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:—

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:—

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.