+
+Next come the rhymes between the ends of the verses of one and the
+same stanza. The simplest form possible in this case was that all
+the verses of a stanza should have but one rhyme, which suggests the
+tirade monorime in the popular epic. The ‘Leys d’Amors’ calls this rim
+continuat. Although very simple, this rhyme was used by the most finished
+troubadours, such as Marcabrun and Aimeric de Peguilhan. Sordello
+bewailed in it the death of his friend Blacatz; and in the last-named
+poem combined with the long verse of twelve syllables, it has an
+excellent effect owing to its dreary monotonous sound.
+
+When there are two or more rhymes in a stanza, their order is varied in
+many different ways. The most simple mode is what the ‘Leys d’Amors’
+calls rims encadenatz; and next to this the rims crozatz. Rims encadenatz
+are crossed rhymes, viz., _a b: a b_. This position of the rhymes,
+continued through a whole stanza, is not often to be found in the better,
+or at least more artistic, troubadours. Johan de Pena, one of the less
+celebrated, has used it in a stanza of charming simplicity:
+
+ Un guerrier per alegrar
+ vuelh comensar, car m’agensa
+ que non lo dey plus celar,
+ trop l’auray tengut en pensa;
+ e guerrejaray d’amor,
+ endomens que ma guerrieira
+ a trobat guerrejador
+ que guerreja volontieira.
+
+Rims crozatz are found, to quote but one instance, in the two quatrains
+of a sonnet.
+
+These are the principal divisions of rhyme in its relations to a single
+stanza. But the troubadours employed it also to keep up a certain
+connection between several, sometimes all, the different stanzas of a
+poem; and in this respect it must now be considered.
+
+A change of rhyme from strophe to strophe—rims singulars—is rare, and,
+as a rule, found only where the stanza is very long and artificially
+composed. An example occurs in a song by Peire Cardinal, each stanza of
+which consists of no less than fifteen lines. Gaucelm Faidit and the
+Monk of Montaudon have used rims singulars also in shorter and simpler
+stanzas. The ‘Leys d’Amors’ gives no rule as to their use, but confirms
+indirectly what has been said, by giving as an example a very long and
+complicated stanza. Directly opposed to the rims singulars are the rims
+or coblas unisonans, where all the stanzas of a poem have the same rhymes
+in the corresponding lines. Sometimes poems of this kind are very long,
+so that the poet had to find a great number of consonant words, which
+however, in the _langue d’oc_, was not as difficult as it would have been
+in one of the Teutonic languages. But in spite of this some of the German
+minnesingers, such as Count Rudolf of Neuenburg and Friedrich von Hausen,
+who were under the influence of the troubadours, tried to compete with
+them in the richness of their rhymes and the variety of their stanzas.
+Of Friedrich von Hausen a song remains, which is an exact imitation, in
+one stanza even a translation, of one of Folquet de Marseilles’ canzos,
+which the German poet probably learned during the crusade of 1190, on
+which he accompanied the Emperor Frederick I. Sometimes the stanzas of a
+poem are grouped together in twos, threes, or fours, by means of equal
+rhymes. Such cases are described by the ‘Leys d’Amors’ as coblas doblas,
+triplas, &c. The better to display their skill, the greatest artists
+among the troubadours liked to choose for their rhymes rare and unusual
+words, the meaning of which, at the same time, was not easy to discover.
+The greatest master in these ‘rims cars,’ and ‘motz oscurs,’ was Arnaut
+Daniel, whom Dante, very likely for that reason, calls the first of all
+troubadours. But Peire d’Alvernhe also says of his poems, as a proof of
+their high art, ‘qu’apenas nulhs hom las enten.’ To give an idea of this
+obscurity, which, however, did not increase by any means the beauty of
+a canzo, it will suffice to quote a stanza from one of Arnaut Daniel’s
+poems, entirely written in rims cars:
+
+ En breu brizaral temps braus,
+ el bizel brunel e brancs
+ qui s’entresenhon trastug,
+ desobre claus rams de folha,
+ car no chant’ auzels ni piula
+ m’ensenh amors, que fassa donc
+ tal chan qui n’er segons ni tertz,
+ ans prims d’afrancar cor agre.
+
+It is worthy of notice that in the first lines the troubadour has used
+alliteration to increase the strange sound of his words. The lines serve
+at the same time as an example of another way of connecting stanzas with
+each other. All the different verses are without a rhyme in their own
+stanza, but find it in the corresponding verse of another, or of all
+the other stanzas. Rhyme of this kind is called by the ‘Leys d’Amors’
+rim espar, while Dante uses the expression clavis. When the clavis runs
+through all the verses of each stanza, the case is described as rimas
+dissolutas. Arnaut Daniel seems to have been particularly fond of this
+form; for the sestina also, which he invented, and which Dante praised
+and imitated, is founded on the same principle. Other poets preferred
+generally to introduce only one clavis or, at most, two, interrupting in
+this way, sometimes with great effect, the equal flow of the rhymes. A
+modification of the rims espars is the rims capcaudatz. This takes place
+if the clavis is the last verse of the first stanza, and is introduced
+into the following, not in its corresponding place, but by way of first
+rhyme. Of the two stanzas, for instance, quoted by the ‘Leys d’Amors,’
+the first ends with the line, ‘Li fizel de mortal pena,’ and the first
+line of the second accordingly shows the same rhyme in ‘verges eratz e
+vergena,’ and continues the scheme exactly in the same way as the first
+stanza. The various combinations of stanzas by means of the rhyme are
+one of the most interesting parts of Provençal versification, and show a
+great refinement of taste in the mediæval poets. To convey an idea of the
+skill manifested in this way, it will be useful to give a short sketch
+of a canzo which, in this as in all other respects, may be considered as
+the standard piece of Provençal poetry. This is Guillem de Cabestanh’s
+celebrated song, ‘Li douz cossire,’ through which, it is said, the poet
+lost his life, while making his name immortal. The poem consists of six
+stanzas, divided by means of corresponding rhymes into three groups of
+coblas doblas. But these three groups are again connected with each
+other; for the third stanza resumes the last feminine rhyme of the
+second, and uses it as first rhyme, introducing, however, new additional
+rhymes. The fifth stanza stands in exactly the same relation to the
+fourth. The four last lines of the second stanza show the following
+rhyming words—parvensa, temensa; fei, vei. The first rhyme of the third
+stanza must be feminine; and therefore the penultimate couple of rhymes
+is used, with some irregularity, as a kind of rims capcaudatz, and the
+beginning is
+
+ En sovinensa
+ tenc la car’el dous ris,
+ vostra valensa
+ el bel cors blanc e lis, &c.
+
+The highest principle of art, variety in unity, seems to be here
+attained. In many cases this principle of connecting the different
+stanzas led to the most childish and trifling artificialities, as, for
+instance, in what the ‘Leys d’Amors’ calls rims retrogradatz, where the
+second stanza begins with the last rhyme of the first, and reproduces all
+the subsequent rhymes in reversed order.
+
+This becomes yet more absurd if applied, as it sometimes is, to a single
+stanza, or even a single verse. In this case the stanza or verse has to
+be constructed in such a way that, without altering their meaning, the
+lines or words can change their places. The following lines, for instance,
+
+ Vengutz es lo senhor d’amon
+ Salutz grans portar en lo mon,
+
+could equally well be read the last first; or even the words could change
+their position, in this way:
+
+ Le senhor d’amon es vengutz
+ portar en lo mon grans salutz.
