The 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.