Troubadours  and  Trouveres. 


Jl3eto  anD  ®lo. 


By  HARRIET   W.  PRESTON, 

AUTHOR    OF    "ASPENDALE,"    "  LOVE    IN    THE    NINETEENTH    CENTURY," 
TRANSLATOR    OF    "  MIREIO,"    ETC. 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS      BROTHERS 

1876. 


$ 


Copyright,  1876, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


Cambridge : 
Press  of  John  Wilson  6°  Son. 


PREFACE. 


'THHE  slight  and  desultory  sketches  which 
follow  do  not  aim  at  any  thing  like  a 
complete  illustration  of  the  poetry  of  Provence, 
whether  new  or  old.  I  have  merely  followed, 
in  their  preparation  and  arrangement,  the  lead 
of  my  own  awakening  interest ;  and  I  can  only 
hope  that  the  reader  may  like  to  retrace  the 
same  rather  devious  path  with  me.  In  pursuing 
it,  I  have  become  extremely  interested  in  the 
whole  subject  of  the  origin  and  growth  of  mod- 
ern versification  ;  of  that  rhymed  and  accented 
poetry  in  which  the  finest  thought  and  the  most 
ardent  emotion  of  all  the  European  races  has 
naturally  expressed  itself  for  fully  a  thousand 
years.  When  I  began  to  study  the  versification 
of  Frederic  Mistrals  "  Mireio  "  with  a  view  to 
translation,  I  was  immediately  struck  by  what 


iv  PEEFACE. 

I  may  call  its  picturesqueness,  the  affluence  and 
melody  of  its  rhymes,  its  variety  and  marked 
beauty  of  rhythm.  These  qualities  I  also  found 
in  the  works  of  Mistral's  brother  poets,  espe- 
cially in  Aubanel;  and  they  seemed  the  more 
remarkable,  because  for  the  moment  I  compared 
that  work  only  with  other  modern  French  poe- 
try, which,  ever  since  the  despotic  days  of 
Racine  and  the  Grand  Monarque,  has  been  so 
particularly  colorless,  and  poor  both  in  rhythm 
and  rhyme.  But,  in  truth,  the  Provencals  had 
only  reclaimed  their  birthright.  Rhymed  and 
accented  verse,  characterized  by  the  very  quali- 
ties which  make  their  own  and  all  modern  verse 
most  admirable,  appears  in  the  Romance  poetry 
of  the  twelfth  century  in  all  the  irrecoverable 
perfection  of  a  first  full  blossoming.  To  France 
and  that  century  also  belong  the  celestial  melo- 
dies of  Adam  of  Saint  Victor  and  Hildebert  of 
Tours  and  the  monumental  hymn  of  Bernard 
of  Cluny,  —  three  of  the  greatest  masters  of  the 
sacred  Latin .  poetry  of  the  Middle  Age,  — 
which  likewise  had  become  in  the  main  a  poetry 


PREFACE.  V 

of  rhyme  and  accent.  And  France  in  those  days 
was  England,  and  England,  France ;  so  that  all 
theirs  is  also,  in  a  peculiar  manner,  ours.  It  is, 
therefore,  through  the  Latin  hymns  of  the  med- 
iaeval church,  that  the  genealogy  is  to  be  traced 
of  those  poetic  forms  which  the  Troubadours 
brought  to  ourselves,  and  their  followers,  the 
Minnesingers,  diffused  through  eastern  Europe. 
But  when  we  have  followed  this  clew  as  far 
back  as  the  fourth  century  and  the  rhymed 
hymn  of  Damasus,  Bishop  of  Rome,  on  the 
martyrdom  of  Saint  Agatha,  we  are  stopped 
by  a  new  wonder.  How  brief,  comparatively, 
although  full  of  unparalleled  revolution  and 
destruction,  the  interval  between  the  date  of 
this  hymn  and  the  time  when  the  only  poetry 
known  to  Roman,  and  therefore  to  any,  letters, 
was  that  quantitative  verse,  the  structure  and 
the  beauties  of  which,  wonderful  though  they 
be,  are  as  entirely  distinct  from  those  of  modern 
poetry  as  if  it  had  originated  in  another  planet ! 
Yet  the  new  verse  must  have  had  some  antece- 
dent.    How  was  the  seeming  chasm  between 


VI  PREFACE. 

the  new  and  the  old  to  be  bridged,  and  con- 
tinuity established? 

It  was  at  this  stage  of  the  inquiry  that  I  per- 
ceived the  impossibility  of  discussing  the  ques- 
tion fully  in  the  limits  of  a  preface,  which  I  had 
once  thought  to  do.  I  believe,  however,  that 
the  true  reading  of  the  riddle  is  the  one  indi- 
cated by  Dean  Trench  in  the  very  interesting 
introduction  to  his  collection  of  sacred  Latin 
poetry.  The  quantitative  poetry  of  classic  Rome 
was  itself  exotic.  The  rough  hexameters  of 
Lucretius,  the  lovely  hexameters  of  Virgil,  the 
varied  measures  of  Horace,  and  the  elegiacs  of 
Ovid  were  none  of  them  native  growths  of  the 
Roman  soil.  They  were  transplanted  from 
Greece  ;  they  attained  in  their  new  home  a 
rapid  and  graceful,  but  never  robust,  growth ; 
and  they  were,  of  course,  the  instruments  of  the 
cultured  classes  only.  Under  the  shadow  of 
this  adopted  and  cultivated  poesy,  there  lived 
through  all  the  period  of  its  dominion,  away  in 
the  provinces  and  among  the  common  people 
everywhere,  an  humble  growth  of  popular  song 


PREFACE.  vii 

and  proverb,  which  knew  nothing  of  artificial 
quantities  and  arbitrary  caesuras,  but  was  simply 
and  often  rudely  rhymed  and  accented,  after  the 
manner  of  the  poetry  which  we  know  best. 
And  when  the  foreign  graces  of  Roman  letters 
perished  with  the  general  collapse  of  Roman 
civilization,  this  lowly,  indigenous  poetry  es- 
caped by  its  very  insignificance,  and  began  to 
grow.  Moreover,  to  the  early  Christian  writers, 
the  classic  measures  w^ere  all  so  replete  with 
Pagan  associations,  that  they  turned  instinc- 
tively for  the  expression  of  Christian  thought 
and  feeliug  to  simpler,  more  primitive,  and,  as 
it  seemed  to  them,  less  contaminated,  forms. 
And  here  a  question  occurs  concerning  the 
characteristics  of  all  exotic  poetry ;  that  is  to 
say,  all  poetry,  the  forms  of  which  are  borrowed 
from  a  foreign  tongue.  Has  it  not  its  peculiar 
beauties,  as  well  as  its  necessary  defects  ? 
Does  the  large  Latin  element  in  the  English 
language  make  the  native  Latin  poetical  forms 
more  natural  and  facile  to  us  than  they  are  to 
the  Germans,  for  example  ?     And  does  this  ac- 


Viii  PREFACE. 

count  for  the  undoubted  superiority  in  music  of 
modern  English  to  modern  German  verse  ?  And, 
if  so,  how  does  it  happen  that  there  are  so  few 
Latin  words  in  the  most  musical  English  poetry, 
and  that  our  sweetest  and  most  satisfying  rhymes 
are  invariably  Saxon  ? 

I  can  conceive  no  more  fascinating  subject  for 
patient  inquiry  and  copious  illustration  than  this 
of  the  origin  and  development  of  modern  poeti- 
cal forms.  I  have  myself  a  half-formed  purpose 
of  sometime  devoting  to  it  the  volume  which  it 
deserves ;  but,  if  this  purpose  is  never  accom- 
plished, I  shall  at  least  cherish  the  hope  that 
the  experiments  in  metric  version,  and  possibly 
some  of  the  fragmentary  discussions  and  sug- 
gestions in  the  pages  that  follow,  may  be  of 
trifling  value  to  the  future  historian  of  modern 
verse  by  way  of  memoirs  pour  servir. 

Haeeiet  W.  Peeston. 

Boston,  Nov.  13,  1876. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

Preface iii 

Mistral's  Calendau 1 

Theodore  Aubanel -    .  43 

Jacques  Jasmin.     1 85 

Jacques  Jasmin.     II 115 

The  Songs  of  the  Troubadours.     1 151 

The  Songs  of  the  Troubadours*.     II.      .     .     .  194 

The  Arthuriad 232 


TROUBADOURS    AND    TROUVERES. 


MISTRAL'S    CALENDAU. 

"XJIXE  years  after  the  appearance  of  Mireio, 
Frederic  Mistral  published  simultaneously 
at  Avignon  and  at  Paris,  and  in  parallel  Proven- 
gal  and  French,  a  second  poem  of  heroic  propor- 
tions, entitled  Calendau.  The  critics,  who  had 
been  quite  thrown  off  their  guard  by  the  strange- 
ness and  the  sweetness,  the  innocent  ardor  and 
frank  garrulity,  of  the  earlier  poem,  were  far  more 
wary  in  their  reception  of  its  successor.  Their 
verdict  was  unanimously  and  even  emphatically 
favorable  ;  but  it  was  still  a  verdict,  not  a  star- 
tled cry  of  admiration.  Calendau  won  priceless 
praise  ;  but  it  created  comparatively  no  excite- 
ment, was  not  long  talked  about,  and  never,  we 
believe,  translated. 

It  is  proposed  to  give  some  account  of  this 
riper  and  more  formal  production  of  M.  Mistral's 
genius,  which,  if  it  have  not  quite  the  wayward 

1 


2  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

and  fascinating  audacity  of  its  elder,  does  yet  give 
evidence  of  immense  vigor  in  its  author,  and  of 
a  wealth  of  imagination  sufficiently  rare  ;  while" 
it  seems  to  include  almost  all  of  legendary  and 
picturesque  Provence  not  portrayed,  or  at  least 
touched  with  light,  in  the  previous  work. 

The  reader  of  Calendau  must  begin  by  dis- 
abusing himself  of  the  idea  that  the  sensations 
which  he  received  from  Mireio  are  to  be  pre- 
cisely repeated.  Nothing,  indeed,  is  in  the 
nature  of  things  more  unlikely  than  that  we 
shall  be  twice  surprised  by  the  same  person, 
in  the  same  way.  The  curious  naivete  of  the 
former  tale  is  abandoned,  perhaps  deliberately, 
along  with  the  rather  transparent  pretence  of 
singing  for  "  shepherds  and  farmer-folk  alone." 
The  usual  reading  public  is  addressed  in  Cal- 
endau, and  means  not  wholly  unusual  are  em- 
ployed to  excite  and  detain  our  interest. 

In  the  first  place,  the  lovers  in  Calendau  are 
not  children.  They  are  young,  indeed,  to  judge 
by  our  slow  Northern  standards  ;  but  they  are, 
to  all  intents,  man  and  woman,  and  the  lady  at 
least  has  lived  and  suffered  much  when  we  see 
her  first.     Then,  it  is  not  a  story  of  to-day,  and 


MISTRAL'S   CALENDAU.  3 

there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  romantic  charm 
of  Mireio  is  perpetually  enhanced  by  the  wonder 
that  so  artless  and  idyllic  a  life  as  the  one  there 
described  can  be  lived  anywhere  at  the  present 
time.  The  date  of  Calendau's  adventures  is 
placed  a  hundred  years  back,  and  very  skilfully. 
In  the  dark  and  desperate  times  which  preceded 
the  outbreak  of  the  first  great  revolution  in 
France,  rapine  and  bloodshed,  flight,  treachery, 
and  siege,  were  matters  of  frequent  occurrence, 
and  the  wildest  incidents  were  unhappily  proba- 
ble. Moreover,  the  shadows  of  even  one  century 
are  sufficient  to  confuse  the  wavering  line  be- 
tween nature  and  the  supernatural,  and  thus  to 
afford  all  needful  latitude  to  an  imagination 
which,  although  capable,  as  we  know,  of  a  most 
winning  playfulness,  does  yet  appear  to  be  es- 
sentially sombre.  And  this  introduction  of  a 
semi-supernatural  element,  together  with  the 
stress  continually  laid  on  the  ancient  literature 
and  mediaeval  honors  of  Provence,  impart  to 
Calendau  a  kind  of  transitional  character,  which 
is  far  from  impairing  its  interest.  The  work 
seems,  whether  the  author  intended  it  or  no, 
almost  to  bridge   the   strange    chasm   between 


4  TROUBADOURS  AND    TROUVERES. 

the  old  Provengal  poetry  and  the  new,  and  to 
give  an  effect  of  continuity  to  the  unique  and 
brilliant  literature  of  Southern  France.  And  if 
the  fresh  realism  of  MirSio  be  not  here,  and  we 
deem  this  a  little  more  like  ordinary  books  than 
the  other,  that  very  likeness  is  also  of  use  some- 
times, as  affording  us  a  distinct  and  accurate 
measure  of  the  poet's  own  undeniable  origin- 
ality. 

He  opens  his  poem  conventionally  with  an 
allusion  to  his  earlier  effort,  and  in  the  same 
metre :  — 

I,  who  sang  once  the  love  and  sorrow  sore 
Of  a  young  maiden,  now  essay  once  more  — 
God  helping  me  —  to  tell  a  tale  of  love ; 
How  a  poor  fisherman  of  Cassis  strove 
And  suffered,  till  he  won  a  shining  crown, 
Stainless  delights,  and  honor,  and  renown. 

There  folloAvs  an  invocation  to  the  spirit  of 

Provence,  as  illustrated  in  the  famous  past,  and 

then  the  opening  scene  of  the  story,  which  is 

characterized  by  a  suppressed  fervor,  a  kind  of 

silent  intensity  of  light  and  color  and  emotion, 

hardly  to  be  paralleled  in  English  verse  :  — 

One  summer  day,  from  a  high  mountain  seat, 
Rock-built  and  with  the  blossoming  heather  sweet, 


MI  STRAUS   CALENDAU.  5 

Two  lovers  watched  the  white  caps  come  and  go 
Like  lambs  upon  the  shining  sea  below, 
While  the  note  only  of  the  woodpecker 
Startled  the  silence  of  the  noontide  clear. 

Cornice-like  hung  in  air  the  narrow  ledge, 

The  dark  pines  thronged  beneath;  but,  from  the  edge, 

One  saw  the  sun-touched  faces  of  the  trees 

Laugh  to  the  laughter  of  the  Southern  seas. 

White  on  the  beach  gleamed  Cassis :  far  away 

Sparkled  Toulon,  and  the  blue  Gardiole1  lay 

Cloud-like  along  the  deep.     So  spake  the  youth 
Unto  the  maiden:   "  Never,  in  good  sooth, 
Did  hare  or  pigeon  eager  huntsman  tire 
Like  thee  !     Have  I  not  won  at  thy  desire 
Fortune  and  fame,  and  wrought  all  prodigies  ? 
Poor  dreamer,  whom  my  dream  for  ever  flies!  " 

And  he  goes  on  to  describe,  in  ardent  fashion, 
the  impossibilities  he  would  yet  undertake  for 
the  sure  hope  of  winning  her.  The  lady  answers 
with  tears  in  her  divine  eyes,  owning  for  the  first 
time,  seemingly,  that  she  loves  him,  and  him 
alone,  but  hinting 'at  some  insurmountable  ob- 
stacle to  their  union.  Her  lover  interrupts  her 
with  a  burst  of  impetuous  gratitude  for  her  con- 
fession :  — 

1  La  Garduelo.  A  mountain  chain  bordering  on  the  sea  be- 
tween Cassis  and  Marseilles. 


6  TROUBADOURS  AND  TROUVERES. 

il  Why  should  not  then  our  joy  be  perfected  ? 

We  love,  we  are  young,  we  are  free  as  birds  I "  he  said. 

"  Look!  how  the  glowing  nature  all  around 

Lies  in  the  soft  arms  of  the  Summer  bound, 

Courts  the  endearments  of  the  tawny  queen, 

And  drinks  the  breath  of  her  dark  beau>ty  in ! 

"  The  azure  peaks,  the  faint,  far  hills,  lay  bare 
Their  beating  bosoms  to  the  radiant  air. 
The  changeful  sea  below  us,  clear  as  glass, 
Hinders  the  ardent  sun-rays  not  to  pass 
Into  its  deepest  depth ;  and  joys  no  less 
Of  Ehone  and  Yar,  to  feel  the  mute  caress. 

"  Nay,  do  not  speak!    But  hark  how  earth  and  sea 
Have  both  one  language ;  how  exultantly 
They  tell  the  passionate  need  they  have  of  love ! 
Dost  tremble  sweet  ?   I  bid  thy  fear  remove. 
Come,  let  me  lead  thee  to  the  altar  straight, 
Life  at  its  longest  is  too  brief."     "  Oh,  Fate! 