+
+The ‘Leys d’Amors’ adds, that he who likes to ‘despendre son temps’
+with such trifles may even find words like papa, tafata, in which the
+different syllables can be changed ad libitum. The fourth and last class
+of rhymes, as given by the ‘Leys d’Amors,’ the rims dictionals, contains,
+for the greater part, unimportant trifles of this kind. Rim dictional
+itself means the combination of two words in the rhyming syllables,
+which can be derived from each other, by either taking away or adding
+a syllable. Thus the feminine and masculine forms of the adjective
+and past participle, at-ada, ut-uda, stand in the relation of rims
+dictionals. An example of another kind of derivation is given in the
+following lines:
+
+ Mayres de Dieu prega to filh humil,
+ quem denhe dar, sil platz humilitat;
+ per miels tener lo dreg sendier util
+ que menals bos al port d’utilitat.
+
+This is an arbitrary invention, without any intrinsic value for the uses
+of genuine poetry. But some of the subdivisions given show how much the
+decline of the poetry of the troubadours was the consequence of their
+relying too much on the formal side of their art. Some poets seem to have
+particularly delighted in introducing rims leonismes parfaitz, or, as
+they are also called, rims equivocs, which, besides being different as
+regards the meaning of the words, show also a slight difference in sound
+of the vowels. In the following lines, for instance,
+
+ Sias tempratz e gent apres
+ En tas paraulas et apres,
+
+the first apres, being the participle of apprendre, sounds the _e_ a
+little more open than the second apres, afterwards. It was considered
+a great proof of poetical finish to introduce different vowels in
+combination with the same consonants into a stanza. The elder Gavaudan
+seems to have written the following verses entirely for this purpose:
+
+ Mos sens es cl_a_rs
+ als bos entended_o_rs;
+ trop es osc_u_rs
+ a selh que no sap gaire;
+ per que cuj_a_rs
+ lai on no val val_o_rs,
+ non es sab_e_rs
+ ni sens a mo vejaire.
+
+In a poem attributed by different manuscripts to Bernard de Ventadorn
+and Daude de Pradas, the poet has introduced all the five vowels in this
+way. This fact seems not to have been known to the author of the ‘Leys
+d’Amors:’ he would probably otherwise have mentioned a practice so much
+to his liking.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI.
+
+THE STANZA.
+
+
+We now come to the third division of the subject—the formation of the
+stanza. The consideration of metre and rhyme has shown the skill of the
+troubadours, but also the danger into which their marvellous finish led
+them, viz., to forget the real poetical value of their work over the
+beauty of form. This danger was not equally imminent in forming the
+stanza, seeing that its rules were too securely founded on the national
+sense of harmony, and too difficult to comply with, to afford an occasion
+for easy trifling. The stanza, accordingly, we have to consider as the
+highest development of art reached by the troubadours. It is therefore
+surprising that the ‘Leys d’Amors’ says nothing of any importance
+regarding its composition. The author of the work had evidently a very
+vague idea of the real essence of the stanza. The only guide, therefore,
+in our investigation must be Dante’s work, ‘De Vulgari Eloquentia,’ in
+which he draws a full and logical account from his own deep knowledge and
+experience. But many of his expressions will be obscure until the musical
+system of the middle ages is better understood. The rules of musical
+rhythm are indeed inseparably connected with all forms of Provençal
+poetry. But the way at least may be partially cleared, and the words of
+the great Italian poet illustrated by examples from the works of the best
+troubadours.
+
+The definition which the ‘Leys d’Amors’ gives of a stanza, or, as it
+calls it, cobla, is very unsatisfactory, or rather is no definition at
+all. It is expressed in a long poem of the author’s own manufacturing,
+the meaning of which is simply that a cobla may consist at least of
+five, and at most of sixteen verses, not including the shorter lines
+known under the name of bordos biocatz. Nothing more is said on this
+important subject. Of a division of stanzas according to their metrical
+and musical composition the author seemingly knows nothing. Dante, on the
+other hand, begins his long and careful investigation by stating first
+that ‘omnis stantia ad quandam odam recipiendam armonizata est.’ The word
+‘odam’ in this connection must be understood in a double sense—a musical
+and a metrical: in the former it means simply melody, in the latter
+the metrical scheme of the stanza. But this oda is very different in
+different cases: ‘quia quædam [stantiæ] sunt sub una oda continua, usque
+ad ultimum progressive, hoc est sine iteratione modulationis cujusquam
+et sine dieresi;[41] et dieresim dicimus deductionem vergentem de una
+oda in aliam; hanc voltam vocamus cum vulgus alloquimur.’ In the cases
+here referred to, therefore, the flow of melody or verse must not be
+interrupted by a marked rest or pause, but must go on in an equal strain
+to the end of the stanza. This kind of stanza, Dante continues, was
+used chiefly by the great Arnaut Daniel, and especially in the sestina
+invented by that troubadour, and imitated by Dante himself. A stanza of
+one of Arnaut’s sestine will at once make the meaning of Dante’s words
+clear:
+
+ Lo ferm voler qu’el cor m’intra,
+ nom pot ges becs escoissendre ni ongla
+ de lauzengier, sitot de maldir s’arma;
+ e per no l’aus batr’ ab ram ni ab verga
+ sivals a frau, lai on non aurai oncle
+ jauzirai joi en vergier o dins cambra.
+
+It would be impossible to find a point where to divide this stanza on
+any principle. There are no groups of verses marked by rhyme, seeing
+that there is no rhyme; there is no change between accen agut and accen
+greu; there is not even a strong grammatical pause. Accordingly it may be
+concluded that the musical accompaniment of the words was not interrupted
+by any striking harmonious modulation such as would have made a rest
+necessary. Exactly the same may be said of Dante’s own sestina,
+
+ Al poco giorno, ed al gran cerchio d’ombra,[42]
+
+which is constructed on the same principle. In many other cases also
+where there are rhymes a division of the stanza according to Dante’s
+system is utterly impossible, because the different parts allow of no
+forming into groups by the recurrence of the same order of rhymes. For
+instance, the following stanza of Jaufre Rudel must have been sung to a
+continued oda without any interruption:
+
+ Quan lo rius de la fontana
+ s’esclarzis, si cum far sol;
+ e per la flors aiglentina
+ el rossignoletz el ram
+ volf e refraing et aplana
+ son dous chantar et afina,
+ dreitz es queu lo meu refranha.
+
+Stanzas, however, ‘sub una oda continua,’ are not the rule. ‘Quædam
+vero sunt,’ Dante continues, ‘dieresim patientes, et dieresis esse non
+potest, secundum quod eam appellamus, nisi reiteratio unius odæ fiat vel
+ante dieresim vel post vel utrimque.’ The criterion, therefore, of the
+possibility of a dieresis or volta is, first of all, that in the poem
+there should be certain groups defined musically by the repetition of
+the same melody, and metrically by the recurrence of the same rhymes and
+of verses of the same length. The volta can, as has been seen, be either
+before or after such a group, or between two different groups if both
+parts of a stanza are divided in this way. Dante gives the terms for all
+these combinations in the following words: ‘Si ante dieresim repetitio
+fiat, stantiam dicimus habere pedes, et duos habere decet, licet
+quandoque tres fiant, rarissime tamen. Si repetitio fiat post dieresim,
+tunc dicimus stantiam habere versus; si ante non fiat repetitio, stantiam
+dicimus habere frontem; si post non fiat, dicimus habere syrma sive
+caudam.’ These few words contain in a nutshell the whole theory of
+Italian, and, with some slight changes, also of Provençal, stanzas. It
+remains to enter into the special cases referred to by this rule. The
+first alternative Dante mentions is that of a division effected by the
+repetition of certain melodic and rhythmic phrases in the first part of a
+stanza. After these groups, which in this case are called pedes, a rest
+or volta becomes necessary; and after this a new melody begins, which
+lasts to the end of the stanza, and is called a cauda.[43] The following
+is one of the very numerous examples of a stanza consisting of two pedes
+and a cauda:
+
+ 1. { Ai deus, ar sembles ironda,
+ { que voles per l’aire,
+ { qu’eu vengues de noit prionda
+ { lai al seu repaire!
