path: root/77644-0.txt

*** 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.


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