"  Oh,  cruel  star!  "  brake  forth  the  woman's  wail. 
"  Thou  must  not!     Cease,  in  God's  name,  lest  I  fail 
To  keep  my  truth." 

And  after  murmuring  something  of  dishonor 
to  an  ancient  and  unstained  name,  she  breaks 
off  with  a  passionate  prayer  that  the  sombre 
woods  and  mountain  solitudes  about  her  may 
continue  to  shelter  her,  as  they  have  hitherto, 
from  the  wrath  of  her  enemies,  and  the  seduc- 
tions of  her  own  heart.     There  follows  a  pict- 


MI  STRAUS   CALENDAU.  7 

ure  of  the  two  lovers,  without  which  the  reader 

oan  hardly  form  a  clear  idea  of  their  personal- 

ity:- 

She  sprang  upon  her  feet,  inspired,  erect. 

Oh,  beauteous  was  her  head!  and  well  bedecked 

By  its  dense  coronal  of  shining  hair, 

Whereof  the  twin-coils  were  as  broom-boughs  fair 

With  yellow  flower ;  and  from  her  eye  sincere 

Storms  might  have  fled,  and  left  the  heavens  clear. 

White  were  her  teeth,  as  the  fine  salt  of  Berre,1 

And  shy,  at  times,  the  lofty  glances  were 

Of  the  proud  orbs,  whose  wondrous  hue  recalled 

The  steadfast  splendors  of  the  emerald. 

And  desert  sunshine  faint  reflected  shone 

In  the  warm  tint  her  peach-like  cheeks  upon. 

So  towered  the  lithe,  tall  shape,  divinely  molded 
By  the  white  linen  robe  her  limbs  that  folded. 
While  at  her  knees,  her  rapt  love  listening, 
As  in  the  blue  he  heard  an  angel  sing, 
Leaned  on  his  elbow  with  up-gazing  eyes. 
And  he  —  he  too  —  was  made  in  splendid  wise : 

With  supple  limbs,  yet  strong  as  sail-yards  be 
(A  score  of  years,  or  barely  more,  had  he), 
And  large  eyes  sad  with  love,  and  black  as  night; 
The  down  upon  his  lip  was  soft  and  light 
As  on  vine  branches. 

1  The  salt  obtained  from  the  salt-mines  of  Berre,  a  small 
village  near  Aix,  is  considered  the  finest  in  France. 


8  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

He  renews  his  suit  in  the  most  fervid  and  per- 
suasive terms ;  and,  when  he  is  again  tenderly 
repulsed,  grows  keenly  reproachful,  and  hints 
at  toils  and  sufferings  undergone  for  her  sake, 
which  he  scorns  to  dwell  upon  in  detail.  Is  she 
a  woman,  he  demands  at  length,  or  is  she  Ester- 
ello,  the  fairy  who  is  said  to  haunt  that  mountain 
region,  teasing  men  with  her  loveliness,  luring 
them  to  her  pursuit,  but  always  eluding  them 
in  the  end  ?  And  she  replies,  in  sad  jest,  that 
she  is  Esterello;  and  can  never  reward,  however 
she  may  return,  any  mortal  love.  Then  she  in- 
vites him  to  a  grotto  hard  by,  where  the  stalac- 
tites weep  perpetual  pearls. 

"  And  this,  my  friend,"  she  in  her  dreamy  way, 

"  Is  Esterello's  palace!     Look,  I  pray, 

At  these  fair  hangings!     God  himself,"  said  she, 

"  Wrought  all  this  foliage  of  white  jewelry 

The  rainfall  feeds.     Wilt  try  my  leaf  couch  here? 

My  only  seat,  — but  heights  are  ever  drear. 

"  Is  it  not  sweet  here?     This  most  quiet  spot 
The  raging  heats  of  summer  enter  not, 
But  all  is  cool. ' '     He  took  the  leafy  seat  ; 
She  dropped  upon  her  knees  beside  his  feet ; 
And  the  strange  light  that  flooded  all  the  place 
Clothed  them,  as  in  one  garment,  with  its  rays. 


MISTRAL'S   CALEXDAU.  9 

In  this  becoming  attitude  the  lady  tells  her 
true  story.  She  was,  by  birth,  a  princess  of 
Baux,  the  last  representative  of  one  of.  the  most 
ancient  and  illustrious  houses  iii  Provence.  In 
her  impoverished  orphanhood, — for  only  the 
Castle  of  Aiglun  had  descended  to  her  out  of 
all  the  vast  possessions  of  her  family,  —  she  had 
had  many  suitors,  and  had  fixed  her  choice 
upon  the  least  worthy.  He  wTas  a  stranger  of 
brilliant  and  commanding,  but  always  sinister, 
appearance,'  whom,  when  benighted  in  a  great 
storm,  she  had  received  into  her  castle,  who 
had  described  himself  to  her  as  Count  Severan, 
an  adventurer  of  high  birth,  with  a  large  secret 
following,  by  the  help  of  which  he  intended  one 
day  to  avenge  upon  a  corrupt  government  the 
wrongs  of  their  beautiful  province,  and  who  had 
completely  subjugated  the  fancy  of  the  young 
girl.  Their  banns  were  hastily  published,  and 
the  night  of  their  wedding-feast  arrived  ;  but,  as 
the  bridegroom  presented  the  guests,  one  after 
another,  by  high-sounding  but  wholly  unfamiliar 
names,  the  bride  noted  with  terror  that  they  had 
more  the  air  of  come  (that  is,  the  overseers  of 
gangs  of  galley  slaves)  than  of  gentlemen.     A 


10  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

scene  of  furious  revelry  ensued  ;  but,  while  the 
bridegroom  was  in  the  midst  of  a  pompous 
oration,  there  forced  his  wa}r  into  the  brilliant 
hall  an  unbidden  guest. 

He  stopped  midway  of  his  insensate  boast ; 

For  in  the  open  doorway  rose  a  ghost, 

An  old,  most  miserable,  coarse-clad  man, 

Down  whose  gannt  cheeks  the  grimy  sweat-drops  ran, 

The  threshold  crossed  of  that  high  banquet-hall, 

And  stood,  a  loathly  shape,  before  us  all. 

White  turned  the  bridegroom,  and  a  deadly  ray 
Leaped  from  his  eyes  as  he  the  steps  would  stay 
Of  the  strange  comer ;  but  it  might  not  be. 
Forward  he  came  silently,  solemnly, 
As  when  God  takes  a  beggar's  shape  sometimes 
The  rich  man  to  confound  amid  his  crimes. 

With  slowly-trailing  steps  he  neared  the  host, 

And  scanned  him  long,  with  lean  arms  tightly  crossed; 

Till  on  the  breast  of  each  expectant  one, 

Great  terror  fell  as  with  a  weight  of  stone. 

An  icy  wind  blew  from  the  night,  and  flared 

The  festal  lamps,  and  at  last  some  one  dared 

To  break  the  silence  with  a  brutal  sneer :  — 

"  Ho  for  a  famine,  this  cursed  land  to  clear 

Of  beggar  vermin !  or  in  four  more  days 

We  are  devoured!  "     "  What  dost  thou  in  this  place, 

And  with  this  bridal  pair,  old  fool?  "  they  cried. 

The  insulted  stranger  not  a  word  replied. 


MISTRAL'S   CALENDAU.  11 

Then  some  began  to  jeer  his  hairless  pate, 
His  bloodshot  eyes,  and  heavy,  shambling  gait: 
"  Were  it  not  better,  thon  ill-omened  bird, 
To  hide  thy  glum  face  in  thy  hole?  "     He  heard, 
And  still  unmurmuring  each  affront  he  took, 
Yet  on  the  host  bent  one  beseeching  look. 

But  others:  "  Come,  old  fellow,  these  fine  folk 
Are  not  worth  minding !     They  must  have  their  joke, 
But  do  thou  glean  about  the  board!     Make  haste, 
And  snatch  a  joint  or  carcass  where  thou  mayst ; 
Look!     Are  thy  jaws  not  equal  to  a  chine 
Of  pork?     Or  wilt  toss  off  a  cup  of  wine?  " 

"  Nay,  masters,"  answered  wearily  and  slow 
The  wan  intruder;  "  you'll  not  tempt  me  so, 
For  I  want  no  man's  leavings.     I  am  here 
To  seek  my  son."     "  His  son?     'Tis  mighty  queer! 
Why,  pray,  should  this  old  snakeskin  vender's  son 
Be  haunting  the  fine  lady  of  Aiglun?  " 

There  was  a  base  doubt  in  the  mocking  look 
Of  them,  which  stung,  and  I  could  illy  brook. 
But  still  they  plied  him:  "  Tell  us  which  he  is, 
This  son  of  thine,  and  tell  the  truth  in  this, 
Or  from  the  gargoyle  of  the  highest  tower 
Of  old  Aiglun  thou 'It  dangle  in  an  hour!  " 

Then  the  old  man:  "  Behold,  I  am  denied! 

Spurned  like  the  sweepings  of  the  floor  aside ! 

Now  shall  ye  hear  the  raven  croak!  "  quoth  he, 

And  rose  up  in  his  rags  right  awfully. 

' '  Hold ! ' '  cried  the  count,  ' '  out  with  him  from  the  hall ! ' ' 

Stony  his  face,  and  pallid  as  the  wall. 


12  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

"  Fall  on  him,  valets!     Hunt  the  spectral  thing  1 " 

Two  tears,  that  I  can  yet  see  glistening, 

Hot,  bitter  tears,  in  aged  eyes  and  weak, 

Rose,  and  rolled  down  the  beggar's  furrowed  cheek. 

Heart-rending  memory!     Pale  as  death  we  grew, 

While  he  took  up  his  broken  tale  anew. 

"  I  am,  like  Death,"  he  moaned,  "  of  all  forgot! 
Yet  comes  he  to  the  feast,  though  bidden  not. 
Oh,  ay,  and  woe  is  me!     I  fain  once  more 
Would  see  my  son.     He  drives  me  from  his  door. 
1  Fall  on  him !     Hunt  him ! '  says  he  in  his  ire ; 
Thou  haughty  bridegroom,  I  am  still  thy  sire." 

The  beggar  then  turns  upon  the  horrified 
bride,  and  denounces  his  unnatural  child  to  her 
as  a  base-born  churl,  a  common  robber,  a  mur- 
derer. None  dares  dispute,  or  seeks  to  detain 
him  as  he  turns  to  leave  the  hall,  save  the  lady 
herself,  who,  in  her  first  revulsion  of  feeling, 
springs  forward,  calling  the  old  man  father,  and 
praying  him  to  stay.  He  puts  her  aside  with  a 
pitying  prophecy,  and  she  swoons  away.  Awak- 
ing late  in  the  night,  she  finds  herself  in  her 
own  chamber,  with  only  her  old  nurse  mourn- 
ing over  her.  The  castle  is  still.  She  collects 
her  thoughts ;  realizes  the  ruin  that  has  befallen 
her  life ;  thanks  God  that  she  is,  at  least,  the 
wife  of  Severan  only  in  name ;  and  resolves  to 


MISTRAL'S   CALENDAR.  13 

fly,  leaving  her  ancestral  home  in  the  possession 
of  the  banditti  below.  After  long  wanderings 
and  many  privations,  she  had  made  herself  a 
kind  of  hermitage  on  this  Mount  Gibal,  at  the 
southern  extremity  of  Provence,  where  she  had 
ever  since  lived  a  mysterious  and  ascetic  life, 
accounted  a  supernatural  being  by  the  peas- 
antry who  caught  occasional  glimpses  of  her. 
Here  Calendau,  the  brave  young  fisherman  from 
Cassis  on  the  beach  below,  had  lono;  since  found 
and  loved,  and  sought  to  woo  her,  although 
himself  regarding  her  with  a  kind  of  supersti- 
tious awe.  Hence,  after  the  fantastic  fashion 
of  the  ladies  of  old,  she  had  sent  him  forth  to 
deeds  of  high  emprise,  which  he  had  achieved 
one  after  another  ;  returning  to  lay  his  trophies 
at  her  feet,  and  only  now,  after  many  such 
adventures,  to  learn  that  his  lady  returned  his 
love,  and  to  hear  her  tragic  story. 

She  ceased.     As  one  who  from  an  evil  dream 
Awakes,  Calendau  rose,  fist  clenched,  a  gleam 
Of  fury  in  his  eyes.     u  Xo  longer  fear 
Thy  bandit  lord ;  but  think  that  I  am  here, 
Adore,  and  will  release  thee!     He  or  I, 
I  swear  it  by  the  fires  of  lull,  shall  die." 


14  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

But  she :  ' '  Ah  no !     Thine  eyes  affright  me  more 
Than  ever  he.     Go  not !     Stain  not  with  gore 
Our  sinless  love!  "     "  Nay,  but  his  life  must  end!  " 
"  Am  I  not  then  thy  sister,  thy  sweet  friend? 
Oh,  leave  me  not!  "     He  answered  sullenly, 
"  I  have  one  only  word:   The  wretch  shall  die,  — 

"  Being  a  robber  and  accurst.     And,  oh! 

Thou  knowest  full  well  whether  I  love  or  no." 

u  I  will  no  murderer's  love !     All  undefiled 

The  hand  I  take  must  be."     He  said,  and  smiled, 

"  Princess,  fear  not!     This  hand  hath  ne'er  a  stain, 

And  white  for  thy  dear  sake  it  shall  remain. 

"  Not  as  a  felon  will  I  seek  his  death, 

But  as  one  brave  another  challengeth, 

I  will  appease  my  wrath!     Alone,  breast  bare, 

I  will  go  down  into  the  tiger's  lair,  — 

God  grant  my  foot  slip  not !  —  and  once  within 

Will  smite  amid  his  band  this  new  Mandrin.1 

"  Farewell,  my  queen!  "  He  said,  and  made  one  dash, 
Swift  as  the  swamp-fire's  gleam,  the  lightning's  flash, 
Forth  of  the  grot,  then  paused.     She,  at  his  side, 
"  Thou  goest  to  thy  death!  "  in  anguish  cried. 
"  Cannot  love  stay  thee?     Art  thou  mad  to  brave 
Twenty  fierce  outlaws  in  their  highland  cave?  " 

1  Mandrin,  a  famous  brigand  chief,  was  born  in  1715,  at 
Sainte-Etienne-de-Geoire,  in  Dauphiny,  and  broken  on  the 
wheel  at  Valence,  in  1755. 


MISTRAL'S    CALENDAU.  15 

"  Yea,  were  there  twenty  thousand  in  their  stead, 
I  would  not  strike  my  sail!     Behold,"  he  said, 
<;  Love  is  my  strength,  —what  better  following?  " 
Adown  the  mount  he  plunged  with  valiant  spring, 
Flung  back  his  vest  as  the  bold  Gascons  do, 
And  turned  him  to  far  lands  and  conflicts  new. 

The  third  canto  opens  with  a  rapid  account 
of  Calendau's  journey  across  Provence.  It  is  a 
series  of  pictures,  each  brilliant,  distinct,  and 
harmonious  in  coloring ;  a  lovely  panoramic  view. 
M.  Mistral  had  shown  himself  a  master  of  this 
kind  of  painting  in  those  cantos  of  Mireio  which 
describe  the  muster  of  the  farm  laborers,  and  the 
flight  of  the  heroine  across  La  Crau  and  Cam- 
argue.     We  cull  a  stanza  here  and  there. 

Afar  over  the  sage-fields  hummed  the  bees, 
Fluttered  the  birds  about  the  sumac-trees. 
How  lucid  was  the  air  of  that  sweet  day ! 
How  fair  upon  the  slopes  the  shadows  lay ! 
The  ranged  and  pillared  rocks  seemed  to  upbear 
Levels  of  green  land,  like  some  altar-stair. 

O'er  the  sheer  verge  the  golden  pumpkin  hung 
His  heavy  head,  the  rock-born  aloes  flung 
Its  flowery  rays  abroad  like  God's  own  lustre. 
Deep  in  the  dells,  full  many  a  coral  cluster 
The  barberry  ripened.     The  pomegranate  red 
Beared  like  an  Indian  cock  its  crested  head. 


16  TROUBADOURS  AND    TROUVERES. 

As  Calendau  drew  near  his  lady's  ancestral 
home,  he  asked  of  all  he  met  the  way  to  the 
Castle  of  Aiglun. 

"  0  cheery  plowman,  in  thy  furrow  toiling, 
O  merry  pitch-man,  thy  sweet  resin  boiling, 
How  far  from  this  to  old  Aiglun?  "  he  cried. 
"  Climb,  gallant,  climb!  "  the  laborers  replied; 
"  Then  down  the  deepest  chasm,  if  so  be 
The  horrid  heights  no  terror  have  for  thee." 