+ Pedes
+ 2. { bona domna jauzionda
+ { mortz es vostr’ amaire,
+ { paor ai quel cors mi fonda,
+ { s’aissom dura gaire.
+
+ { domna, vas vostr’ amor
+ { jonh mas mas et ador
+ Cauda { bel cors ab fresca color,
+ { gran mal me fatz traire.
+
+In this case the cauda is as long as one pes, consisting, as it does, of
+four verses. Very seldom, says Dante, are there more than two pedes to
+a cauda. This, however, applies only to the Italian literature of his
+time. In Provençal poetry there are many instances of three pedes in a
+stanza; and the favourite form of the Italian poets of the cinquecento,
+the ottava rima, must also be defined as a stanza consisting of three
+pedes and a cauda. The most important form of lyrical Italian poetry,
+the sonnet, consists of pedes and cauda. The two quatrains show the
+required repetitio unius odæ, and the two terzine form the cauda. If
+the repetition of a melodic and metrical phrase takes place after the
+volta, and only there, the two groups in the second part of the stanza
+are called versus, while the first undivided part assumes the name of
+frons. The number of versus scarcely ever exceeds two. This form is also
+very common in Provençal poetry. In the following stanza of Guillem IX.
+of Poitiers, the first three lines form the frons, and the last four are
+divided into two versus of two lines each:
+
+ { Eu conosc ben cel qui bem di
+ Frons { e cel quim vol mal atressi,
+ { e conosc ben celui quem ri,
+
+ Versus 1. { e sil pro s’azautan de mi,
+ { conosc assaz;
+ {
+ Versus 2. { qu’atressi dei voler lor fi
+ { e lor solaz.
+
+These two principles of division in a stanza, viz., pedes and cauda, or
+frons and versus, Dante seems to consider as the most important. In both
+cases the stanza is actually divided into three parts; and this, indeed,
+was the fundamental principle of the Italian lyrical stanza, which in
+this respect, in conformity with the middle-high-German strophe, differs
+from the _langue d’oc_. Into old Italian poetry this tripartite division
+was perhaps introduced from the leonine hexameter, which, as has been
+stated before, sometimes took a similar form. In the Teutonic languages
+it seems much older; and indeed it is to be found in the old Icelandic
+ljôđahâttr, where the first two lines are of equal length and belong to
+one another, while the third one, longer than each, stands by itself. In
+the German popular epic this principle is not visible; but it appears
+again unmistakeably in the mediæval ‘minneliet.’ The usual form in the
+latter is pedes and cauda, which here are called Stollen and Abgesang. It
+is impossible here to consider the interesting phenomena arising from the
+conflict of this principle with the Provençal bias in those cases where
+the German minnesinger tried to imitate the stanzas of the troubadours.
+The prevalent principle in Provençal poetry seems to have been the
+division of a stanza into two corresponding parts; and, accordingly, to
+the above-mentioned combinations two more of great importance must be
+added. The first of these, which Dante also is acquainted with, is the
+division of a stanza into pedes and versus. In this case the stanza is
+divided into four parts; but each pair of these is so closely connected
+that the Provençal principle of a division into two halves is fully borne
+out—the more so, as there were evidently only two different melodies,
+each of them being repeated. The instances are again very numerous. In
+the following stanza of Peire d’Alvernhe’s, the pedes and versus consist
+of two lines each:
+
+ Pes 1. { Rossinhol, en son repaire
+ { m’iras ma domna vezer,
+ {
+ Pes 2. { e digas lil meu afaire
+ { et ill diguat del seu ver,
+
+ Versus 1. { quem man sai—com lestai;
+ { mas de mill sovenha,
+ {
+ Versus 2. { qui ges lai—per nuill plai
+ { ab ri not retenha.
+
+The fourth and last combination occurs when the stanza consists of a
+frons and a cauda, that is to say, when the two parts are undivided in
+themselves, but when a new melodic and metrical period begins after a
+certain number of verses. This form shows the Provençal principle of a
+division into two parts more clearly than any of the others; but Dante,
+from his point of view, is also right in not approving of it, or rather
+in not acknowledging it as a division at all, seeing that there is no
+‘repetitio unius odæ.’ One out of many examples of this phenomenon is a
+stanza of Bertrand de Born’s, where the frons and cauda consist of three
+lines each:
+
+ { Autr’ escondig vos farai plus sobrier
+ Frons { e no mi posc orar plus d’encombrier:
+ { seu anc failli vas vos neis del pensar,
+
+ { quant serem sol en chambr’o dins vergier,
+ Cauda { faillam poder deves mon compaignier,
+ { de tal guiza que nom posc’ ajudar.
+
+The end of the first and the beginning of the second musical and
+metrical phrase, as marked by the diesis or volta, was generally further
+strengthened by the conclusion of the grammatical sentence. In most of
+the numerous stanzas already quoted, the volta contains either a full
+stop or a semicolon, or at least a comma. The sentence is seldom carried
+on through the volta, though even the best troubadours were not always
+careful in applying this rule.
+
+By these various methods, the stanza was strictly divided into different
+parts. But, on the other hand, the feeling of the troubadours for unity
+and harmony was too keen not to make it desirable to bridge over somehow
+the gap made by the volta, and to preserve the connection between the
+two sides. This was done by means of the rhyme, which, as has been seen,
+was used for a similar purpose between the different stanzas of a poem.
+This process is called by Dante concatenatio; and this concatenatio might
+be effected in two different ways. The first and simpler mode consists
+in the cauda or versus adopting one or several rhymes of the frons or
+pedes. This is the course usually followed; and almost all the stanzas
+above quoted may serve as examples. So in Bertrand de Born’s poem the
+cauda repeats both the rhymes of the frons. In Guillem IX.’s stanza the
+versus take up the only rhyme of the frons, adding a new one of their
+own. This concatenatio, however, was not considered absolutely necessary;
+and Peire d’Alvernhe, for instance, one of the most finished troubadours,
+introduces into the versus of his stanza rhymes entirely different from
+those found in the pedes. Another kind of concatenatio is effected by
+adding, either before or after the volta, a line which contains the rhyme
+of the other part of the stanza. How the troubadours contrived not to
+disturb the flow of their melody by this new and seemingly inharmonious
+element it is difficult to say. Perhaps it was sung to a sort of
+recitative or arioso of its own, which served as a prelude to the new
+melody of the second part. The meaning of this will be clearly shown by
+the following stanza by Raimbaut de Vaqueiras:
+
+ Era pot hom conoisser e proar
+ Que de bos faitz ren deus bon gazardo,
+ qu’al pro Marques n’a fait esmend’e do,
+ quel fai son pretz sobrels melhors pojar;
+ si quel crozat de Frans e de Campanha
+ l’an quist a deu per lo melhor de totz,
+ e per cobrar lo sepulcr’e la crotz
+ on fon Ihesus, qu’el vol en sa companha
+ l’onrat marques, et al deus dat poder
+ de bos vassalhs e de terr’e d’aver
+ e de ric cor per melhs far so quel tanha.
+
+This stanza consists of a frons and two versus of three lines each. The
+first four lines are a whole in themselves; and after them the frons
+ought to be concluded by the volta, as is indicated by the punctuation
+after ‘pojar.’ But the poet adds a fifth line, in order to introduce a
+rhyme from the versus, and in this way effects the concatenatio he needs.
