The troubadours

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.

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.