So  he  went  down  the  deep,  chill,  darksome  vale. 
The  frowning  precipice  well-nigh  made  fail 
Even  his  high  heart.     There  the  unwilling  day 
On  snake  and  lizard  flings  one  noontide  ray, 
Then  hides  behind  the  cliff.     The  gorge  along 
Tumbles  in  foam  the  angry  Esteron. 

Presently,  however,  the  defile  widened ;  giv- 
ing to  view  an  open  space,  where  Calendar  came 
suddenly  upon  the  self-stjded  count  himself, 
surrounded  by  some  thirty  or  forty  of  his  fol- 
lowers, both  men  and  women.  The  outlaws 
were  reposing  after  the  fatigues  of  the  chase, 
and  taking  their  noonday  lunch  upon  the  sunlit 
turf.  The  intruder  is  of  course  ordered  to 
stand  and  deliver ;  but  his  beauty  attracts  the 
women,  and  his  boldness  the  men.     The  count 


MISTRAL'S   CALENDAU.  17 

himself  sees  in  the  audacious  stranger  a  possible 
recruit ;  and  the  end  of  it  all  is  that  he  is  invited 
to  share  their  repast,  on  condition  that  he  will 
tell  his  story,  and  declare  his  business  there. 
Calendau  asked  no  better.  His  tale,  he  says, 
is  one  of  love,  and  of  many  labors  wrought  in 
the  hope  of  rendering  himself  worthy  of  his 
lady's  distinguished  favor.  Some  say  that  lady 
is  a  fairy,  Esterello  by  name  ;  and  it  is  certain 
that  she  lives  alone  in  a  wild  solitude,  that  her 
beauty  is  more  than  human,  and  her  thoughts 
and  visions  too  high  for  earth.  At  all  events, 
he  will  call  her  Esterello. 

The  next  six  cantos  are  occupied  chiefly  with 
Calendau's  recital  of  his  own  exploits.  After 
each  feat  performed,  he  seeks  his  lady  in  her 
retreat,  but  finds  her  for  a  time  ever  harder  and 
harder  to  win.  The  strenuous  and  often  rude 
action  of  the  hero's  narrative  is  beautifully 
broken  and  relieved  by  the  moonlight  quiet  and 
mystery  of  these  scenes  upon  the  mountain. 
Other  themes  are  also  introduced,  which  both 
lighten  the  monotony  of  grotesque  or  stern  ad- 
venture, and  assist  in  preserving  the  continuity 
of  the  main  story :  the  irrepressible  comments 

2 


18  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

of  Calendau's  listeners ;  the  wonder  and  some- 
times incredulity  of  the  men ;  the  sentimental 
admiration  of  the  women ;  and,  on  the  part  of 
Severan  himself,  the  secret  suspicion,  early 
aroused  and  constantly  strengthened,  that  Cal- 
endau's austere  and  angelic  lady-love  is  none 
other  than  his  own  fugitive  bride,  of  whom  he 
had  never  been  able  to  obtain  a  trace.  He 
chooses,  however,  to  allow  the  young  enthusiast 
to  finish  his  tale,  both  that  he  may  become  pos- 
sessed of  the  fullest  possible  information,  and 
also  that  he  may  have  time  to  mature  some 
perfectly  effectual  plan  of  vengeance  on  the 
two. 

Calendau  begins  by  telling  them  that  his  own 
birth  was  humble.  He  came  of  honest  and 
thrifty  fisherfolk  from  Cassis,  on  the  Mediter- 
ranean coast,  and  he  cannot  help  lingering  lov- 
ingly over  some  of  the  details  of  his  simple  early 
life. 

i '  I  would  you  once  had  seen  the  goodly  sight, 
The  Cassis  men  under  the  evening  light! 
And  in  the  coo],  when  they  put  out  to  sea, 
Hundreds  of  fishing  craft  go  silently 
And  lightly  forth,  like  a  great  flock  of  plover, 
And  spread  abroad  the  heaving  billows  over. 


MI  STRAUS   CALENDAU.  19 

"  And  the  wives  linger  in  the  lone  doorways, 
Watching,  with  what  a  long  and  serious  gaze ! 
For  the  last  glimmer  of  the  swelling  sail. 
And  if  the  sea  but  freshen,  they  turn  pale; 
For  well  they  know  how  treacherous  he  is, 
That  cruel  deep,  — for  all  his  flatteries. 

"  But  when  the  salt  sea  thunders  with  the  shocks 
Of  rude  assault  from  the  great  equinox, 
And  bits  of  foundered  craft  bestrew  the  shores, 
Then  can  we  naught  but  close  our  cottage  doors, 
And  young  and  old  about  the  warm  fireside 
Wait  the  returning  of  the  summer-tide. 

"  Ah!  those  were  evenings,  —  when  the  autumn  gales 
Blew  loud,  and  mother  mended  the  rent  sails 
With  homespun  thread;  ay,  and  we  youngsters  too 
Were  set  to  drive  the  needle  through  and  through 
The  gaping  nets,  and  tie  the  meshes  all 
There  where  they  hung  suspended  on  the  wall. 

"  And  in  his  tall  chair  by  the  ingle  nook 
My  father  sat,  with  aye  some  antique  book 
Laid  reverently  open  on  his  knee. 
And  '  Listen,  and  forget  the  rain,'  quoth  he, 
Blew  back  his  mark,  and  read  some  tale  divine 
Of  old  Provengal  days,  by  the  fire-shine." 

But  Calendau  asks  pardon  for  dwelling  on 
these  scenes  of  childhood.  Manhood  had  begun 
for  him  when  he  met  his  lady  in  the  forest.     He 


20  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

had  first  thought  to  win  her  with  gold,  and  had 
undertaken  to  make  himself  rich  by  the  difficult 
and  dangerous  tunny-fishing  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean coast,  in  which  immense  fortunes  are 
sometimes  made.  The  fifth  canto  of  the  poem, 
La  Madrago,  describes  this  exciting  sport.  The 
sketch  is  one  of  great  power,  and  has  a  kind  of 
restless  brilliancy.  Many  local  legends  and 
wild  superstitions  of  the  coast  are  introduced  ; 
yet  it  is  intensely  real.  We  give  the  passage 
which  describes  Calendau's  crowning  success  :  — 

"  But  when  with  dawn  the  pallid  moon  had  set, 
The  whole  unnumbered  shoal  into  the  net 
Came  pouring.     Ah,  but  then  I  was  elate! 
Drunk  with  my  joy,  thought  I  had  conquered  fate ; 
1  Xow,  love,'  I  said,  '  thou  shalt  have  gems  and  gems; 
I'll  spoil  the  goldsmiths  for  thy  diadems !  ' 

"  Love  is  the  sun,  the  king  of  all  this  earth: 
He  fires,  unites,  fulfils  with  joy,  gives  birth, 
Calls  from  the  dead  the  living  by  the  score, 
And  kindles  war,  and  doth  sweet  peace  restore. 
Lord  of  the  land,  lord  of  the  deep,  is  he, 
Piercing  the  very  monsters  of  the  sea 

"  With  fire-tipped  arrows.     Lo  the  tunny  yon! 
Now  in  one  silver  phalanx  press  they  on ; 


MI  STRAUS  CALENDAU.  21 

Anon  they  petulantly  part  and  spring, 
And  plunge  and  toss ;  their  armor  glittering 
Steel-blue  upon  their  crystal  field  of  fight, 
Or  rosy  underneath  the  growing  light. 

"  'Twas  nuptial  bliss  they  sought.     What  haste!     What 

fire ! 
With  the  strong  rush  of  amorous  desire 
Spots  of  intense  vermilion  went  and  came 
On  some,  like  sparkles  of  a  restless  flame, 
A  royal  scarf,  a  livery  of  gold, 
A  wedding  robe,  fading  as  love  grew  cold. 

"  So  at  the  last  came  one  prodigious  swell; 

And  the  last  line,  that  seemed  invincible, 

Brake  with  the  pressure,  and  our  boats  leaped  high. 

'  Huzza !  the  prey  is  caged ! '  we  wildly  cry ; 

*  Courage,  my  lads,  and  don't  forget  the  oil! 

The  fish  we  have,  — let  not  the  dressing  spoil! 

"  '  'Bout  ship! '     We  bent  our  shoulders  with  a  will; 
Our  oars  we  planted  sturdily  but  still ; 
And  the  gay  cohort,  late  alive  with  light, 
Owned,  with  a  swift  despair,  its  prisoned  plight; 
And,  where  it  leaped  with  amorous  content, 
Quivered  and  plunged  in  fury  impotent. 

"  '  Now  then,  draw  in !     But  easy,  comrades  bold; 
We  are  not  gathering  figs ! ' l     And  all  laid  hold 

1  Eico  n'es  pas  defigo  bourjassoto.  A  popular  proverb  signi- 
fying "  It  is  no  trivial  matter."  The  bourjassoto  is  a  species  of 
black  fig. 


22  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

With  tug  and  strain  to  land  the  living  prize, 
Fruit  of  the  treacherous  sea.     In  ecstasies 
Of  rage  our  victims  on  each  other  flew, 
Dashing  the  fishers  o'er  with  bitter  dew. 

"  Too  like,  too  like  our  own  unhappy  people, 
Who,  when  the  tocsin  clangs  from  tower  and  steeple 
Peril  to  freedom  and  the  land  we  cherish, 
Insensate  turn  like  those  foredoomed  to  perish, 
Brother  on  brother  laying  reckless  hand, 
Till  comes  a  foreign  lord  to  still  the  land. 

"  Yet  had  we  brave  and  splendid  sport,  I  ween; 
For  some  with  tridents,  some  with  lances  keen, 
Fell  on  the  prey.     And  some  were  skilled  to  fling 
A  winged  dart  held  by  a  slender  string. 
The  wounded  wretches  'neath  the  wave  withdrew, 
Trailing  red  lines  along  the  mirror  blue. 

4 '  Slowly  the  net  brimful  of  treasure  mounted ; 
Silver  was  there,  turquoise  and  gold  uncounted, 
Rubies  and  emeralds  million-rayed.     The  men 
Flung  them  thereon  like  eager  children  when 
They  stay  their  mother's  footsteps  to  explore 
Her  apron  bursting  with  its  summer  store 

"  Of  apricots  and  cherries." 

The  wealth  thus  suddenly  acquired,  Calendau 
spends  with  ostentatious  profusion.  He  ap- 
points a  fete  at  Cassis,  to  be  celebrated  with 
public  games,  boat-racing,  and  trials  of  strength, 


MISTRAL'S   CALENDAU.  23 

and  promises  largess  to  the  crowd.  He  then 
buys  the  costliest  trinkets,  fit  only  for  a  queen's 
casket,  and  proceeds  to  offer  them  to  his  Ester- 
ello,  by  whom  they  are  refused  with  a  sort  of 
gentle  disdain.  She  reminds  him  that  she  has 
no  further  use  for  jewelry;  and  that  the  field 
flowers  are,  for  her,  a  far  more  appropriate  gar- 
niture ;  and  she  reproves  his  shallow  confidence 
and  youthful  vanity.  Still  further  mortification 
awaits  him  at  the  Cassis  fete,  to  which  the  next 
canto  is  devoted,  and  where  he  had  anticipated 
a  public  ovation  :  but  where  certain  comrades, 
who  are  jealous  of  his  prosperity,  overcome  him 
by  treachery  in  the  games,  and  poison  the  minds 
of  his  townsfolk  against  him.  Wounded  and 
sore,  both  in  body  and  mind,  he  repairs  again 
to  his  fair  recluse,  and  this  time  she  is  kinder. 

"  I  came  once  more  unto  my  lady's  eyrie. 

Heart  hot  with  sense  of  wrong  and  limbs  a-weary, 

And  oh,  the  rest  I  found  there,  and  the  balm! 

Coolness  as  of  clear  water,  and  a  calm 
Celestial.  '  Oh  entreat  me  pityingly, 
My  strange  white  Fay,'  I  said;  '  no  gems  have  I 

"  '  For  thee  to-day.     One  only  laurel-bough, 
Thick  set  with  thorns,  is  all  I  offer  now; ' 


24  TROUBADOURS  AND  TROUVERES. 

And  so  I  dropped  under  the  shady  trees, 

And  told  her  of  my  hard- won  victories  — 

All  barren  —  and  my  shame;  and  she,  grave-eyed, 

Looked  np  and  listened  from  the  grass  beside." 

Then  she  tells  him  a  thrilling  story,  or  rather 
chants  him  a  ballad,  out  of  that  legendary  lore 
of  Provence  with  which  her  memory  is  stored, 
and  on  which,  in  her  solitude,  her  imagination 
is  ever  brooding.     We  give  it  entire :  — 

At  Aries,  in  the  Carlo vingian  days, 

By  the  swift  Rhone  water, 
A  hundred  thousand  on  either  side, 
Christian  and  Saracen  fought  till  the  tide 

Ran  red  with  the  slaughter. 

May  God  foref end  such  another  flood 

Of  direful  war ! 
The  Count  of  Orange,  on  that  black  morn, 
By  seven  great  kings  was  overborne, 

And  fled  afar, 

Whenas  he  would  avenge  the  death 

Of  his  nephew  slain. 
Now  are  the  kings  upon  his  trail ; 
He  slays  as  he  flies ;  like  fiery  hail 

His  sword-strokes  rain. 


MISTRAL'S    CALEXDAU.  25 

He  hies  him  into  the  Aliscamp,1 

Xo  shelter  there ! 
A  Moorish  hive  is  the  home  of  the  dead ; 
And  hard  he  spnrs  his  goodly  steed 

In  his  despair. 

Over  the  monntain  and  over  the  moor, 

Flies  Count  Guillaume; 
By  sun  and  by  moon  he  ever  sees 
The  coming  cloud  of  his  enemies ; 

Thus  gains  his  home, 

Halts,  and  lifts  at  the  castle  gate 

A  mighty  cry, 
Calling  his  haughty  wife  by  name: 
"  Guibour,  Guibour,  my  gentle  dame, 

Open!     'TisI! 

"  Open  the  gate  to  thy  Guillaume. 

Ta'en  is  the  city 
By  thirty  thousand  Saracen, 
Lo !  they  are  hunting  me  to  my  den. 

Guibour,  have  pity!  " 

But  the  countess  from  the  rampart  cried : 

u  Xay,  chevalier, 
I  will  not  open  my  gates  to  thee ; 
For,  save  the  women  and  babes,"  said  she, 

"  Whom  I  shelter  here, 

1  The  Aliscamp;  that  is,  Elysii  Campi,  —  an  ancient  ceme- 
tery near  Aries,  supposed  to  have  been  consecrated  by  Christ 
in  person. 


26  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

"  And  the  priest  who  keeps  the  lamps  alight, 

Alone  am  I. 
My  brave  Guillaume  and  his  barons  all 
Are  fighting  the  Moor  by  the  Aliscamp  wall, 

And  scorn  to  fly !  " 

"  Guibour,  Guibour,  it  is  I  myself  ! 

And  those  men  of  mine 
(God  rest  their  souls!)  they  are  dead,"  he  cried, 
"  Or  rowing  with  slaves  on  the  salt  sea-tide. 

I  have  seen  the  shine 

"  Of  Aries  on  fire  in  the  dying  day; 

I  have  heard  one  shriek 
Go  up  from  all  the  arenas  where 
The  nuns  disfigure  their  bodies  fair, 

Lest  the  Marran  wreak 

"  His  brutal  will.     Avignon's  self 

Will  fall  to-day! 
Sweetheart,  I  faint;  oh,  let  me  in 
Before  the.  savage  Mograbin 

Fall  on  his  prey!  " 

"  I  swear  thou  liest,"  cried  Guibour, 

'  l  Thou  base  deceiver ! 
Thou  art  perchance  thyself  a  Moor 
Who  whinest  thus  outside  my  door,  — 

My  Guillaume,  never! 

"  Guillaume  to  look  on  burning  towns, 

And  fired  by  —  thee  ! 
Guillaume  to  see  his  comrades  die, 
Or  borne  to  sore  captivity, 

And  then  to  flee  ! 


MI  STRAUS   CALENDAU.  27 

"  He  knows  not  flight !     He  is  a  tower 

Where  others  fly ! 
The  heathen  spoiler's  doom  is  sure, 
The  virgin's  honor  aye  secure, 

When  he  is  by!  " 

Guillaume  leapt  up.  his  bridle  set 

Between  his  teeth, 
While  tears  of  love,  and  tears  of  shame, 
Under  his  burning  eyelids  came, 

And  hard  drew  breath, 

And  seized  his  sword,  and  plunged  his  spurs 

Eight  deep,  and  so 
A  storm,  a  demon,  did  descend 
To  roar  and  smite,  to  rout  and  rend, 

The  Moorish  foe. 