+There was yet another way of connecting the two parts of the stanza which
+might in a certain sense also be called concatenatio, but which was
+seemingly unknown to Dante. The following stanza of Cercalmont’s,
+
+ Senhors e dompnas gerpira
+ s’a lei plagues queu li servis,
+ e quem diria m’en partis,
+ fariam morir des era,
+ qu’en autra non ai mon esper
+ noit ni jorn ni matin ni ser,
+ ni d’als mos cors no consira,
+
+consists evidently of a frons and a cauda, of three lines each. The
+fourth verse does not belong to either, and its rhyme is not to be
+found in the same stanza; therefore it is to be called a clavis. But
+nevertheless it is of use for the purpose of connecting the frons with
+the cauda; for, by considering it as a kind of centre, and going from it
+to the beginning and to the end of the stanza, the reader will see that
+the two parts exactly agree as regards the length of the verses, and even
+their feminine rhyme.
+
+In the eleventh chapter of his ‘De Vulgari Eloquentia’ Dante speaks of
+the relations between the parts of a stanza so far as the number and
+length of the lines are concerned. He enumerates and explains no less
+than nine different cases. For the present purpose, however, these are
+scarcely of any importance; for the rules given by him cannot be traced
+to the poems of the troubadours. In this respect the Provençal poets seem
+to have exercised great liberty, being protected against choosing bad
+proportions by their refined sense of harmony.
+
+It still remains to mention a form of Provençal poetry, of which the
+essence cannot be explained nor the rules defined without the aid of
+Dante’s statements. This is the tornada, a kind of postlude or envoi
+to the stanza, in which the poem is dedicated to the lady-love or the
+protector of the troubadour, who is generally introduced under a senhal
+or pseudonym to keep the real name secret. Peire Vidal always calls the
+beautiful Azalais ‘Vierna,’ while the senhal ‘Bels Castiatz’ designates
+his noble protector Sir Aimeric de Monrial. The ‘Leys d’Amors’ says that,
+as a rule, there ought to be two tornadas, the first of them containing
+the senhal. This, however, is not confirmed by the majority of Provençal
+poems, which contain many examples of a single tornada. In another
+respect also the ‘Leys d’Amors’ is very inaccurate. It says that the
+tornada must be identical in form with the latter half of the stanza, if
+this consists of an even number of lines, adding or leaving out one line
+where the number of the verses cannot be divided by two. But this applies
+only to those stanzas where no division is to be found. Where there is a
+diesis the rule is quite different, and can be learned only from Dante,
+who speaks of the tornada in the ‘Convito,’ where he derives the word
+from tornar, owing to a part of the oda returning in it. Accordingly the
+rule in the divided stanza is that the first tornada repeats the metrical
+form and rhyme of that part of the stanza—cauda or versus—which stands
+after the volta. Where there is a second tornada it generally agrees
+with the first, being, however, always the shorter of the two. All this,
+of course, the author of the ‘Leys d’Amors’ could not know, because he
+was ignorant of the metrical and musical formation of the stanza; but it
+is of the highest importance for the study of Provençal versification,
+and shows again the great value of Dante’s work in that respect. The
+above-stated rule is confirmed by so many examples from the canzos of the
+troubadours that it is scarcely necessary to bring new evidence for it.
+It will be more useful to mention some of the more important exceptions,
+which in this, as in other cases, ‘firmant regulam.’ If the last stanza
+of a poem ends with two versus, the tornada sometimes repeats only one
+of them. Sometimes also part of the cauda remains unrepeated. In other
+cases the tornada repeats exactly the metre of the cauda, but differs
+slightly from its rhymes. In a sirventes of Marti de Mons, which was
+written in the fifteenth century (1436), and by which the poet gained the
+‘englantina’ in the competition of the Academy of Toulouse, the cauda of
+the last stanza consists of the following four verses:
+
+ doranavant no cal plus dart ny lansa
+ depus que dieus s’es mes de nostra part;
+ qu’a tout l’erguelh al verenos leupart
+ que ta lonc temptz nos ha donat dampnatge.
+
+The first of these lines serves as concatenatio; and for that reason its
+rhyme agrees with the first part of the poem. In the tornada this reason
+of course did not exist; and therefore the poet very skilfully rhymes
+the first line with the last line of the tornada instead of making it
+like the first verse of the cauda. The tornada, therefore, is this:
+
+ Confort d’amors, fons he cap de paratge
+ vostre car filh faytz que prim ho de tart
+ nos velha dar totz ensemps bona part
+ de paradis, le sobrier heretatge.
+
+In many cases also there is no tornada at all, or it may be said to
+consist of the last stanza of the poem, if in this the senhal and
+dedication are introduced.
+
+The principles insisted upon in the foregoing remarks may perhaps best
+be illustrated by an accurate metrical analysis of the subjoined canzo
+of Bernard de Ventadorn. For the purpose in question this poem has
+the double advantage of presenting a great complication of metrical
+rules, and of showing at the same time how the troubadours succeeded in
+combining such a complicated structure with the beauty of genuine poetry.
+
+ _a._ Be m’an perdut lai enves Ventadorn
+ tuit mei amic, pos ma domna nom ama,
+ et es be dreitz que jamais lai no torn,
+ qu’ades estai vas mi salvatg’ e grama.
+ veus per quem fai semblan irat e morn,
+ quar en s’amor mi deleit em sojorn,
+ ni de ren al nos rancura nis clama.
+
+ _b._ Aissi col peis qui s’eslaiss’ el cadorn
+ e no sap re tro que s’es pres en l’ama,
+ m’eslaissei eu vas trop amar un jorn;
+ qu’anc no saup mot tro fui en mei la flama
+ que m’art plus fort que no fai focs de forn;
+ e ges per so nom posc partir un dorn,
+ aissim te pres s’amors que m’aliama.
+
+ _c._ Nom meravilh si s’amors mi te pres,
+ que genser cors no cre qu’el mon se mire;
+ bels es e blancs e frescs e gais e les,
+ e totz aitals cum eu volh e dezire;
+ no posc dir mal de leis, que non i es;
+ qu’el n’agra dig de joi, seu l’i saubes,
+ mas no l’i sai: per so m’en lais de dire.
+
+ _d._ Totz temps volrai sa honor e sos bes
+ elh serai hom et amics e servire,
+ e l’amarai, be li plass’o belh pes,
+ qu’om no pot cor destrenher ses aucire.
+ no sai domna, volgues o non volgues,
+ sim volia, qu’amar no la pogues;
+ mas totas res pot hom en mal escrire.
+
+ _e._ A las autras sui aissi escasutz:
+ laquals si vol mi pot vas si atraire,
+ per tal coven que nom sia vendutz
+ l’onors nil bes que m’a en cor a faire;
+ qu’enojos es prejars, pos es perdutz:
+ per mius o dic, que mals m’en es vengutz,
+ qu’enganat m’a la bela de mal aire.
+
+ _f._ En Proensa tramet mans e salutz,
+ e mais de bes qu’om no lor sap retraire,
+ e fatz esfortz, miraclas e vertutz,
+ car eu lor man de so don non ai gaire;
+ qu’eu non ai joi mas tan com m’en adutz
+ mos Bels Vezers en Faituratz sos drutz
+ en Alvergnatz lo senher de Belcaire.
+
+ _g._ Mos Bels Vezers per vos fai deus vertutz
+ tals c’om nous ve que no si’ ereubutz
+ dels bels plazers que sabetz dir e faire.
