The troubadours

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:—

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:—

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.