As  when  one  shakes  an  almond- tree, 

The  heathen  slain 
Upon  the  tender  grass  fall  thick, 
Until  the  flying  remnant  seek 

Their  ships  again. 

Four  kings  with  his  own  hand  he  slew, 

And  when  once  more 
He  turned  him  homeward  from  the  fight, 
Upon  the  drawbridge  long  in  sight 

Stood  brave  Guibour. 

11  By  the  great  gateway  enter  in, 

My  Lord!  "  she  cried, 
And  might  no  further  welcome  speak, 
But  loosed  his  helm,  and  kissed  his  cheek, 

With  tears  of  pride. 


28  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

The  docile  Calenclau  goes  on  his  way  inspired 
and  heartened.  His  next  feat  is  to  scale  Ven- 
tour,  the  most  precipitous  peak  in  Provence, 
hitherto  considered  inaccessible  ;  and  he  signal- 
izes his  achievement  by  felling  a  grove  of  larches 
on  the  very  crest  of  the  mountain.  The  diffi- 
cult ascent  is  very  graphically  described  :  — 

* '  Savage  at  once  and  sheer,  yon  tower  of  rocks ; 
To  tufts  of  lavender  and  roots  of  box 
I  needs  must  cling ;  and  as  my  feet  I  ground 
In  the  thin  soil,  the  little  stones  would  bound 
With  ringing  cry  from  off  the  precipice, 
And  plunge  in  horror  down  the  long  abyss. 

"  Sometimes  my  path  along  the  mountain  face 
Would  narrow  to  a  thread :  I  must  retrace 
My  steps  and  seek  some  longer,  wearier  way. 
And  if  I  had  turned  dizzy  in  that  day, 
Or  storm  had  overtaken  me,  then  sure 
I  had  lain  mangled  at  thy  feet,  Yentour. 

"  But  God  preserved  me.     Rarely  as  I  strove 
With  only  death  in  view,  I  heard  above 
Some  solitary  sky-lark  wing  her  flight 
Afar,  then  all  was  still.     Only  by  night 
God  visits  these  drear  places.     Cheery  hum 
Of  insect  rings  there  never.     All  is  dumb. 

"  Oft  as  the  skeleton  of  some  old  yew, 

In  a  deep  chasm,  caught  my  downward  view, 


MI  STRAUS   CALENDAU.  29 

*  Thou  art  there ! '  I  cried ;  and  straightway  did  discover 
New  realms  of  wood  towering  the  others  over, 
A  deeper  depth  of  shadows.     Ah,  methought 
Those  were  enchanted  solitudes  I  sought ! 

"  From  sun  to  sun  I  clambered,  clinging  fast 
Till  all  my  nails  were  broken.     At  the  last  — 
The  utter  last,  oh  palms  of  God!  —  I  caught 
The  soft  larch-murmur  near  me,  and,  distraught, 
Embraced  the  foremost  trunk,  and  forward  fell, 
How  broken,  drenched,  and  dead,  no  words  can  tell! 

"  But  sleep  renews.     I  slept;  and  with  the  dawn 
A  fresh  wind  blew,  and  all  the  pain  was  gone, 
And  I  rose  up  both  stout  of  limb  and  glad  ,* 
Bread  in  my  sack  for  nine  full  days  I  had, 
A  drinking-flask,  a  hatchet,  and  a  knife 
Wherewith  to  carve  the  story  of  my  strife 

"  Upon  the  trunks.     Ah!  fine  that  early  breeze 
On  old  Ventour,  rushing  through  all  the  trees ! 
A  symphony  sublime  I  seemed  to  hear, 
Where  all  the  hills  and  vales  gave  answer  clear, 
Harmonious.     In  a  stately  melancholy 
From  the  sun's  cheerful  glances  hidden  wholly 

"  By  the  black  raiment  of  their  foliage 

The  larches  rose.     No  tempest's  utmost  rage 

Could  shake  them;  but,  with  huge  limbs  close  entwined, 

Mutely  they  turned  their  faces  to  the  wind ; 

Some  hoar  with  mould  and  moss,  while  some  lay  prone 

Shrouded  in  the  dead  leaves  of  years  agone. 


30  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

"  A  sudden  fear  assailed  my  spirit  bold  : 
'  O  kingly  trees ! '  I  cried;  '  0  hermits  old! 
All  hail,  and  pardon !     And  thou  too,  Ventour, 
Long  steeled  the  tempest's  torment  to  endure, 
Wilt  thou  not  howl  in  all  thy  caves  to-day 
Because  thy  stately  crown  is  rent  away  ?  ' 

u  But  now  the  deed  is  done,  the  battle  dared. 
Mightily  swings  the  axe,  and  rent  and  scared 
Are  the  millennial  slumbers  of  the  place 
Mightily  cleaves  the  iron  relentless  ways 
Along  the  wood,  and  every  resinous  scale 
Weeps  drops  of  gold ;  but  these  shall  not  avail 

"  To  stay  the  slaughter.     A  heart-rending  shriek 
Springs,  as  the  great  trunk  parts,  from  root  to  peak; 
From  bough  to  bough  quivers  a  dying  groan, 
As  falls  the  monarch  headlong  from  his  throne, 
And  thunders  down  the  vale,  spreading  about 
Tumult  and  din,  as  of  a  water-spout." 

Not  content  with  the  havoc  thus  wrought  in 
the  forest  solitudes,  and  the  consternation  ex- 
cited in  the  valley  below,  and  heedless  even  of 
the  blandishments  of  a  certain  lady  of  Maltbrun, 
who  desires  to  regale  and  refresh  him  in  her 
highland  castle  after  his  exploit,  Calendau  next 
assails  what  is  called  the  Honeycomb-rock,  —  a 
series  of  clefts  and  fissures  where  the  mountain 
bees  have  been  for  ages  depositing  their  honey 


MI  STRAUS   CALENDAU.  31 

undisturbed,  —  and  barely  escapes  with  his  life 
from  the  consequences  of  this  last  piece  of  bra- 
vado. But  when  he  approaches  Esterello  once 
more,  bearing  a  larch  bough  and  a  slice  of  honey- 
comb as  his  trophies,  he  finds  her  rather  amused 
than  overawed  by  his  latest  achievement.  She 
cannot  help  praising  his  prowess,  and  half  re- 
lenting to  his  fantastic  fidelity  ;  but  she  declares 
her  fervent  and  somewhat  mystical  belief,  that 
the  solitudes  of  Nature  are  sacred,  and  that  he 
who  wantonly  invades  and  violates  them  de- 
serves a  severe  punishment.  She  reminds  him 
once  more  that  her  beloved  heroes  of  old  fought 
to  redress  human  wrong,  and  mitigate  human 
suffering,  and  tries  to  awaken  him  to  a  higher 
ideal  of  life  and  love.  Count  Severan  can  hardly 
restrain  himself  at  this  stage  of  the  story. 

"  '  Go  then  in  peace,'  she  said,  '  and  if  one  day 
A  man  and  knight  indeed  thon  coni'st  my  way, 
Then,'  — with  a  sndden  smile,  — '  then  I  will  tell 
Whether  I  fonnd  thy  honey  sweet ! '    Ah  well, 
Bright  seemed  the  word,  and  kind,  and  the  day  bright, 
And  the  birds  sang,  and  the  stream  leapt  in  light. 

"  *  So,  at  the  last,  thou  hadst  her  ?  '  Severan 
Burst  forth.     '  Thy  tale  is  growing  tedious,  man.' 


32  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

1  Pardon,  my  gracious  lord  ! '  Calendau  cried, 
*  And  deign  a  little  longer  to  abide ; 
'Twere  base  to  cheat  your  honor  of  the  rest, 
Seeing  my  story's  end  will  be  its  best! '  " 

In  the  eighth  canto,  Calendau  signalizes  his 
devotion  to  a  loftier  ambition,  by  interposing 
between  two  hostile  bands  of  freemasons,  whom 
he  finds  one  day  engaged  in  a  fierce  and  san- 
guinary fight;  and,  finally,  by  common  consent 
of  the  parties,  arbitrating  and  restoring  peace 
among  them.  The  theme  hardly  seems  a  very 
poetic  one,  but  it  is  treated  with  the  dignity 
which  never  forsakes  Mistral ;  a  deal  of  strange 
and  sombre  history,  or  rather  mythology,  is  in- 
troduced, and  the  rival  claims  and  bizarre  pre- 
tensions of  the  children  of  Hiram  and  Solomon 
are  detailed  with  a  certain  weird  pomp.  Again 
Severan  interrupts  Calendau's  narrative  fiercely 
and  scornfully,  and  with  a  wrathful  side-glance 
at  the  listeners  who  hang  upon  his  lips. 

"  At  least  they  named  thee  their  Grand  Chief,  I  hope, 
Their  master,  king,  —  whate'er  they  call  it, — pope," 
Hissed  Severan.     "  Nay,"  was  the  tranquil  word, 
"  Nor  pope,  nor  king,  nor  general;  but,  my  lord, 
Provence  and  Aquitaine,  do  not  forget, 
Will  one  day  give  me  a  name  nobler  yet,  — 


MISTRAL'S   CALENDAU.  33 

11  <  He  who  won  Esteretto.'  "     "  Oh,  have  done!  " 

The  huntresses  'gaii  clamor,  all  as  one  ; 

' '  Xor  look  that  look  that  freezes  all  our  blood  ! ' ' 

For  now,  with  lifted  eyes  the  hero  stood, 

And  sweet  and  misty  was  their  gaze  afar, 

Like  his  who  sees  a  vision  or  a  star. 

And  dow  Calenclau  goes  on  to  relate  how  he 
addressed  himself  to  the  most  perilous  and  un- 
selfish of  all  his  undertakings ;  the  achievement 
of  which  brings  the  reader  to  the  commence- 
ment of  the  story.  There  was  a  certain  brigand 
named  Marco  Mau,  the  pest  and  terror  of  all 
southern  Provence,  much  as  Severan  himself 
was  of  the  north.  Xo  hearth  or  home  or  sanc- 
tuary, or  life  of  man  or  chastity  of  woman,  was 
safe  from  the  violent  .assaults  of  this  ruffian  and 
his  armed  band  ;  and  him  Calendau,  at  the  head 
of  a  small  picked  company,  tracked,  defied,  be- 
sieged in  his  stronghold,  and  finally  slew.  Of 
course,  he  won  the  enthusiastic  gratitude  of  his 
towns-people  and  countrymen  in  general,  and 
they  became  eager  to  make  amends  for  all  the 
petty  jealousies  of  the  past,  and  whatever  injus- 
tice they  had  previously  done  him.  In  the  great 
city  of  Aix  he  was  received  like  a  prince,  and 
rare  civic  honors  were  bestowed  upon  him.  And 


34  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

when  he  enters  the  lists  at  the  Fete-Dieu,  and  is 
proclaimed  victor  in  one  after  another  of  the 
strange,  antique  games  which  characterize  that 
festival,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  people  mounts 
to  the  highest  pitch,  and  Calendau  himself  is 
filled  with  a  sacred  joy  aud  gratitude,  as  unlike 
as  possible  to  the  vain  exultation  of  his  earlier 
daj^s.  He  knows  that  his  present  honors  and 
popularity  have  been  well  won,  by  hard  and 
beneficent  service,  and  he  thinks  his  Esterello 
must  approve  him  at  the  last.  We  are  now  at 
the  crisis  of  the  story,  and  the  interest  deepens 
rapidly. 

"  What  maudlin  tales  these  foreigners  do  spin! 
Is  it  not  supper- time  ?  "  once  more  brake  in 
Count  Severan.     "  Come  hurry  to  the  end! 
For  whither,  boaster,  does  thy  prowess  tend  ? 
Thou  hast  not  won  her  yet !     So  much  I  know,  — 
And  others  will  yet  reap  where  thou  didst  sow!  " 

"  '  Will  reap!'     What  mean  you,  scoundrel?  storm  and 

war!" 
Cried  the  young  fisher,  in  tones  louder  far 
Than  e'en  the  bandit's,  and  more  awesome  still; 
"  But  I  have  won  her!    Laugh  or  weep  who  will! 
My  plume  is  flying  free,  and  I  can  guide 
Full  well  the  stormy  clouds  whereon  I  ride ! 


MISTRAL'S   CALENDAU.  35 

"  I  would  that  you  had  seen  my  lady  bright, 
As  once  again  I  climbed  her  balmy  height. 
'  To-day  they  named  me  Chief  of  Youth,'  I  said. 
Flamed  in  her  cheeks  two  roses  of  deep  red, 
And  her  throat  swelled,  and  in  her  glorious  eyes 
I  saw  the  lucent,  loving  tears  arise. 

"  Ay,  and  I  drank  those  tears !     And  from  that  hour,  — 

Whether  it  be  yon  nectar's  wondrous  power, 

I  know  not,  — but  my  doubts,  my  fears,  are  dead. 

The  flowers  bloom,  look  you,  wheresoe'er  I  tread; 

And  wheresoe'er  I  turn  my  blessed  vision, 

The  land  is  all  one  scene  of  peace  Elysian. 

"  The  sky  seems  vaster  than  it  did  of  old; 
And  I  can  hear  the  concords  manifold 
In  Nature's  varying  voices.     And  I  know 
Why  the  winds  cry  aloud  or  whisper  low; 
Why  strives  the  angry  sea,  and  by  what  token, 
Weary  and  sad,  retires  with  pride  all  broken. 

"  For,  hearken  what  she  said,  this  queen  of  mine: 
*  Xow  is  my  soul,  Calendau,  wholly  thine, 
Only  my  body  must  I  keep  mine  own ; 
But  thee  I  love,  my  knight,  and  thee  alone! 
'Twere  sweet,  —  and  why  stay  I  my  steps  like  this, 
Nor  rush  with  open  arms  to  utmost  bliss? 

"  '  Now  shalt  thou  know!   A  treacherous  bond,'  cried  she, 

4  And  yet  invincible,  constraineth  me: 

I  am  an  outlaw's  wife.'  "     "  Ho!  not  so  fast  !  " 

The  huntsmen  jeered.     "  The  rocket  bursts  at  last 

But  the  poor  women  trembled  where  they  sate, 

Yearning  o'er  him  who  thus  had  sealed  his  fate. 


36  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

While  lie  —  Calendau  —  cast  his  cap  aside, 

Leapt  up,  "  And  that  same  impious  bond,"  he  cried, 

"  By  the  good  grace  of  God,  I  break  to-day! 

Yet  if  I  fall,  let  not  my  slayer  say 

I  am  abased;  for  what  I  have,  I  ween, 

Is  bliss  enough,  —  an  ocean  deep,  serene, 

"  As  heaven  itself  !    E'en  Death  shall  powerless  prove, 

And  break  his  horns  against  our  mighty  love. 

Fair  as  the  day  my  lady's  body  is, 

And  yet  the  whitest  pearl  of  rich  Ganges 

A  boar  may  swallow.     She  I  dare  call  mine 

Is  but  the  angel  whom  that  pearl  doth  shrine. 

"  The  low,  the  evanescent  love  of  sense 
Is  but  a  madness :  it  has  long  gone  hence. 
I  love  my  sister's  soul,  and  enter  there, 
And  come  and  go,  and  all  I  see  is  fair. 
Oh,  never  painter  lived  who  could  retrace, 
Even  in  symbol,  that  angelic  grace! 

"  O  ye  unspeakable  joys  of  the  spirit, 
Ye  are  the  paradise  true  souls  inherit ! 
Ye  are  indeed  the  purifying  fires 
Wherein  love  loseth  all  its  low  desires. 
O  oneness  wonderful !     Accord  complete, 
Tender  and  piercing,  sad  because  so  sweet ! 

' '  Death  shall  erelong  to  marble  turn  our  frames ; 
But  the  twin  thought  of  us,  the  inseparate  flames 
Of  divine  essence,  by  the  self -same  road 
Shall  journey  to  the  Infinite  of  God! 
The  one  adored,  the  one  who  doth  adore, 
Giving  and  taking  blessing  evermore." 


MISTRAL'S   CALENDAU.  37 

Thus  the  enraptured  youth,  like  the  brave  sower 
Who  goes  forth  full  of  hope  the  rude  fields  o'er, 
And  sows  broadcast,  on  all  the  stony  plain 
And  hard,  his  sacred  and  life-giving  grain. 
Large  drops  his  forehead  beaded;  but  his  smile 
With  faith  was  radiant  and  content  the  while. 

