The troubadours

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:

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.