+
+This poem consists of six stanzas and a tornada. The length of each
+stanza is seven verses, that of the tornada three. In each stanza there
+is, according to Dante’s expression, a diesis or volta, for there is
+the required reiteratio unius odæ. This reiteratio takes place before
+the volta, while after the volta no division is possible. The stanza
+therefore must be divided into two pedes of two lines each and a cauda
+of three lines. According to rule, the metrical division is marked by
+a strong grammatical break (at least a semicolon), the only exception
+being stanza _b_, where a punctuation in the volta is not possible. The
+tornada repeats as usual the form and rhymes of the cauda; and in it the
+poem is dedicated to the poet’s lady-love, who is addressed by a senhal.
+Bel Vezer was in this case Agnes de Montluçon, wife of the troubadour’s
+lord and protector, who raised him from the state of a common servant and
+gave him the first lessons ‘del gay saber.’ The verse of the stanza is
+decasyllabic; it occurs with masculine and feminine rhyme. The stanza may
+be formulated metrically by using capital letters for the decasyllabic
+line, and adding to them the sign ~ for the accen greu; the volta may be
+marked by a semicolon, and the division of the pedes from each other by a
+colon:
+
+ A B~: A B~; A A B~.
+
+Hence it appears that in each stanza there are only two different rhymes,
+the cauda repeating those of the pedes, which is the simplest form of
+concatenatio. Moreover, each couple of stanzas have the same rhyme, or
+are coblas doblas; the poet in consequence had to find, three different
+times, eight masculine and six feminine rhyming words, which, though not
+a very difficult task in the _langue d’oc_, required a certain amount
+of skill. In the last group of stanzas this number was increased by the
+tornada to ten and seven respectively. Nevertheless there are only two
+cases of the same words with the same meaning occurring in the rhymes,
+or of motz tornatz en rim as the ‘Leys d’Amors’ calls them. Both these
+cases, _f_ 3 = _g_ 1 and _e_ 4 = _g_ 3, occur in the tornada, where they
+were not as strictly forbidden as in other positions. On the other hand
+there are many examples of ‘rime riche’ in its masculine as well as
+feminine form. The former or rims consonans lejals are _a_ 1 = _b_ 1 =
+_b_ 6, _c_ 6 = _d_ 1, _d_ 5 = _d_ 6, _e_ 3 = _e_ 5 = _f_ 5. The latter or
+rims leonismes parfaitz are _e_ 2 = _f_ 2. But in all these cases it is
+very doubtful whether these rhymes were intentional, since they exhibit
+no system or order. A remarkable sense of the effects of sound is shown
+in the alliterative use of the letter _f_ in _b_ 4 and 5, by means of
+which the pains of the unhappy lover are onomatopoetically expressed.
+
+In the verse of ten syllables the cæsura is always of importance: it
+therefore remains to take note of it. The cæsura, where it appears
+feminine, has been divided into the epical and the lyrical, the
+difference being that in the epical pauza del bordo the accent always
+remains on the fourth syllable, after which another unaccentuated
+syllable is added to the first hemistich, while in lyrical poetry the
+accent itself is removed from the fourth to the third syllable. In the
+present poem the pauza con accen agut is by far the more common; where it
+occurs with accen greu it always takes the lyrical form. These cases are
+_d_ 5 and 6, _e_ 1, and _f_ 1.
+
+It may be worth while to notice that once, _d_ 5, the word domna is
+placed in the lyrical pauza. The troubadours, in addressing their
+lady-loves, seem to have liked this particular position of the word,
+by means of which it received a certain emphasis. In many canzos of
+different troubadours there are instances of this device; in one of
+Guillem de Cabestanh’s songs it occurs twice, or, according to a Parisian
+manuscript in which the poem is also preserved, even three times.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII.
+
+SOME INTERLINEAR VERSIONS.
+
+
+I.
+
+_CANZO BY GUILLEM DE CABESTANH._
+
+ Li douz cossire
+ The sweet thoughts
+ Qem don amors soven,
+ Which to me gives love often,
+ Domnam fan dire
+ Lady, me make say
+ De vos maint vers plazen;
+ Of you many a poem pleasant;
+ Pessan remire
+ Thinking I gaze (on)
+ Vostre cors car e gen,
+ Your body dear and comely,
+ Cui eu dezire
+ Which I desire
+ Mas qe non faz parven;
+ More than (not) I make appearance;
+ E sitot me deslei
+ And although myself I make (appear) disloyal
+ Per vos, ges nous abnei,
+ For you(r sake), scarcely (not) you I deny;
+ Q’ades vas vos soplei
+ For soon towards you I pray
+ De francha benvolensa.
+ With genuine love.
+ Domna, on beutaz gensa,
+ Lady, where (in whom) beauty is an ornament,
+ Maintas vez oblit mei
+ Many times I forget myself
+ Q’eu lau vos e mercei.
+ That I may praise you and implore mercy.
+
+ Toz temps m’azire
+ All times me may hate
+ L’amors qeus mi defen,
+ The Love which you (from) me withholds
+ S’eu jal cor vire
+ If I ever the heart turn
+ Ad autr’ entendemen;
+ To another (loving) understanding;
+ Tolt m’ avez rire
+ Taken away (from) me you have laughter
+ E donat pessamen.
+ And given thought.
+ Plus greu martire
+ More severe martyrdom
+ Nuls homs de me no sen;
+ No man of me (than I) not feels;
+ Qar vos qe plus envei
+ For you whom more I desire
+ De re q’el mon estei,
+ Of (than a) thing which in the world is
+ Desautorc e mescrei
+ I disavow and deny
+ E desam en parvensa;
+ And un-love in appearance;
+ Tot qant faz per temensa
+ All how much I do through fear
+ Devez en bona fei
+ You must in good faith
+ Prendre, neis qan nous vei.
+ Take, even when not you I see.
+
+ En sovinensa
+ In memory
+ Tenc la car’ el dous ris,
+ I hold the face and the sweet smile,
+ Vostra valensa
+ Your worth
+ El bel cors blanc e lis;
+ And the beautiful body white and lithe;
+ Si per crezensa
+ If through faith
+ Estes ves deu tan fis,
+ I were towards God as faithful,
+ Vius ses falhensa
+ Alive without failure
+ Intrer’ en paradis;
+ I should enter into paradise.
+ Q’ aissim sui ses toz cuz
+ For so myself I am (have) without all (any) hesitation
+ De cor a vos renduz
+ Of the heart to you given
+ Q’autra jois nom aduz;
+ That another joys not to me gives;
+ Q’una no porta benda,
+ For one not wears a band
+ Q’en prezes per esmenda
+ That I of her should prize as compensation
+ Jaser ne fos sos druz
+ To lie (with her) nor that I were her lover
+ Per las vostras saluz.
+ (In exchange) for the your greetings.
+
+ Toz jorns m’agensa
+ All the days me stirs
+ Desirs, tan m’abelis
+ Desire, so much me attracts
+ La captenensa
+ The bearing
+ De vos per cui languis;
+ Of you for whom I languish;
+ Bem par qem vensa
+ Good to me it seems that me should conquer
+ Vostr’ amors, q’ans qeus vis
+ Your love, for before that you I saw
+ Fo m’ entendensa,
+ It was to me a knowledge
+ Qeus ames eus servis;
+ That you I should love and you I should serve;
+ Q’ aissim sui remansuz
+ For thus myself I am (have) remained
+ Sols ses autres ajuz
+ Alone without other helps
+ Q’ ab vos, e n’ ai perduz
+ But (from) you and therefrom I have lost
+ Mans bes, quis vuelhals prenda;
+ Many boons; he who for himself will (have) them take (them);
+ Q’a mi plaz mais q’atenda
+ For to me it pleases more that I should wait
+ Ses toz covenz saubuz
+ Without all covenants known
+ Vas don m’ es jois creguz.