And  they  who  Jieard  him  dumbly  felt  a  thrill, 
Born  of  that  zeal  divine,  unwonted  steal 
Through  all  their  frames,  and  hearkened  eagerly 
As  the  mule  pricks  his  ears  when  he  sees  fly 
The  sparks  from  off  the  anvil.     But  the  view 
Of  that  clear  river  of  love,  for  ever  new, 

Incapable  of  stain,  marriage  of  soul 

Made  but  for  heaven,  that  smiles  at  Death's  control, 

Stirred  to  its  utmost  spite  one  felon  heart ; 

And  scowling  Severan,  where  he  sat  apart, 

While  hate  burned  like  a  blister  at  his  breast, 

Brooded  revenge  with  feverish  unrest ; 

Yet  held,  as  with  a  leash,  his  passions  in, 
Muzzled  like  ravening  dogs,  until  his  spleen 
Took  shape.     "  Calendau  hath  won  all  things  now, 
The  aureole  is  growing  round  his  brow;  " 
So  his  thought  ran.     "  Of  heaven  he  is  sure, 
And  there  of  honor  bright  and  favor  pure. 

"  He  hath  her  soul!     He  is  become  as  God! 
Xow,  though  the  lightning  lay  its  fiery  rod 
Upon  him,  and  his  frame  be  ground  to  dust, 
He  is  not  dispossessed  of  that  fair  trust: 
He  hath  her  soul,  and  what  to  him  is  death? 
Ha !  ha !  I'll  break  the  sword  and  leave  the  sheath ! 


38  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

"  By  the  insidious  poison  of  a  bliss 

More  deadly  than  all  pain,  that  soul  of  his 

I  will  make  one  corruption !     Ay,  the  germ 

Of  yonder  tree  of  life  shall  feed  the  worm ! 

And  were  thy  baser  passions  tighter  reined 

Than  now,  proud  youth,  thy  doom  were  still  ordained." 

With  this  infernal  thought  the  count  arose, 
Blandly  a  signal  gave,  and  all  of  those 
About  set  forth  together  for  Aiglun, 
Climbing  the  tortuous  torrent- side.     The  sun 
Set  suddenly  behind  the  mountain- wall, 
And  swift  and  sombre  'gan  the  night  to  fall. 

Till  from  the  east  the  early  moon  did  peep, 
As  a  maid,  risen  from  her  couch  of  sleep, 
Her  lattice  opes,  the  coolness  to  inhale. 
The  crickets  chirred  incessant  in  the  vale  ; 
And,  where  the  onion-fields  lay  black  in  shade, 
The  courtil-mole  trilled  forth  her  long  roulade. 

Rarely  from  far  above  the  piercing  cry 
Of  some  belated  quail  fell  mournfully, 
Or  a  young  partridge  in  the  vale  astray 
Whimpered  afar.     And  cooler  grew  alway 
The  air,  until  the  deep'ning  shades  of  night 
Were  cloven  by  the  bat's  precipitous  flight. 

The  eleventh  canto,  The  Orgie,  is  devoted  to 
the  fulfilment  of  Severan's  sinister  design,  and 
it  reveals  a  wholly  new  aspect  of  M.  Mistral's 
versatile  genius.     The  inconceivable  luxury  of 


MISTRAL'S   CALENDAU.  39 

the  bandit's  castle,  the  costly  profusion  of  the 
garden  feast,  the  music,  the  tempered  light,  the 
heavy  odors,  and  the  artfully  intensified  beauty 
of  the  women,  whom  Calendau  seemed  hardly 
to  have  heeded  before,  —  are  all  described  in  dic- 
tion infinitely  voluptuous,  and  with  an  effect  of 
sensuous  splendor  and  enchantment  hardly  at- 
tainable in  a  Northern  tongue.  The  revelry, 
restrained  at  first  to  a  certain  languorous  meas- 
ure, grows  faster,  while  from  time  to  time  the 
lurid  scene  is  relieved  by  glimpses  of  the  sum- 
mer night  scenery,  with  what  effect  those  will 
readily  understand  who  remember  the  peaceful 
light  of  sunset  sky  and  sea  around  the  fierce 
duel  of  the  rivals  in  Mireio. 

There  were  swift  clouds  abroad  that  night,  and  dark, 
Hiding  the  moon  at  times.     The  restless  spark 
Of  myriad  fire-flies,  like  an  emerald  shower, 
Quivered  in  all  the  air.     And  hour  by  hour 
Warmer  the  night  turned,  and  heat  lightnings  parted 
From  the  far  heights,  and  through  the  ether  darted. 

And  if  the  mad  mirth  failed,  at  intervals 
Sounded  distinctly  all  the  waterfalls 
And  tinkling  fountains ;  and  anon  there  came 
Dashes  of  cooling  spray  to  cheeks  aflame. 
For  a  cascade  that  plunged  adown  the  hill, 
By  art  compelled,  with  many  a  silver  rill 


40  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

Threaded  the  pleasance ;  seeming  now  asleep, 
Then,  hurrying  to  a  verge,  with  one  gay  leap, 
Dispersed  in  diamond  rain,  it  passed  from  view. 
Only  the  grass  below  right  verdant  grew, 
And  loveliest  flowers,  jasmine  and  the  tuberose, 
Freighted  the  dark  with  sweets,  — how  sweet  to  those 

Hot  revellers !     And  the  cantharides 

Shook  their  keen  odors  from  the  great  ash- trees. 

At  last  the  host :   ' '  And  are  ye  satisfied 

With  feasting?     Ho  then  for  a  dance!  "  he  cried. 

"  Young,  rosy  limbs  in  play  I  hold  a  sight 

Aye  worth  the  rapture  of  a  gallant  knight." 

There  followed  one  of  those  intoxicating  and 
lascivious  dances  indigenous  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Marseilles,  and  parent  of  the  Carma- 
gnole and  more  modern  abominations.  In  the 
midst  of  it,  Calendan  finally  shakes  off  his  gath- 
ering stupor,  and  challenges  Severan  to  instant 
and  mortal  combat.  A  scene  of  frightful  con- 
fusion ensues  ;  but  the  struggle  is,  of  course,  a 
brief  one  :  Calenclau  is  overpowered  by  numbers, 
bound,  and  flung  into  a  dungeon,  and  his  torture 
exquisitely  enhanced  by  the  assurance  that 
Severan  and  his  troop,  following  the  clue  fur- 
nished by  Calendau's  story,  will  set  forth  that 
very  night  to  capture  and  bring  back,  alive  or 
dead,  the  lost  lady  of  Aiglun.     From  this  dun- 


Ml  STRAUS   CALENDAU.  41 

geon  lie  is  released,  at  early  daybreak,  by  For- 
tuneto,  the  youngest,  fairest,  and  tenderest  of 
the  unhappy  slaves  whose  allurements  he  had 
resisted  the  night  before,  and  he  flies  to  the 
defence  of  his  lady.  He  is  only  just  in  season. 
The  "  cornice-like  ledge,"  where  we  saw  them 
first,  forms  a  kind  of  natural  fortress  ;  and  there 
the  young  lover,  informed  with  the  valor  of  ten, 
holds  the  troop  at  bay  for  one  long  twent}T-four 
hours,  and  at  last  disables  so  many  that  they  re- 
treat, but  only  to  set  fire  to  the  wroods  that 
girdle  the  mountain.  A  terrible  night  ensues, 
during  which  the  two  can  do  no  more  than  wait 
for  death  together  ;  but,  when  the  first  rays  of 
dawn  are  struggling  with  the  lurid  flames  and 
stifling  smoke,  the  bells  are  suddenly  heard  to 
rinsr  in  Cassis  and  all  along  the  shore.  The 
rumor  has  spread  that  Calendau,  the  darling 
and  benefactor  of  the  coast,  is  in  uttermost  peril ; 
and  the  whole  population  turns  out  to  fight  the 
flames.  The  strange  battle  is  made  sufficiently 
thrilling  and  dubious,  although  the  reader  fore- 
knows its  end.  Severan  is  killed  by  the  fall  of 
a  burning  trunk,  and  — 

Two  thousand  souls,  a  people  in  its  might, 
Engage  the  roaring  fires  in  sturdy  fight, 


42  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

Felling  a  pathway  to  the  mountain-crest, 
Just  as  the  sun  leaps  up  to  flood  the  east 
With  radiance;  and  the  child  of  yonder  wave 
Aod  the  white  fairy  of  the  highland  cave  — 

He  with  his  nostrils  wide  to  the  pure  morn, 
She  with  the  torrent  of  her  bright  hair  borne 
Downward,  like  jujube  flowers  —  stand  forth  together, 
The  glory  of  the  blue  bejewelled  weather 
Flung  like  an  arch  triumphal  o'er  the  twain. 
Hand  in  hand  on  the  height  they  hear  again 

And  yet  again  exultant  shouts  ascending  — 
Two  thousand  voices  in  one  psean  blending  — 
"  Hail  to  Calendau!  who  hath  brought  renown 
And  praise  of  men  to  our  poor  fishing-town ! 
Who  hath  won  Esterello  I     Plant  the  may 
For  him  who  is  our  consul  from  to-day ! ' ' 

The  happy  crowd  therewith  in  triumph  bear 
Forth  of  their  citadel  the  rescued  pair, 
The  tried,  the  true,  the  blest  beyond  desire; 
While  the  sun,  which  is  God's  own  realm  of  fire, 
Goes  up  his  dazzling  way  with  blessing  rife, 
Calling  new  lovers  and  new  loves  to  life. 

So  happily  ends  the  poem.  The  brief  abstract 
here  given  conveys  a  very  inadequate  idea  of 
the  abundance  of  incident,  the  range  of  tone, 
and  the  immense  variety  of  action  by  which  it 
is  characterized.  Where  nearly  every  page  is 
strikingly  picturesque,  selection  becomes  a  diffi- 
cult task. 


THEODORE  AUBANEL  :  A  MODERN 
PROVEN9AL  POET. 

'  I  ^HE  ideal  Mutual  Admiration  Society  has 
its  head-quarters  in  the  south  of  France. 
Such  clumsy  endorsements  as  people  with  a 
common  literary  cause  elsewhere  afford  one  an- 
other are  contemptible  indeed  beside  the  fervent 
felicitations,  the  ascriptions  of  honor,  the  prayers 
for  a  common  immortality,  the  vows  of  eternal 
faith  and  mutual  self-abasement,  to  which  the 
Felibres  of  the  Bouches-du-Rlwne  are  treated 
among  themselves.  The  felibres  are  the  whole 
school  of  modern  Provencal  poets  of  which 
Joseph  Roumanille  is  founder  and  master,  and 
Frederic  Mistral  facile  princeps  ;  and  no  Gentile 
seems  to  know  precisely  why  they  are  called  or 
call  themselves  by  this  name.  The  very  ety- 
mology of  the  word  is  disputed  ;  some  asserting 
that  it  means  merely  quifacit  libros,  others  that 
it  is  homme  de  foi  libre,  and  that  the  word,  from 
being  applied  to  the  apostles  in  ancient  prayers, 


44  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROU VERES. 

has  been  adopted  by  the  apostles  of  the  Proven- 
gal  revival,  as  indicating  the  breadth  of  their  own 
views,  and  the  novelty  —  if  the  word  may  be 
pardoned  —  of  their  literary  and  perhaps  political 
departure.  It  should  be  said,  however,  that 
this  last  is  not  the  explanation  of  a  friend,  but 
of  a  deserter,  M.  Eugene  Garcin,  who  is  the 
author  of  a  very  curious  and  not  very  amiable 
little  book  entitled,  "  Les  Frangais  du  Norcl  et  du 
Midi,"  and  whom  M.  Mistral  himself  does  not 
hesitate  to  call  "  The  Judas  of  our  little  church." 
The  etymology  is  not  perhaps  of  very  much 
account.  These  men  are  self-styled  felibres ; 
and  the  felibre  Anselme  Matthieu  sings  to  the 
felibre  Joseph  Roumanille,  and  the  felibre  Theo- 
dore Aubanel  to  the  felibre  Jan  Brunet,  and 
all  together,  as  well  they  may,  hymn  the  praises 
of  M.  Mistral,  who,  in  his  turn,  invokes  them 
all  (and  the  faithless  Garcin  among  them),  like 
a  choir  of  masculine  Muses,  in  the  fifth  canto 
of  Mireio ;  while  to  one  of  them,  Theodore 
Aubanel,  who  forms  the  subject  of  this  article, 
and  who  undoubtedly  ranks  next  to  Mistral 
in  originality  and  beauty  of  gifts,  the  latter  has 
furnished  a  more  formal  and  very  characteristic 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  45 

introduction  to  the  world.  Nor,  with  the  glow- 
ing pages  before  me  of  Mistral's  fanciful  preface 
to  Aubanel's  poems,  can  I  bring  myself  to  pref- 
ace the  versions  which  I  have  made  from  the 
less  famous  minstrel  by  any  dry  record  of  the 
few  known  facts  of  his  history.  I  prefer  to  let 
the  one  poet  present  the  other,  as  he  did  to  the 
French  public,  and  must  beg  the  kindly  reader 
to  regard  this  new  candidate  for  favor,  and  his 
sad  and  simple  story,  less  through  the  dim 
medium  of  my  own  translations  than  by  the 
rose-light  of  the  generous  praises  of  his  enthusi- 
astic superior.  Aubanel's  book  is  called  "  La 
Miougrano  Entredouberto  :  The  Opening  —  or 
Half  Open  —  Pomegranate."  The  coincidence 
of  the  name  with  that  of  one  of  Browning's  early 
volumes,  and  of  Mistral's  interpretation  of  it 
with  Miss  Barrett's  of  the  latter,  is  a  little 
singular.     This  is  the  Avant-propos. 

I. 

"  The  pomegranate  is  by  nature  wilder  than 
other  trees  ;  it  loves  to  grow  in  the  broad  sunshine 
among  heaps  of  stones,  afar  from  men  and  near 
to  God.     There,  solitary  as  a  hermit  and  brown 


46  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROU VERES. 

with  the  sun,  it  shyly  unfolds  its  blood-red 
flowers.  Love  and  sunlight  fertilize  the  blos- 
soms, and  in  their  rosy  cups  mature  a  thou- 
sand coral  seeds,  a  thousand  pretty  sisters  nest- 
ling under  the  same  coverlet. 

"  The  SAVollen  pomegranate  keeps  concealed, 
as  long  as  may  be,  under  its  rind  the  beautiful, 
rosy  grains,  —  the  beautiful,  bashful  sisters. 
But  the  wild  birds  of  the  oak-barrens  cry  to 
the  pomegranate-tree,  '  What  wilt  thou  do  with 
tlry  seeds?  Autumn  and  winter  will  soon  be 
here  to  drive  us  across  the  hills  and  over  the 
sea.  Shall  it  be  said,  thou  wild  pomegranate- 
tree,  that  we  left  Provence  without  seeing  the 
birth  of  thy  coral  seeds,  the  eyes  of  thy  bashful 
daughters  ?  ' 

"  Then  the  pomegranate-tree,  to  satisfy  the 
eager  birds,  slowly  opens  its  fruit.  The  ver- 
milion grains  flash  in  the  sun ;  the  timid  girls 
with  their  rosy-cheeks  peep  out  of  the  window. 
The  giddy  birds  assemble  in  flocks  and  gayly 
feast  upon  the  fair  coral  seeds ;  the  giddy 
suitors  devour  with  kisses  the  fair,  bashful 
maidens." 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  47 

n. 

"Theodore  Aubanel — and  when  you  have 
read  his  book  you  will  say  the  same  — is  a  wild 
pomegranate-tree.  The  Provencal  public,  which 
liked  his  earliest  songs  so  well,  has  been  savins; 
of  late,  '  What  is  our  Aubanel  doing,  that  we 
no  longer  hear  his  voice  ?  ' 

"  Aubanel  was  singing  in  secret.  Love,  that 
sacred  bee  whose  honey  is  so  sweet  in  its  own 
time  and  place,  and  which,  when  crossed,  can 
sting  so  sharply,  —  love  had  buried  in  his  heart 
a  keen  and  pitiless  arrow.  The  unhappy  passion 
of  our  friend  was  hopeless  ;  his  malady  without 
remedjr.  His  beloved,  the  maiden  who  had 
crossed  the  clear  heaven  of  his  youth,  —  alas, 
she  had  become  a  nun  ! 

"  The  poor  soul  wept  seven  years  for  his  lady 
and  is  not  yet  consoled. 

"  To  drive  away  the  fever  which  consumed 
him,  he  left  Avignon,  committing  himself  to 
God.  He  saw  Rome;  he  saw  Paris;  with  the 
barb  still  in  his  side,  he  came  back  to  Provence. 
He  climbed  mountains  —  Sainte  Baume,  Ven- 
tour,  the  Alps,  the  Alpilles.     But  his  rose  had 


48  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

shed  its  leaves  ;  thorns  only  remained,  and  none 
might  strip  them  off." 

in. 

"  Nevertheless,  from  time  to  time  the  swell- 
ings of  his  passion  overflowed  in  poesy.  He 
had  taken  for  his  motto,  — 

"  '  Quau  canto 
Soun  mau  encanto.'  l 

And  whenever  he  felt  a  stab  of  regret  the  poor 
child  gave  a  cry. 

"  And  these  plaints,  these  cries  of  love,  at  the 
earnest  instance  of  us  his  friends,  —  the  birds  of 
the  oak-barrens,  —  Theodore  Aubanel  has  con- 
sented to  publish  under  the  charming  title  of 
the  '  Book  of  Love.' 

"  The  ;  Book  of  Love  '  is  thus,  strange  to  say,  a 
song  in  good  faith,  a  genuine  flame.  The  story, 
as  I  have  said,  is  perfectly  simple.  It  is  that 
of  a  youth  who  loves,  who  languishes  afar  from 
his  beloved,  who  suffers,  who  weeps,  who  makes 
his  moan  to  God.  Holding  his  story  sacred,  he 
has  not  changed  it.     All  is  here  as  it  happened, 

1  He  who  sings  enchants  or  charms  away  his  sorrow. 


THEODORE  AUBAXEL.  49 

or  better  than  so,  for  from  his  virgin  passion, 
his  weariness  and  despondency,  his  weeping 
and  his  cries,  a  book  all  nature  has  arisen,  — 
living,  youthful,  exquisite." 

IV. 

"If  ever  in  April  you  have  passed  along  the 
hedge-rows,  you  know  the  odor  of  the  haw- 
thorn.    It  is  both  sweet  and  bitter. 

"  If  ever  in  early  May  you  have  scented  the 
evening  coolness  under  the  light  green  trees, 
you  know  the  song  of  the  nightingale.  It  is 
clear  and  vivid,  impassioned  and  pure,  plaintive 
but  full  of  power. 

"  If  ever  in  June  you  have  seen  the  sun  set 
from  the  ramparts  of  Avignon,  you  know  how 
the  Rhone  shines  under  the  old  bridge  of  Saint 
Benezet.  It  is  like  the  mantle  of  a  prince,  red 
and  radiant,  torn  with  lances,  —  it  floats,  it 
flames. 

"  I  can  think  of  no  better  comparison  for  the 
64  Book  of  Love.'  Nor  do  I  think  it  too  much 
to  say  that  the  coral  seeds  of  the  opening  pome- 
granate will  henceforth  be  the  lover's  chaplet 
in  Provence." 

4 


50  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 


V. 

"  After  the  'Book  of  Love'  comes  the  'In- 
tergleam.' 

"  It  is  quite  natural.  If  you  have  a  hedge  of 
roses,  lilacs,  or  myrtle,  it  is  hardly  possible  but 
that  it  should  be  interspersed  with  shoots  of 
blackthorn,  periwinkle,  and  honeysuckle.  And 
observe  the  sea,  when  it  is  beaten  and  churned 
and  tormented  by  the  north- wind  ;  there  will  be 
found,  amid  the  tumultuous  billows,  bright  rip- 
ples which  reflect  the  sun. 

"  So,  amid  the  impassioned  love-songs  of 
Theodore  Aubanel,  there  are  a  few  pleasant, 
peaceful,  consoling  strains.  So  in  the  tempest 
of  his  emotions  there  are  transient  gleams  of 
fair  weather. 

"  Truly  the  lucid  interval  is  short.  But  the 
more  severe  the  attack,  the  more  vigorous  the 
reaction.  The  strain  is  broken ;  or  at  least 
the  young  man  believes  for  an  instant  that  it 
is  so,  and  lo,  with  what  ardor  he  drinks  at  the 
cool  springs  of  serene,  majestic  Nature !  He 
quaffs  the  sunshine  like  a  lizard ;  his  nostrils 
expand  to  the  soft  breathings  of  the  forest  airs. 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  51 

Does  he  sing  of  reapers  ?  He  seems  himself  to 
grasp  the  sickle.  Of  fishermen  ?  'T  is  he  who 
flings  the  net.  And  if  he  celebrates  nuptials,  he 
fairly  leaps  with  joy.  You  would  say  that  he 
was  himself  the  bridegroom." 


VI. 

"  But  the  lightning  of  the  storm-cloud  is  only 
temporary.  The  trouble  of  the  heart  again  makes 
darkness  in  the  soul. 

"  When  Raimbaud  de  Vacqueiras  was  so 
madly  enamoured  of  Beatrix,  the  sister  of  Mar- 
quis Boniface  de  Montferrat,  and  dared  not  tell 
her  so,  this  is  the  song  which  he  made  in  his 
despair :  — 

"  '  No  ni'agrad  iverns  ni  pascors 
NI  clar  terns,  ni  folk  de  games  ; 
Car  mos  enans  mi  par  destrics 
E  totz  miei  major  gautz  dolors; 
E  son  maltrach  tut  miei  leger 
E  desesperat  miei  esper ; 
Qu'  aissi  m'  sol  amor  e  domneis 
Tener  gai  comal'aiga  1'  peis: 
E  pois  d'amdui  me  soi  partitz 
Com  horn  eissilhatz  e  marritz 


52  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

Tot  autre  bida  m'  sembla  mortz 
E  tot  autre  joi  desconortz.'  2 

"  So  might  Aubanel  of  Avignon  have  said. 
When  Zani,  the  brunette,  fled  from  Avignon, 
as  the  tender  and  virginal  snow  vanishes  from 
the  hill  before  the  breath  of  the  fine  days,  —  fled 
in  fear  from  the  burning  breath  of  her  felibre, 
his  heart  fainted  within  him.  And  now,  if  you 
care  to  know,  all  sunshine  became  heavy  mist 
to  him,  all  merriment  sad,  all  life  death.  Then 
in  the  gloom  of  his  spirit,  tear  by  tear,  he  wrote 
the  '  Book  of  Death.'  The  seven  sorrows  are 
there  ;  the  seven  knives  of  the  Pieta  have 
pierced  the  pages.  All  that  suffers  is  as  his  own 
soul ;  all  that  causes  suffering,  his  mortal  hor- 
ror. And  so  harrowing,  so  harsh,  so  real  are 
the  pictures  which  he  paints,  that  it  would  seem 
as  if  the  poet,  violently  robbed  of  his  love  (like 
a  tree  whose  spring  buds  have  been  torn  away), 

1  Neither  winter  nor  Easter  pleases  me,  nor  clear  weather, 
nor  foliage  of  the  oak.  For  my  gains  seem  to  me  crosses,  and 
all  my  greatest  joys  pains.  And  all  my  idle  hours  are  anguish, 
and  all  my  hopes  despair.  Ordinarily,  love  and  gallantry  are  to 
me  as  the  water  to  the  fish.  But  now,  since  I  have  lost  these 
two,  like  a  miserable  and  exiled  man,  I  find  all  other  life  death, 
and  all  other  joy  desolation. 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  53 

had  resolved  to  be  avenged  for  his  cruel  fate,  by 
chastising  all  the  instruments  of  cruelty,  —  all 
the  tyrannies  in  the  world." 


VII. 


"  So  much  by  way  of  explaining  the  principle 
on  which  this  volume  is  divided.  I  have  not 
taken  my  place  upon  the  threshold  to  say  '  Come 
and  see ! '  nor  to  laud  that  which  can  speak  for 
itself.  And  we  poets  are  neither  gold  nor  sil- 
ver; it  is  impossible  that  we  should  please  all. 
I  would  merely  point  the  way  of  refreshment 
to  those  who  thirst."     (Frederic  Mistral.) 

And  now  for  some  specimens  of  the  "  Book  of 
Love."  Each  song  has  a  motto  from  some  old 
poet,  usually  Provencal  or  Italian.  A  line  from 
Countess  Die  heads  the  first :  "  E  mernbre  nos 
qual  fo  V  comensamens  de  nostr*  amor"1 

Hast  thou,  like  me,  the  thought  before  thee 

Forever  of  a  morning  fair, 
When,  by  a  wayside  oratory, 

Thou  didst  put  up  thy  simple  prayer; 

1  Remember  how  our  love  began. 


54  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

A  prayer  of  faith  and  sweetness  olden, 
And  I,  who  chanced  to  pass  that  way, 

Unto  thy  angel  voice  beholden, 
Was  fain,  heart-full,  my  steps  to  stay  ? 

Here,  by  the  qniet  water  kneeling, 
Where  the  old  willow  leans  to  drink, 

"  Fair  cross  and  dear,"  thou  saidst,  appealing, - 
The  place  is  vocal  yet,  I  think! 

"  O  sacred  rock  of  ours, 

Fair  cross  and  dear, 
Are  not  the  wild- wood  flowers 

All  offered  here  ? 

"  Wilt  thou  not,  Jesus,  hear 

The  song-bird  small? 
Thou  whose  blood  runneth  clear, 

Like  brooks,  for  all  ? 

"  Thou,  who  didst  overcome 

Dark  purgatory, 
Lead  us  into  thy  home ! 

Lend  us  thy  glory !  " 

This  was  the  end.     Then  I,  heart-laden 
And  fearful,  drew  the  cross  anigh. 

"  That  was  a  lovely  prayer,  O  maiden, 
Wilt  thou  not  teach  it  me  ?  "  said  I. 

And,  lady,  thou  didst  not  repel  me, 
But  straightway  turned  with  aspect  sweet, 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  55 

Thy  simple  orison  to  tell  nie, 
As  a  bird  doth  its  song  repeat. 

An  ancient  prayer,  and  good  !    Ah,  surely 

The  men  of  old  were  holiest  ! 
I  say  it  oft,  I  say  it  purely, 

I  think  of  thee,  and  I  am  blest. 

There  follow  a  few  happy  little  lyrics,  one 
rapturous,  another  dreamy.  The  poet  sings  of 
his  lady's  smile ;  he  sings  of  her  quiet  grace  in 
the  dance  ;  he  sings,  with  a  touch  of  awe,  of 
her  readiness  for  all  good  works,  as  in  this  pe- 
culiar and  lingering  stanza  :  — 

This  is  a  sorry  world,  and  some  are  tired  of  living; 

So  may  the  dear  Lord  go  with  thee 
Wherever  mourners  are !  Thou  dost  assuage  their  grieving ; 

Thou  lovest  all  in  misery. 

The  old  and  gray  who  travel  wearily, 

All  who  lack  bread,  and  all  who  strive  and  sigh, 

Each  motherless  little  one, 
Mothers  whose  little  ones  are  in  the  sky,  — 
~No  pain  is  pain  the  while  that  thou  art  by ! 

Thou  sayest,  "  Poor  dear!  "  in  such  a  tone! 

Then  the  poet's  key  changes,  and  he  suddenly 
breaks  into  passion  in  a  song  beginning,  "  Thy 


56  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

little  warm,  brown  hand  —  give  it  me!"  and 
furnished  with  a  motto  from  that  fiery  and  ill- 
fated  troubadour,  Guillaume  de  Cabestaing.  But 
equally  abrupt  is  the  ensuing  transition.  The 
next  motto  is  that  line  from  the  a  Inferno  "  which 
we  all  know  :  "  We  read  no  more  that  day." 
And:  this  is  the  number :  — 

"'T  is  the  last  time!' '  "  What  meanest  thou?  "  "  I  must 
go!"  .  .  . 
"  Whither?  "     "  Ah  yes,  I  am  to  be  a  nun." 
"  What  sayest  thou,  dear?     Why  dost  thou  fright  me  so? 
Thou  must  be  ill !     Thy  youth  is  scarce  begun ! 
Beware  of  thy  own  heart,  my  little  one ! 
Thou  art  not  ill?    Then  thou  hast  struck  me  dead  !  " 
'T  was  our  last  day  indeed,  and  this  is  all  we  said  ! 

And  now  the  songs  of  sorrow  begin  ;  at  first 
fragmentary  and  bewildered,  and  afterwards 
either  fierce  in  their  resistance  to  pain,  or  breath- 
ing a  deep  and  quiet  despondency  like  the 
following  :  — 

Far,  far  away  across  the  sea, 

In  the  still  hours  when  1  sit  dreaming, 
Often  and  often  I  voyage  in  seeming ; 

And  sad  is  the  heart  I  bear  with  me 

Far,  far  away  across  the  sea. 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  57 

Yonder,  toward  the  Dardanelles, 
I  follow  the  vessels  disappearing, 
Slender  masts  to  the  sky  uprearing ; 

Follow  her,  whom  I  love  so  well, 

Yonder  toward  the  Dardanelles. 


With  the  great  clouds  I  go  astray ; 

These  by  the  shepherd  wind  are  driven 
Across  the  shining  stars  of  heaven 

In  snowy  flocks,  and  go  their  way; 

And  with  the  clouds  I  go  astray. 

I  take  the  pinions  of  the  swallow, 
For  the  fair  weather  ever  yearning, 
And  swiftly  to  the  sun  returning ; 
So  swiftly  I  my  darling  follow 
Upon  the  pinions  of  the  swallow. 

Homesickness  hath  my  heart  possessed, 
For  now  she  treads  an  alien  strand ; 
And  for  that  unknown  fatherland 

I  long,  as  a  bird  for  her  nest. 

Homesickness  hath  my  heart  possessed. 

From  wave  to  wave  the  salt  sea  over, 
Like  a  pale  corpse  I  alway  seem 
On  floating,  in  a  deathlike  dream, 
Even  to  the  feet  of  my  sweet  lover, 
From  wave  to  wave  the  salt  sea  over. 


58  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUV&RES, 

Now  am  I  lying  on  the  shore 

Till  my  love  lifts  me  mutely  weeping, 
And  takes  me  in  her  tender  keeping, 
And  lays  her  hand  my  still  heart  o'er, 
And  calls  me  from  the  dead  once  more. 

I  clasp  her  close  and  hold  her  long, 
"  Oh,  I  have  suffered  sore,"  I  cry, 
"  But  now  we  will  no  longer  die!  " 

Like  drowning  men's  my  grasp  is  strong; 

I  clasp  her  close  and  hold  her  long. 

Far,  far  away  across  the  sea, 

In  the  still  hours  when  I  sit  dreaming, 
Often  and  often  I  voyage  in  seeming ; 

And  sad  is  the  heart  I  bear  with  me 

Far,  far  away  across  the  sea. 


Twice  the  poet  makes  his  way  into  chambers 
which  his  lady  has  inhabited  at  different  times 
before  she  forsook  the  world.  In  one  he  be- 
seeches the  little  mirror  to  show  him  once  more 
the  pictures  it  has  reflected  so  often  :  his  lady 
at  her  toilette,  at  her  prayers,  "  reading  in  the 
old  prayer-book  of  her  grandfather  until  she 
marks  the  place  with  a  blessed  spray  and  kneels 
and  talks  a  long  while  to  God,"  plaiting  her 
abundant  hair,  or  in   all   the  simple  glories  of 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  59 

her  gala-day  dress.     Upon  the  wall  of  the  other 
he  leaves  this  verse  inscribed  :  — 

Ah,  chamber  poor  and  small! 
However  canst  thou  hold  so  many  memories? 
Passing  thy  sill,  each  pulse  within  me  cries, 
' '  They  come !  those  two  bright  girls  men  used  to  call 
Julia  and  Zani!  "     Then  my  heart  replies 

1 '  Nay,  all  is  over  —  all ! 
Here  never  more  sleep  lights  on  their  young  eyes, 
For  heaven  hides  one  —  and  one,  a  convent  wall." 

Presently  other  troubles  overtake  the  poet. 
The  home  of  his  boyhood  is  desolated  by  his 
mother's  death,  and  he  sets  forth  on  a  series  of 
aimless  journeyings,  from  the  record  of  which 
I  quote :  — 

Aye,  since  my  mother  died  and  Zani  went  away, 
I  wander  high  and  low ;  I  wander  all  the  day ; 
No  comrade  at  my  side  my  own  sad  whim  to  guide, 
Until  Avignon's  towers  once  more  I  have  descried. 