+ (With) towards (her) from whom to me (has) is joy grown.
+
+ Ans qe s’encenda
+ Before that itself may inflame
+ Inz el cor la dolors,
+ Inside in the heart the pain,
+ Merces desenda
+ Mercy may descend,
+ Domn’ en vos et amors,
+ Lady, into you and love,
+ Qe joi mi renda
+ Which joy to me may give
+ En lonhs sospirs e plors.
+ Amidst long sighs and tears.
+ Nous o defenda
+ Not you this may forbid
+ Paratges ni ricors;
+ Parentage nor wealth;
+ Q’oblidaz m’es toz bes,
+ For forgotten (by) me is every boon,
+ S’ab vos nom val merces;
+ If with you not me helps mercy;
+ Ai! bella dousa res,
+ Oh! beautiful sweet thing,
+ Molt feraz gran franqesa
+ Much will you do great frankness
+ M’amessez o non ges;
+ (If) me you would love or not (scarcely)
+ Q’eras no sai qe s’es.
+ For now not I know which (itself) it is.
+
+ Non trop contenda
+ Not I find resistance
+ Contra vostras valors;
+ Against your worth(s);
+ Merces von prenda
+ Mercy you thereof may take
+ Tals q’a vos si’ onors;
+ Such as to you would be an honour;
+ Ja nom entenda
+ Ever not me may hear
+ Dieus mest sos prejadors,
+ God amongst his worshippers,
+ Si volh la renda
+ If I will (take) the income
+ Dels qatre reis majors
+ Of the four kings greatest
+ Qe ab vos nom valgues
+ So that with you not to me should be of use
+ Dieus e ma bona fes;
+ God and my good faith;
+ Qe partir nom posc ges
+ For part (from you) not (me) I can scarcely
+ Tant fort si es empresa
+ So strongly itself is (has) inflamed
+ M’ amors, e si fos presa
+ My love, and if it were found
+ En baisan nius plagues,
+ (In) kissing and if you it pleased
+ Ja no volgram solves.
+ Ever not should I wish myself that I severed.
+
+ Anc res q’a vos plagues
+ Ever a thing that (to) you pleased
+ Bona domna cortesa
+ Good lady courteous
+ Tan no m’ estet defesa,
+ So much not to me was forbidden
+ Q’eu ans no la fezes,
+ That I sooner not it should do
+ Qe d’als mi sovengues.
+ Than of another thing (myself) I should think.
+
+
+II.
+
+_IDYLL BY MARCABRUN._
+
+ A la fontana del vergier,
+ At the fountain of the orchard
+ On l’ erb’ es vertz jostal gravier,
+ Where the grass is green near the gravel
+ A l’ ombra d’ un fust domesgier,
+ In the shade of a tree indigenous
+ En aizement de blancas flors
+ In the beauty of white flowers
+ E de novel chant costumier,
+ And of new song familiar
+ Trobei sola ses companhier
+ I found alone without companion
+ Cela que no volc mon solatz.
+ Her who not relished my conversation.
+
+ So fon donzel’ ab son cor bel,
+ This was a girl with her body beautiful
+ Filha d’un senhor de castel;
+ The daughter of one lord of a castle;
+ E quant eu cugei que l’ auzel
+ And when I thought that the birds
+ Li fesson joi e la verdors,
+ Her made (gave) joy and the greenery
+ E pel dous termini novel,
+ And (because of) the sweet season new
+ E que entendes mon favel,
+ And that she would listen (to) my address
+ Tost li fon sos afors camjatz.
+ Soon (the) were her manners changed.
+
+ Dels olhs ploret josta la fon
+ From her eyes she cried by the fountain
+ E del cor sospiret preon.
+ And from the heart she sighed deeply.
+ ‘Jhesus,’ dis ela, ‘reis del mon,
+ ‘Jesus,’ said she, ‘king of the world,
+ Per vos mi creis ma grans dolors,
+ Through you me grows my great grief
+ Quar vostra anta mi cofon,
+ For your disgrace me injures,
+ Quar li melhor de tot est mon
+ For the best of all this world
+ Vos van servir, mas a vos platz.
+ You go to serve, but to you it pleases.
+
+ Ab vos s’en vai lo meus amics,
+ With you (himself) away goes (the) my friend
+ Lo bels el gens el pros el rics,
+ The beautiful and the gentle and the brave and the worthy
+ Sai m’en reman lo grans destrics,
+ Here to me therefrom remains the great grief
+ Lo deziriers soven el plors.
+ The longing often and the tear.
+ Ai! mala fos reis Lozoics
+ Alas! evil be (befal) king Louis.
+ Que fai los mans e los prezics
+ Who makes the commands and the preachings,
+ Per quel dols m’es el cor intratz.’
+ Through which the pain to me is into the heart entered.’
+
+ Quant eu l’auzi desconortar,
+ When I her heard lament
+ Ves leis vengui jostal riu clar.
+ To her I came near the brook clear.
+ ‘Bela,’ fi m’eu, ‘per trop plorar
+ ‘Beautiful one,’ said (myself) I, ‘by too much crying
+ Afola cara e colors:
+ Degenerates face and colour:
+ E no vos qual dezesperar,
+ And not you it beseems to despair,
+ Que cel que fai lo bosc folhar
+ For he who makes the bush bring forth leaves
+ Vos pot donar de joi assatz.’
+ You can give of joys enough.’
+
+ ‘Senher,’ dis ela, ‘ben o cre,
+ ‘Sir,’ said she, ‘well this I believe
+ Que Deus aja de mi merce
+ That God may have of me mercy
+ En l’ autre segle per jasse,
+ In the other world for ever
+ Quon assatz d’ autres peccadors;
+ As enough of other sinners;
+ Mas sai mi tol aquela re
+ But here me he takes that thing
+ Don jois mi crec; mas pauc mi te
+ Of which joy me grew; but little me he holds worth
+ Que trop s’es de mi alonhatz.
+ As too (far) (himself) he is from me gone.
+
+
+
+
+FOOTNOTES
+
+
+[1] Even the oldest Provençal poem of importance known to us, a popular
+version of the story of Boethius, belonging, according to Raynouard, to
+the tenth century, shows in most essential points the same grammatical
+structure as the language of the Troubadours, barring such irregularities
+and archaisms as are fully accounted for by the age and origin of the
+work.
+
+[2] The religious poems of the Vaudois, especially the celebrated ‘Noble
+Lesson,’ a medley of moral and dogmatic precepts, do not concern us, they
+being both by language and tendency entirely removed from the sphere of
+artistic literature.
+
+[3] A curious collection of all imaginable law cases, called ‘Albres de
+Batalhas,’ or ‘Tree of Contention,’ and written most likely originally in
+French, may be mentioned as throwing a curious though faint light on a
+recent controversy. One of the fictitious actions is between a Frenchman
+and a licentiate of London who has come to Paris to take his degree in
+the celebrated university of that city, a case of frequent occurrence,
+although ‘as every one knows the Kings of France and England are always
+at war with each other.’ In answer to some argument of the Englishman his
+antagonist exclaims in his boisterous way: ‘We Frenchmen don’t care about
+your laws or the _emperor_ who made them.’ What better precedent could
+the advocates of Queen Victoria’s new title demand than this testimony of
+an enemy, who curiously enough speaks of his own monarch as the king?
+
+[4] In one passage, it is true, he uses the words, ‘que ay escrichas
+questas razos,’ ‘I who have written these things,’ but that may be a
+shorter way for saying ‘dictated,’ which the expression in the text
+evidently indicates.