Then  turn  I,  smitten  by  a  sudden  bitterness. 
Why  should  I  seek  again  the  home  of  my  distress? 
Now  I  can  pass  no  more  before  my  darling's  door, 
Nor  feel  my  mother's  arms  around  me  as  of  yore. 
I  '11  seek  some  other  land,  if  one  perchance  there  be, 
Whose  children  do  not  mourn  eternally. 


60  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

So  ever  since  the  dawn  thou  hast  travelled  heedless  on. 
And  at  eventide  thou  comest  unto  a  hamlet  lone, 
Deep  in  some  unknown  valley,  very  green  and  fair ; 
Already,  through  the  dusk,  tremble  the  stars  in  air ; 
The  dog  begins  to  bay,  and  the  homely  fowl  to  talk ; 
And  the  house-mother,  yonder  beside  the  garden-walk 
Tying  her  golden  lettuce,  pauses  and  lifts  her  eyes. 
"  Give  thee  good  even,  friend!  "  and  "  Good  even!  "  she 

replies. 
"  Whither  so  late  ?  "     "  I  *m  weary,  and  have  missed  my 

road,"  thou  sayest; 
44  Might  I  rest  under  thy  roof  ?  "    "  Ay,  surely,  that  thou 

mayest ! 
Enter,  and  sit  thee  down!  "     Then  she  heaps  the  hearth 

with  boughs, 
And  a  garment  of  red  firelight  makes  merry  all  the  house. 
"  Yon  whistle  is  my  man's!     He  will  soon  be  coming  up 
From  the  plowing  ;   wherefore,  friend,  we  will  together 

sup!  " 
She  scans  her  stew,  and  cuts  her  loaf,  and  makes  all  haste 

to  bring, 
In  her  goodly  copper  jug,  fresh  water  from  the  spring, 
Calling  her   scattered  brood   ere   the    door-sill   she   has 

crossed. 
They  come.     The  soup  is  poured;  and  while  it  cools,  the 

kindly  host 
Brings  thee  his  home-made  wine.     Then  offers  each  his 

plate,  — 
Sire,  grandsire,  mother,  child,  —  and  thou  sharest  their 

estate, 
Eatest  their  bread,  and  art  no  longer  desolate! 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  61 

Sleep  lies  in  wait  for  all  or  ever  the  meal  is  o'er. 

So  the  housewife  lights  a  lamp  and  brings  thee,  from  her 
store, 

A  sheet  of  fair  white  linen,  —  sweet  and  coarse  and  clean. 

The  languor  of  the  limbs  is  the  spirit's  balm  I  ween; 

Oh,  good  it  is  to  sleep  in  the  sheep-fold  on  the  ground, 

Dreamless  under  the  leaves,  with  the  dreamless  flock 
around, 

Until  the  goat-bells  call  thee!  Then  to  live  as  shep- 
herds do, 

And  smell  the  mint  all  day  as  thou  liest  under  the  blue. 

But  if  the  poet  found  temporary  rest  of  body 
and  soul  by  the  homely  hospitable  firesides  of 
his  native  land,  it  was  far  otherwise  when  he 
had  extended  his  wanderings  to  foreign  coun- 
tries and  stood  awe-stricken  amid  the  ruins  of 
the  Eternal  City.  Then  his  heart-sickness  re- 
turned upon  him  overpoweringly ;  and  he  sang,  — 

Rome,  with  thine  old  red  palaces  arow, 
And  the  great  sunlight  on  thy  highways  beating, 
Gay  folk,  and  ladies  at  the  windows  sitting,  — 
They  may  be  fair,  —  I  am  too  sad  to  know! 

I  have  climbed  Trajan's  column,  and  saw  thence 
The  Quirinal  here,  and  there  the  Vatican, 
The  Pope's  green  gardens;  how  the  Tiber  ran 
Yellow  under  its  bridges,  far,  far  hence; 


62     TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

And,  lifted  mountain-like  the  pines  above, 
Saint  Peter's  awful  dome.  —  Ah  me,  ah  me! 
Saint  Peter  of  Avignon  I  would  see 
Blossom  with  slender  spire  from  out  its  grove ! 

Here  were  Rome's  ancient  ramparts,  —  quarried  stone 
Crumbling,  fire-scarred,  with  brambles  matted  thick; 
There,  the  huge  Coliseum's  tawny  brick, 
The  twin  arcs  hand  in  hand.     But  there  is  one 

In  mine  own  country,  I  saw  clearer  yet. 
Thou  art  the  Aries  arena  in  my  eyes, 
Great  ruin !     And  my  homesick  spirit  cries 
For  one  I  love,  nor  ever  can  forget. 

And  still,  as  from  my  watch-tower,  I  discerned, 
Out  in  the  waste  Campagna,  errant  flocks 
Of  horned  bulls  tossing  their  fierce,  black  locks 
As  in  our  own  Camargue,  the  thought  returned, 

Why  dost  thou  not  forget?     Thou  thought 'st  to  leave 
By  land,  by  sea,  some  portion  of  thy  woe; 
But  time  is  wasting,  and  thy  life  wears  low, 
And  ever  more  and  more  thou  seem'st  to  grieve. 

With  the  first  return  of  spring  after  his. mis- 
fortunes, the  poet  finds  himself  back  in  Provence, 
lying  by  a  brookside,  while  there  rings  in  his 
ears  that  charming  verse  from  the  "  Rouman  de 
Jaufre  "  in  which  the  birds  "  warble  above  the 
young  verdure,  and  make  merry  in  their  Latin : " 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  63 

Violets  tint  the  meadows  o'er, 
Swallows  have  come  back  once  more, 
And  spring  sunshine  like  the  former, 

But  rosier,  warmer ; 
Leafage  fair,  the  plane-tree  decking, 
Shadows  all  the  wood-ways  flecking: 

Mirth  unrecking, 

Heavy  heart, 
Here  hast  thou  no  part ! 

On  the  green  bank  of  the  river 
Low  I  lie,  while  o'er  me  quiver 
Lights  and  odors,  leaves  and  wings, 

All  glad  things. 
Blossoms  every  bough  are  haunting, 
Everywhere  is  laughing,  chanting, 

~Ro  joy  wanting: 

Heavy  heart, 
Here  hast  thou  no  part ! 

In  and  out  each  rustic  porch, 
Flocks  of  maidens,  fair  and  arch, 
Full  as  nightingales  of  song, 

Futter,  throng, 
Chase  each  other,  pull  the  clover; 
Each  hath  tales  of  her  own  lover 

To  tell  over : 

Heavy  heart, 
Here  hast  thou  no  part ! 

Now,  for  very  mirth  of  soul, 
They  will  dance  the  f arandole. 
Dance  on,  mad-caps,  never  noting 
Hair  loose  floating ; 


64  TROUBADOURS  AND    TRO UTERES. 

Rosy-faced  your  races  run, 
Through  the  dwarf-oaks  in  the  sun: 

Heed  not  one, 

Heavy  heart, 
That  hath  here  no  part. 

Two  and  two,  with  hands  entwining, 
Dance,  until  the  moon  is  shining! 
I  and  mine  dance  never  more. 

That  is  o'er. 
0  my  God,  the  sweet  brown  face! 
Shall  yon  dreary  convent-place 

Quench  its  grace? 

Heavy  heart, 
Here  hast  thou  no  part ! 

And  so  on,  for  more  pages  than  one  cares  to 
quote,  or  even  to  read  consecutively,  tuneful 
though  they  are.  The  fancies  are  infinite,  but 
the  mode  never  changes,  nor  the  theme.  Quaint 
little  pictures  of  Provencal  life  keep  flitting 
across  the  background  of  Aubanel's  sorrow,  their 
brightness  intensified  by  the  surrounding  gloom, 
—  as  when  the  sunshine  falls  on  a  landscape 
from  behind  a  storm  cloud.  At  last  there  comes 
a  motto  from  the  "  Imitation,"  —  "  Quia  sine  do- 
lore,  non  vivitur  in  amove" — followed  by  a  sort 
of  prayer  recording  the  poet's  rather  forlorn  en- 
deavor to  reconcile  himself  to  the  strange  system 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  65 

of  chastening  and  disappointment  which  he  finds 
prevailing  in  the  world.  And  so  ends  the  "  Book 
of  Love." 

In  the  series  of  twelve  poems  which  M.  Mistral 
has  rather  fantastically  christened  the  "  Entre- 
luisado,"  or  "  Intergleam,"  or  "  Lucid  Interval," 
the  poet  tells  us  little  about  himself,  but  we  learn 
to  love  him  better,  perhaps,  than  before,  for  the 
real  breadth  and  warmth  of  his  human  sym- 
pathies. Some  of  his  themes  are  homely  almost 
to  the  verge  of  coarseness,  and  treated  with  a 
frankness  quite  troublesome  to  reproduce.  The 
attempt  is  made  with  two  of  them.  The  first  is 
called 

THE    TWINS. 

What  say  est  thou?  there  are  two  more  now, 
And  we  were  beggars  before?     Hey-day! 
'T  is  God  hath  sent  the  twain,  I  trow, 

And  shall  they  not  be  welcome,  pray? 
Two  boys!  But  't  is  a  pretty  brood! 

Observe  how  sweet  they  are!     Ah,  well, 
Soon  as  the  birdling  breaks  the  shell 
The  mother  still  must  give  it  food ! 

Come,  babies,  one  to  either  side! 
Mother  can  bear  it, 
Xever  fear  it ! 
Her  boys  shall  aye  be  satisfied ! 


66  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

There  '11  never  be  too  many  here ; 

I  'd  rather  count  my  flock  by  pairs ! 
I  always  find  it  time  of  cheer 

When  a  new  baby  hither  fares. 
Two?     Why,  of  course!     I  ask  you  whether 

My  pair  the  cradle  more  than  fills? 

And,  by  and  by,  if  God  so  wills, 
Can  they  not  go  to  school  together? 
Come,  babies,  etc. 


My  man  's  a  fisher.     He  and  I 

Have  had  seven  children.     And,  indeed, 
God  helps  poor  folk  amazingly  — 

Not  one  has  ever  died  of  need ! 
And  now,  what  do  you  think?     Our  kids 

Have  only  had  those  fishing-nets 

Out  yonder,  of  my  Benezet's, 
And  my  own  milk,  for  all  their  needs. 
Come,  babies,  etc. 

Sometimes  the  blessed  nets  will  break ; 

God  sends  too  many  fish,  I  say. 
And  then  must  I  my  needle  take 

And  mend,  some  livelong,  leisure  day. 
He  sells  them  living,  then.     Such  freaks ! 

They  fairly  leap  the  basket  out ! 

And  this  is  why,  beyond  a  doubt, 
My  young  ones  have  such  rosy  cheeks. 
Come,  babies,  etc. 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  67 

In  summer,  when  the  streams  are  low, 

And  naught  to  catch  the  Rhone  along, 
My  maD  outstrips  them  all  who  row 

From  Barthelasse  to  Avignon; 
And  makes  our  living  thus,  instead; 

There  is  no  wolf  beside  our  door, 

But  in  the  cupboard  aye  a  store, 
And  every  hungry  mouth  is  fed. 
Come,  babies,  etc. 

Are  they  so  marvellous,  my  twins? 

Is  one  by  one  the  usual  way 
With  mothers?     Well,  that  only  means 

I  am  of  better  race  than  they ! 
Two  in  ten  months!     Come,  Benezet, 

Here 's  work  for  thee,  my  brave  old  man. 

What  I  have  done,  not  many  can; 
So  haste  and  fill  the  blessed  net ! 
Come,  babies,  etc. 


My  gossips  murmur  solemnly, 

"  Xora,  thou  canst  not  rear  them  both. 
They  '11  drain  thy  life,  as  thou  wilt  see; 

Put  one  away,  however  loath !  ' ' 
Put  one  away!     That  would  be  fine! 

I  will  not,  — so!     Come,  dearies,  come; 

In  mother's  arms  there  aye  is  room, 
Her  life  's  your  living,  lambkins  mine! 
Come,  babies,  etc. 


68  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

The  other,  which  is  addressed  to  Mme.  Cecile 
Brunet,  the  wife  of  one  of  the  sacred  felibres, 
is,  in  the  original,  wonderfully  like  a  "  Nativity" 
by  some  innocent  old  master.  It  seems  a  "  Na- 
tivity "  of  the  Dutch  school,  however,  and  the 
wonder  is  that  the  author  of  the  sad  and  tender 
lyrics  in  the  "  Book  of  Love  "  can  write  of  any 
thing  with  so  small  an  admixture  fif  sentiment. 
In  this  case  only  I  have  departed  from  the  metre 
of  the  original  to  the  extent  of  shortening  each 
line  by  one  foot.  I  did  not  know  how  else  to 
indicate,  in  our  comparatively  stiff  and  sober 
tongue,  the  babyishness,  the  nursery-rhyme  char- 
acter, of  the  original. 

Room  for  this  tiny  creature ! 

Ere  any  neighbor  goes, 
Let  her  scan  each  pretty  feature,  — 

Wee  mouth  and  comic  nose. 

Take,  grandame,  the  new-comer, 
And  strike  it  to  bring  its  breath ! 

He  's  red  as  plums  in  summer, 
But  a  lusty  cry  he  hath ! 

The  mother  is  glad  and  weak ; 

She  smiles  amid  her  pain. 
Lay  the  babe  against  her  cheek ; 

It  will  make  her  well  again ! 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  69 

And" where  is  the  father?     Fie! 

A  man  with  bearded  lips 
To  hide  him  awa}~  and  cry ! 

Bnt  't  is  for  joy  he  weeps. 

And  tears  are  good,  I  know; 

And  laughter  is  good.     By  these 
We  stay  life's  overflow, 

The  full  heart  getteth  ease. 

Here  comes  a  maiden  small 

Would  kiss  her  baby  brother ; 
But  the  cradle  is  too  tall  — 

Ay,  let  her  have  it,  mother! 

The  house  from  sill  to  loft 

Is  full  of  merry  din ; 
And  the  dresser,  scoured  so  oft, 

And  the  old  faience,  shine  clean. 

And  every  way  at  once 

(None  kinder  and  none  sweeter) 
Our  busy  Mary  runs ; 

Joy  makes  her  footsteps  fleeter. 

Till  the  guests  are  gathered  all, 

Kinsmen  and  sponsors  twain, 
And  for  Saint  Agricol 

Departs  our  happy  train. 

Choose,  maids,  your  gallants  brave! 

Be  ready,  lads,  I  pray! 
That  clerk  nor  chaplain  grave 

May  wait  for  as  to-day. 


70  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

State-robed  in  nurse's  arms, 

Baby  before  us  goes. 
Oh,  scan  his  infant  charms, — 

Wee  mouth  and  comic  nose ! 

Equally  artless  and  realistic,  and  wholly  local 
in  their  coloring,  are  a  "  Song  of  the  Silk-Spin- 
ners," and  a  "  Song  of  the  Reapers,"  —  the  latter 
dedicated  to  M.  Mistral.  There  is  also  a  pict- 
ure of  a  Provengal  salon,  which  is  rendered 
quite  as  much  for  its  indirect  interest  as  for  its 
intrinsic  grace.  Observe  the  essentially  musical 
manner  in  which  the  two  phrases  of  the  simple 
theme  are  repeated  and  varied. 

TO    MADAME . 


O  lady,  many  a  time,    at  sober  eventide, 
In  yon  cosey  bower  of  thine,  the  blazing  hearth  beside, 
Thou  hast  given  me  a  place.     And  sure,  no  otherwhere 
Are  kinder  folk  or  brighter  tires  than  there ! 

And  at  five  of  summer  morns  I  have  risen  many  a  time 
With  thee  the  airy  heights  of  Font  Segune  to  climb ; 
Of  fairy  Font  Segune,  delightsome  castle,  hung, 
High  like  a  linnet's  nest,  the  trees  among. 

And  so,  when  winter  reigned,  I  have  warmed  me  at  thy 

blaze ; 
And  so,  when  summer  burned,  I  have  walked  thy  shady 

ways; 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  71 

And  oft  beside  thy  board,  with  those  little  ones  of  thine, 
I  have  eaten  of  thy  bread  and  drunk  thy  wine. 


And  were  the  nights  not  fair  with  wit, 
When  those  same  crackling  bonghs  were  lit? 
And  thon,  my  lady,  thou  didst  sit 

Queen  of  the  home  and  of  us  all? 
There  flashed  the  needle's  tiny  steel, 
There  was  there  laughter,  peal  on  peal, 
And  Jules  replied  to  Eoumanille, 

And  Aubanel  did  challenge  Paul. 

There  gentle  damsels  came  and  lent 

The  graces  of  their  merriment ; 

Their  beauty  made  our  hearts  content,  — 

The  angel  of  the  hearth,  Clarice, 
The  angel  of  the  poor,  Fifine, 
Whose  white  hands  tend  the  peasant's  wean, 
And  make  the  beds  all  cool  and  clean, 
Where  little  sufferers  lie  at  ease. 