+
+[5] In the second-mentioned poem the instruction takes the whimsical form
+of a reproof to a joglar for _not_ knowing the various subjects mentioned
+in the text. ‘I will tell you the truth without a lie,’ the ingenuous
+poet opens his diatribe; ‘you are a bad fiddler and worse singer from
+beginning to end.’
+
+[6] Pulci says that Angelo Poliziano called his attention to Arnaut’s
+work, in acknowledgment evidently of what he considered a remarkable
+antiquarian achievement.
+
+[7] ‘Galahalt’ was the go-between of the Queen and her lover. The word
+became nationalised in Italian as equivalent to ‘Pandar.’
+
+[8] This kind of personal apprenticeship to a renowned troubadour, be
+it here parenthetically stated, was, in the good times, the common way
+of acquiring the complicated and difficult art of poetry. Other poets
+taught themselves with the assistance of the great models preserved in
+writing, or transmitted by word of mouth and sound of voice or fiddle.
+Jaufre Rudel says prettily, that meadows and orchards, trees and flowers,
+and the cries and songs of wild birds have been his teachers. The
+‘Academies,’ _i.e._ teaching and examining bodies, were, like the schools
+of the German master singers, creations of a late epoch.
+
+[9] M. Damase Arbaud some time ago published a charming collection of
+popular ditties (‘Chants Populaires de Provence,’ Aix, 1862), containing
+amongst other pieces some beautiful Christmas songs or _noëls_ evidently
+of great antiquity, although still sung in Provence. Some of these poems,
+the editor believes, date back from the times of the Troubadours. But the
+oral tradition to which they owe their preservation has unfortunately
+changed their linguistic character beyond recognition.
+
+[10] The _senhal_ or pseudonym of his lady-love.
+
+[11] Songs of dispute or contention.
+
+[12] ‘The other day by the roadside I heard a shepherd sing a song, which
+said: “False traitors have killed me.” And when he saw me approach, he
+jumped to his feet to do me honour and said, ‘God be with you, sir; for
+now I have found a friend, leal and discreet and without falsehood to
+whom I may complain of love.’
+
+[13] A curious exception to this rule occurs in a _balada_ published
+by Professor Bartsch from a Paris manuscript. It is evidently written
+in imitation of a popular model, and differs _in toto_ from the spirit
+and diction of the poetry of the Troubadours, with which it has nothing
+in common but the language. Here we have a refrain of purely musical
+significance at the end of some of the lines, and also the exclamation
+of the dancers referred to in the text. Here also, curiously enough,
+the words take a narrative turn, thus seeming to foreshadow the gradual
+transition of the term ballad from its old to its modern meaning. A
+stanza may follow here:—
+
+ A l’entrada del tems clar, eya,
+ Per joya recomençar, eya,
+ E per jelos irritar, eya,
+ Vol la regina mostrar
+ Q’el’est est si amoroza.
+ Alavi’, alavia, jelos,
+ Laissaz nos, laissaz nos
+ Ballar entre nos, entre nos.
+
+(‘At the beginning of the bright season, eya, in order to begin again
+joy, eya, and to irritate the jealous, eya, the queen resolves to show
+how amorous she is. Away, away, ye jealous, let us, let us, dance by
+ourselves, by ourselves’).
+
+[14] An article in the _Cornhill Magazine_ (July 1877), called a ‘Plea
+for certain Exotic Forms of Verse,’ may be consulted with advantage, as
+regards the adoption of these French metres by some modern English poets.
+For modern French poetry, that charming volume ‘Petit Traité de Poésie,’
+by Théodore de Banville, is the chief source. Of the mediæval development
+of his own language and the _langue d’oc_ M. de Banville unfortunately
+says little or nothing. Villon seems the earliest author known to him.
+Rutebœuf he ignores.
+
+[15] According to the _Leys d’amors_, this choice of one of two arguments
+proposed by one troubadour to another, is the characteristic feature of
+the _partimen_ in distinction from the _tenso_ generally.
+
+[16] A notorious freebooter of the time.
+
+[17] Attacks on the morals of the clergy are frequent in Provençal
+literature; but of poems containing heretical opinions in matters of
+dogma I know only one, by Peire Cardinal. It is a passionate plea against
+the eternity of punishment, and might have been quoted with advantage
+in a recent ecclesiastical trial. It is, however, by no means unlikely
+that other poems of heterodox import may have been accidentally or
+wilfully destroyed in the course of ages. The fact that a bull of Pope
+Innocent IV., dated 1245, prohibits to students the use of Provençal, as
+a language of heretics, tends to confirm this surmise.
+
+[18] This poem may be found in Bartsch’s ‘Chrestomathie Provençale,’ 2nd
+edition, p. 55.
+
+[19] The exact meaning of the word _sirventes_ is not easy to define. It
+is evidently derived from the Latin verb _servire_, and may therefore
+loosely be rendered as the ‘song of a serving-man in praise or in the
+interest of his master.’ The _Leys d’amors_ calls the _sirventes_ ‘a
+song which contains censure and vituperation, and castigates wicked and
+malignant people.’ This tolerably meets the case. The use of the word
+by later grammarians for a song in praise of the Virgin is a manifest
+corruption of its original meaning.
+
+[20] The characteristic change between plural and singular in the lady’s
+address to Guillem adds greatly to the impressiveness of the original.
+Here, for instance, she says, ‘Eram digaz (Tell _you_ me), t’es tu
+anquera (hast _thou_ found out),’ etc.
+
+[21] See the interlinear version of it; Index, ii.
+
+[22] Another biographer adds with ghastly accuracy, ‘_a pebrada_,’ with
+pepper—‘devilled,’ as we should say.
+
+[23] Some readers may care to know the whole passage referring to our
+troubadour, one of the most weird and impressive of the ‘Inferno.’ It
+occurs in the 28th Canto towards the close, and runs thus:—
+
+ Ma io rimasi a riguardar lo stuolo,
+ E vidi cosa ch’io avrei paura
+ Senza più pruova di contarla solo;
+ Se non che conscienzia m’assicura,
+ La buona compagnia che l’uom francheggia
+ Sotto l’usbergo del sentirsi pura.
+ Io vidi certo ed ancor par ch’io ’l veggia,
+ Un busto senza capo andar, si come
+ Andavan gli altri della trista greggia.
+ E ‘l capo tronco tenea per le chiome
+ Pesol con mano, a guisa di lanterna:
+ E quei mirava noi, e dicea: O me!
+ Di sè faceva a sè stesso lucerna;
+ Ed eran due in uno ed uno in due:
+ Com’ esser puo, Quei sa che sì governa.
+ Quando diritto appiè del ponte fue
+ Levò ‘l braccio alto con tutta la testa
+ Per appressarne le parole sue,
+ Che furo: Or vedi la pena molesta
+ Tu che, spirando vai veggendo i morti:
+ Vedi s’alcuna è grave come questa.
+ E perchè tu di me novella porti,
+ Sappi ch’io son Bertram dal Bornio, quelli
+ Che al rè giovane diedi i mai conforti;
+ Io feci ’l padre e ‘l figlio in sè ribelli:
+ Achitofel non fè più d’Absalone
+ E di David, coi malvagi pungelli.
+ Perch’io partii così giunte persone,
+ Partito porto il mio cerebro lasso!
+ Dal suo principio chè ’n questo troncone;
+ Così s’osserva in me lo contrappasso.
+
+ But I remained to look upon the troop,
+ And saw a thing which I should be in fear,
+ Without more proof of telling, I alone,
+ But that my conscience reassureth me,
+ The good companion which emboldens man
+ Under the hauberk of its feeling pure.
+ I certes saw, and seems I see it still,
+ A trunk without a head proceeding, so
+ As went the others of the sorry flock.
+ And by the hair he held his truncate head
+ In guise of lantern, pendulous in hand:
+ And that gazed on us, and it said, ‘Oh me!’
+ He of himself made light unto himself,
+ And they were two in one, and one in two:
+ How it can be He knows who governs thus.
+ When he was right against the bridge’s foot,
+ He raised, with all the head, his arm on high
+ So to approach to us the words thereof,
+ Which were: ‘See now the troublous penalty
+ Thou who go’st breathing, looking at the dead,
+ See whether any is so great as this.
+ And, for that thou mayst carry of me news,
+ I, know thou, am Bertran de Born, the man
+ Who gave the young king ill encouragements.
+ I mutually made rebels son and sire:
+ Ahithophel made Absalom no more
+ And David with his wicked goadings on.
+ Because I parted persons thus conjoined,
+ My brain, alas! I carry parted from
+ Its principle which is in this my trunk.
+ So retribution is in me observed.
+
+ W. M. ROSSETTI’S _translation_.
+
+[24] I must warn the reader not to mistake the above lines for an attempt
+at rendering a somewhat similar war-song generally ascribed to Bertran
+de Born, and translated into English as one of his poems. It is the
+magnificent _sirventes_ beginning ‘Bem platz lo gais temps de pascor’
+(Well I love the gay time of spring), and so much is it in the spirit of
+our troubadour that even one of the old manuscripts has his name affixed
+to it. Unfortunately, however, the evidence of numerous other and better
+manuscripts is against this plausible surmise, and by their authority
+the poem must be ascribed to William de St. Gregory, a troubadour
+comparatively little known.
+
+[25] ‘First among all, Arnaut Daniel, the great master of love, who still
+does honour to his country by his new and beautiful parlance.’
+
+[26] Owing to the noble protection granted to the remnants of the old
+Waldenses in the valleys of the Cottonian Alps by Cromwell, and continued
+by subsequent English governments, till the full emancipation of the
+sect by King Charles Albert in 1848, their history and doctrines have
+excited a great deal of interest in this country. A rich and valuable
+literature on the subject exists in our language, disfigured only by the
+desire, on the part of theologians, to absolutely identify the original
+doctrine of the Vaudois with that of the Protestant reformers. This kind
+of retrospective propagandism may have been useful in the days of the
+Commonwealth to raise Puritan sympathy for oppressed fellow Protestants,
+but surely is out of place in our critical times. The works by Blair,
+Faber, Gilly, Allix, and others are well known. The reader’s attention
+is called to an interesting volume by Dr. Todd, containing a description
+of the Waldensian manuscripts in the library of Trinity College, Dublin,
+also reprints of articles by the late Hon. Algernon Herbert, Dr. Gilly,
+and other authors, on the Waldenses and their representative poem,
+the ‘Noble Lesson.’ Here also will be found a curious account of the
+re-discovery of certain interesting MSS., brought over to England by
+Morland, Cromwell’s envoy to the Duke of Savoy, and deposited by him
+in the library of Cambridge University. They were long supposed to
+have disappeared, but were ultimately found by Mr. H. Bradshaw, the
+accomplished scholar, in 1862, on the identical shelf where Morland had
+deposited them. The possibility of this strange neglect Mr. Bradshaw
+explains from the fact that ‘the history of the MSS. was lost sight of,
+and they had come to be regarded as miscellaneous pieces, _apparently in
+Spanish_.’ The italicised suggestion reveals a beautiful development of
+modern philology at Cambridge. Does that state of things continue at the
+present day? What reason is there to believe the contrary, or what chance
+of improvement?
+
+[27] The great value of this MS., which is on parchment, and in perfect
+condition, is proved by a curious endorsement on the last page, dated
+1336, to the effect that one Jordan Capella obtained on it a loan of
+fifteen ‘_livres tournois_,’ by no means an inconsiderable sum in those
+days.
+
+[28] The poem is written in tirades, or paragraphs of varying lengths,
+bound together by the same rhyme. At the end of each tirade there is
+a short line which, in the second portion of the poem, is, as a rule,
+literally repeated in the first line of the following tirade, while in
+the first part it only anticipates its rhyme. This difference is the
+chief metrical evidence against the one-author theory.
+
+[29] The degree of nobility between the Viscount and the simple Baron.
+
+[30] Grave doubts have recently been thrown on the authenticity of this
+poem. Into these I cannot enter here. But it seems strange that the
+bearing of the reality or fictitiousness of the ‘courts of love’ on the
+mooted point should have been entirely overlooked. Chaucer’s visit to
+France (1359) coincides with the time when amateur judges and juries
+deciding questions of gallantry were all the rage, and these might
+very well have suggested to him the symbolical machinery of the poem.
+But of course the intrinsic probability of Chaucer having written _a_
+poem on the ‘Court of Love’ does not amount to much compared with the
+philological arguments of Mr. Skeat (see ‘Athenæum,’ November 4, 1876).
+At the same time it seems surprising that neither he nor Mr. Furnivall
+is apparently acquainted with the historical controversy on the point,
+in spite of Diez’s admirable work, and of the paper I wrote on the
+subject in a monthly periodical. If this is true of scholars, what can
+be expected of the general reader? At this rate the ‘courts of love’ may
+protract their spurious existence for another century or so—in England at
+least.
+
+[31] The reader interested in these matters may find some account of
+Andreas’ book in the pretty little edition of Chaucer for which Mr.
+Robert Bell is responsible (vol. iv. pp. 116 _et passim_). All the absurd
+stories of the Chaplain the ingenuous editor accepts as gospel truth.
+Queen Eleanor, Richard Cœur de Lion, and other worthies are named as
+the presidents of these amorous parliaments, of which the world knew
+nothing till hundreds of years after their deaths. Several of the _arrêts
+d’amour_ are quoted, and the power of the court is said to have extended
+even to the assessing of pecuniary damages and the inflicting of corporal
+punishment. This _naïveté_ is the more touching on Mr. Bell’s part,
+as, unlike Mr. Furnivall and Mr. Skeat, he is acquainted with Diez’s
+pamphlet. But his faith is proof against the most trenchant criticism.
+
+[32] Westphal, _Fragmente und Lehrsätze der griechischen Rhythmiker_, pp.
+14, 101.
+
+[33] _Sat._ 1. i. 28.
+
+[34] _Ars Poet._ 99.
+
+[35] _Ars Poet._ 139.
+
+[36] _Epist._ 1. xiv. 7.
+
+[37] The stanza of the Sestina, as we know, both Dante and Petrarch took
+from Arnaut Daniel, whom the latter calls—
+
+ ‘Fra tutti il primo Arnaldo Daniello
+ Gran maestro d’amor.’
+
+[38] _Opere Minori_, ed. Fraticelli, ii. 212.
+
+[39] In this, as in all other cases, the expression of the ‘Leys d’Amors’
+has been used in measuring verses, which, besides being more appropriate
+for the _langue d’oc_, seems also the more logical.
+
+[40] Clarratz is evidently a mistake; very likely it should be read
+clartatz = clarté.
+
+[41] Dieresis probably, where it occurs in this treatise, is always a
+misreading for diesis, which is the proper term for what Dante means.
+
+[42] _Canzoniere_, ed. Giuliani, p. 227.
+
+[43] The meaning of the word coda in modern music is not exactly the same
+as the one here given by Dante, but might well be derived from it.
+
+
+ LONDON: PRINTED BY
+ SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
+ AND PARLIAMENT STREET
+
+[Illustration]
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77644 ***
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