Oh,  sweet  under  the  foliage, 
When  tropic  heats  of  summer  rage, 
Of  birds  to  list  the  gossip  sage, 

To  list  the  laughing  fountain's  tune; 
And  when  the  glowing  day  is  dead, 
And  dusky  forest  ways  we  tread, 
With  the  full  moonshine  overhead, 

Still  is  it  fair  at  Font  Sesnme. 


72  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

And  yet  I  reckon  this  the  best, 
To  sit  thine  honored  table  guest ; 
And,  'mid  the  tire  of  friendly  jest, 

To  click  the  glass  of  good  old  wine ; 
To  take  the  bread  thy  friendly  hand 
Hath  cut;  and  half  to  understand, 
That  cordial  e}^es  on  every  hand 

Do  brighter  for  my  coming  shine. 


in. 

So  all  that  helps  us  live,  and  tunes  our  courage  higher,  — 

Sweet  looks  of  kindliest  charity, 
Good  shade ,  good  hope,  good  faith,  good  cheer,  good  fire,  — 

Dear  lady,  I  have  found  with  thee ! 

It  were  not  easy  then  to  tell  the  whole,  — 
If  but  my  lips  could  sing,  as  can  my  soul ! 

Upon  the  serenity  of  these  domestic  and  rural 
pictures  descend,  or  are  made  to  descend,  ab- 
ruptly, the  chills  and  terrors  of  the  "  Book  of 
Death."  In  this  final  section  is  undoubtedly  in- 
cluded the  most  powerful  writing  of  our  author. 
It  opens  with  a  wild  and  dreary  song  entitled 
"  All-Saints  Day,"  which  is  interesting  as  present- 
ing an  almost  unique  picture  of  late  autumn  in 
the  South. 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  73 

Withered  fields  and  wailing  cry 

Of  poplars  high, 
Wildly  flinging  their  leaves  around, 
While  the  fierce  mistral  bends  like  a  withe 

The  stem  so  lithe, 
And  the  tempest  mutters  along  the  ground. 

Not  a  spear  of  golden  grain 

On  all  the  plain! 
Ants  are  in  their  holes  once  more. 
Even  the  snail  draws  in  his  horns, 

And  returns 
To  his  house,  and  shuts  the  door. 

On  the  holm-oak  no  cicala 

Holdeth  gala! 
Dim  with  frost  his  mirrors  i  now; 
Little  rustics  make  their  moan 

For  mulberries  gone 
And  birds'  nests  vanished  from  the  bough. 

Sudden  flights  of  larks  are  loud 

In  the  cloud, 
Muttering  terror  and  dismay. 
Huntsmen's  echoing  shots  resound 

All  around, 
And  their  dogs  for  ever  bay. 

1  The  two  shining  and  sonorous  membranes  under  the  ab- 
domen of  the  cicala,  which  produce  the  noise  known  as  its 
song,  are  called  in  Provencal  mirau  or  mirrors. 


74  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

On  the  hillock  there  is  ruin 

Past  undoing. 
Axes  ringing  on  the  oak: 
While  the  charcoal-burner's  fire 

Mount eth  higher, 
As  the  north-wind  lifts  the  smoke. 

Lambs  to  highland  pasture  straying, 

Or  delaying 
In  the  mead,  are  met  no  more. 
Covered  are  they  from  the  cold 

In  the  fold, 
And  the  shepherd  props  the  door. 

Thrifty  men  ply  hammer  and  plane, 

Else  they  drain, 
By  the  ingle,  many  a  flask. 
Girls,  under  the  grain-stack's  lee, 

Busily 
Braid  the  garlic  for  their  task. 

All  the  woods  are  sere  and  dun, 

Where  the  sun 
Sinks  the  leafless  boughs  behind. 
Where  the  vineyard's  prunings  lie 

Silently, 
Toiling  women  fagots  bind. 

But  the  poor  are  they  who  gather 
Dead  wood,  rather, 

Or  for  bark  the  forest  range ; 

Else  in  scanty  rags  and  dreary, 
Barefoot,  weary, 

Stroll  the  hamlet,  haunt  the  grange. 


THEODORE  AUBAXEL.  75 

Comes  a  little  shivering  maid, 

Half  afraid, 
Opes  a  pallid  hand  and  thin. 
She  's  an  orphan,  and,  indeed, 

Faint  for  need : 
Drop,  I  pray,  an  alms  therein! 

"When  beside  the  oven  bright, 

Loaves  are  white, 
Think  of  her  whose  man  is  dead, 
Who  hath  bolted  flour  no  more 

In  her  store ; 
Xay,  whose  oven  hath  no  bread. 

Southward,  hark,  the  floods  are  falling, 

Thunder  calling; 
Swells  the  Rhone  in  the  black  weather. 
Hark!  the  footfall  of  Death's  feet, 

Coming  fleet, 
Young  and  old  to  reap  together ! 

After  this  ominous  and  melancholy  prelude, 
comes  a  poem  entitled  "  The  Famine,"  a  plain- 
tive hut  somewhat  monotonous  dialogue  he- 
tween  two  hungry  bahies  and  the  mother  who 
is  vainly  trying  to  hush  them  asleep  without 
their  supper.  The  next,  "The  Lamp,"  is  the 
watch  of  a  mother  by  her  dead  child.  The 
next  is  very  curious  in  its  solemnity.  It  is 
called  "  Lou  Treo-en." 


76  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 


THIRTEEN. 

"  Touch,  for  your  life,  no  single  viand  costly! 

Taste  not  a  drop  of  liquor  where  it  shines ! 
Be  here  but  as  the  cat  who  lingers  ghostly 

About  the  flesh  upon  the  spit,  and  whines ; 
Ay,  let  the  banquet  freeze  or  perish  wholly, 

Or  ever  a  morsel  pass  your  lips  between ! 
For  I  have  counted  you,  my  comrades  jolly, 

Ye  are  thirteen,  all  told,  —  I  say  thirteen  I  " 

"  Well,  what  of  that?  "  the  messmates  answered  lightly; 

"  So  be  it  then !     We  are  as  well  content  ! 
The  longer  table  means,  if  we  guess  rightly, 

Space  for  more  jesters,  broader  merriment. " 
"  'T  is  I  will  wake  the  wit  and  spice  the  folly! 

The  haughtiest  answer  when  I  speak,  I  ween. 
And  I  have  counted  you,  my  comrades  jolly! 

Ye  are  thirteen,  all  told,  —  I  say  thirteen !  " 

"  So  ho!  thou  thinkest  then  to  quench  our  laughter? 

Thou  art  a  gloomy  presence,  verily! 
We  w^ager  that  we  know  what  thou  art  after ! 

Come,  then,  a  drink!  and  bid  thy  vapors  fly! 
Thou  shalt  not  taint  us  with  thy  melancholy  ' '  — 

"  Nay,  'tis  not  thirst  gives  me  this  haggard  mien. 
Laugh  to  your  hearts'  content,  my  comrades  jolly; 

Still  I  have  counted,  and  ye  are  thirteen !  " 

"  Who  art  thou  then,  thou  kill-joy?     What  's  thy  nature, 
And  what  thy  name,  and  what  thy  business  here?  " 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  77 

"  My  name  is  death!     Observe  my  every  feature. 

I  waken  longing  and  I  carry  fear. 
Sovereign  am  I  of  mourners  and  of  jesters ; 

Behind  the  living  still  I  walk  unseen, 
And  evermore  make  one  among  the  feasters 

When  all  their  tale  is  told,  and  they  thirteen." 

"  Ha!  art  thou  Death?     I  am  well  pleased  to  know  thee/' 

A  gallant  cried,  and  held  his  glass  aloft; 
"  Their  scarecrow  tales,  O  Death,  small  justice  do  thee: 

Where  are  the  terrors  thou  hast  vaunted  oft? 
Come,  feast  with  me  as  often  as  they  bid  thee! 

Our  friendly  plates  be  laid  with  none  between." 
"  Silence!  "  cried  Death,  "  and  follow  where  I  lead  thee, 

For  thou  art  he  who  makest  us  thirteen." 

Sudden,  as  a  grape-cluster,  when  dissevered 

By  the  sharp  knife,  drops  from  the  parent  bough, 
The  crimson  wine-glass  of  the  gallant  wavered 

And  fell ;  chill  moisture  started  to  his  brow. 
Death  crying,  "  Thou  canst  not  walk,  but  I  can  carry," 

Shouldered  his  burden  with  a  ghastly  grin, 
And  to  the  stricken  feasters  said,  "  Be  wary! 

I  make  my  count  oft  as  ye  make  thirteen." 

It  is  but  just  to  Aubanel  to  say  that  the  tinge 
of  burlesque,  which  all  our  efforts  have  hardly 
been  equal  to  excluding  from  this  imperfect 
version,  is  nowhere  in  the  original,  which  is  of 
a  truly  childlike  gravity  and  intensity.    It  seems 


78  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

always  difficult  for  one  who  uses  our  language 
to  depict  superstition  pure  and  simple  with 
entire  seriousness ;  and  this  is,  perhaps,  espe- 
cially true  of  the  American.  The  most  ardent 
advocates  among  us  of  the  various  forms  of 
"  spiritualism "  in  religion,  and  quackery  in 
medicine,  are  ever  driven  to  make  a  show  of 
supporting  their  vagaries  by  a  vast  pretence  of 
scientific  arguments,  very  falsely  so  called.  We 
are,  as  a  nation,  wofully  wanting  in  the  grace 
of  credulity,  which  few  men  can  make  more 
engaging  than  the  Provencal  poets.  I  have 
space  for  but  two  more  of  our  author's  efforts, 
or  rather  for  my  own  inadequate  reproduction 
of  them.  The  first  shall  be  the  famous  "  Neuf 
Thermidor."  Famous  it  may  fairly  be  called, 
since  every  one  of  the  author's  European  critics 
singles  it  out  for  mention,  some  of  them  in 
terms  of  extravagant  praise.  It  is  easier,  how- 
ever, to  account  for  its  fascination  to  a  Gaul, 
than  to  approach  in  English  its  very  ghastly 
naivete. 


THEODORE  AUBANEL. 


THE   XIXTH   OF    THERMIDOE. 

"  Thou  with  the  big  knife,  whither  away?  " 
"  Headsman  am  I,  with  folk  to  slay!  " 

"  But  all  thy  vest  is  dabbled  with  gore, 

And  thy  hands,  —  0  headsman,  wash  them,  pray." 
"  Wherefore?     I  shall  not  have  done  to-day! 

I  have  heads  to  sever,  a  many  more!  " 

"  Thou  with  the  big  knife,  whither  away?  " 
"  Headsman  am  I,  with  folk  to  slay!  " 

II  Ay,  ay!  but  thou  art  a  sire  as  well! 
Hast  fondled  a  babe,  and  dost  not  shrink, 
Nor  need  so  much  as  a  maddening  drink, 

Mother  and  child  at  a  stroke  to  fell?  " 

"  Thou  with  the  big  knife,  whither  away?  " 
"  Headsman  am  I,  with  folk  to  slay!  " 

"  But  all  the  square  with  dead  is  strewn, 
And  the  living  remnant  kneel  and  sue ! 
Art  a  man  or  a  devil?     Tell  us  true !  " 

II I  've  a  stint  to  finish !     Let  me  alone !  " 

"  Thou  with  the  big  knife,  whither  away?  " 
"  Headsman  am  I,  with  folk  to  slay!  " 

11  Oh,  what  is  the  flavor  of  thy  wine? 

And  why  is  the  foam  on  thy  goblet  red? 

And  tell  us,  when  thou  bakest  thy  bread 
Dost  thou  the  savor  of  flesh  divine?  " 


80  TROUBADOURS  AND    TROUVERES. 

u  Thou  with  the  big  knife,  whither  away?  " 
"  Headsman  am  I,  with  folk  to  slay!  " 

1 '  Dost  thou  sweat?     Art  thou  tired?    Why,  rest  a  bit! 

Let  not  thy  shuddering  prey  go  free ! 

For  we  have  no  notched  knife  like  thee, 
And  this  is  a  woman !     Prithee,  sit !  " 

"  Thou  with  the  big  knife,  whither  away?  " 
"  Headsman  am  I,  with  folk  to  slay!  " 

u  Ha!  she  is  off!     And  the  turn  's  thine  own! 
On  the  wooden  pillow,  musty  and  black, 
Thy  cheek  shall  lie,  and  thy  sinews  crack, 

And  thy  head  —  why,  headsman,  it  hath  flown!  " 

' '  Sharpen  the  notched  knife  anew ! 
Sever  the  head  of  the  headsman  too !  " 

There  is  a  long  and  somewhat  elaborate  tril- 
ogy concerning  the  "  Massacre  of  the  Inno- 
cents," of  which  the  numbers  are  entitled, 
"  Saint  Joseph's  Day,"  "  The  Massacre,"  and 
"  The  Lamentations,"  which  I  leave  untouched ; 
and  the  last  specimen  selected  shall  be  the  poem 
with  which  this  strange  little  volume  concludes, 
and  where  the  singer  finds  again  something  of 
the  pious  and  plaintive  sweetness  of  his  earlier 
notes.  It  is  an  invocation  to  an  African  Ma- 
donna, dedicated  to  Mgr.  Pavy,  the  Bishop  of 
Algiers,  and  records  the  fulfilment  (perhaps  by 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  81 

way  of  contributions  to  the  Algerian  chapel) 
of  some  vow  once  made  with  reference  to  the 
poet's  unhappy  passion.  The  metre  is  interest- 
ing, as  presenting  two  among  the  many  varie- 
ties attempted  by  the  Provencals  on  the  original 
strophe  of  "  Mireio,"  that  most  rich  and  musical 
stanza  so  singularly  adapted  to  the  genius  of  the 
modern  Langue  d'oc.1 

OUR   LADY   OF   AFRICA. 

Oh,  long  with  life-blood  watered, 
Old  Afric,  soon  or  late,  that  seedshall  fructify; 
Saints'  blood  and  warriors'  hath  for  aye 
Made  roses  beautiful  and  red, 
That  ever  blow  God's  altar  by. 

1  Dr.  Edward  Bohmer,  Professor  of  the  Romance  Lan- 
guages in  the  University  of  Halle,  in  a  small  volume  entitled 
"  The  Provencal  Poetry  of  the  Present,"  and  full  of  genial  and 
intelligent  criticism,  says  :  "  This  strophe  of  Mistral's  is  not 
entirely  his  own  invention.  The  number  of  lines,  the  succes- 
sion of  rhymes,  and  the  relative  position  of  the  masculines  and 
feminines,  are  to  be  found  in  the  '  Paouro  Janeto '  of  the  Mar- 
quis de  la  Faire-Alais,  and  in  a  poem  by  the  same,  addressed 
'to  Jasmin,  as  the  last  part  of  a  longer  strophe,  whose  feminine 
lines  are  of  the  same  length  as  Mistral's.  The  latter  length- 
ened both  the  masculine  verses  to  Alexandrines,  and  thus  gave 
epic  repose  to  the  energetic  and  impetuous  movement  of  the 
verse."  ("  Provencalische  Poesie  der  Gegenwart,"  p.  36.)  The 
reader  is  referred  to  the  preface  to  the  American  edition  of 
"Mireio  "  for  an  attempt  to  imitate  this  stanza  in  English,  and 
to  Dr.  Bohmer's  volume  for  another,  hardly  more  successful, 
to  render  it  into  German. 

6 


82  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

O  Rose  of  Afric,  Lady  blessed, 
Have  pity  on  our  souls  distressed ! 
Our  land  is  parched  and  dead.     Ah !  beauteous  Rose  of 
ours, 
In  tender  showers  impart 
,     The  dew-drops  of  thy  heart, 
The  perfume  of  thy  flowers ! 

A  chapel  we  have  builded  thee 
Aloft.     Oh,  let  it  be  a  signal  and  a  star! 
Where  lonely  Arab  riders  are, 
Where  seamen  battle  with  the  sea, 
Its  rays  of  comfort  shine  afar ! 

O  Rose  of  Afric,  Lady  blessed,  etc. 

And  ye,  under  the  blinding  glow 
Of  desert  suns,  who  toil  onward  through  desert  sands, 
O  caravans  in  weary  lands, 
Make  halt  where  Mary's  roses  blow, 
Seek  shade  and  solace  at  her  hands ! 

0  Rose  of  Afric,  Lady  blessed,  etc. 

Of  costly  stones  and  marble  all, 
Stately  and  strong  the  chapel  we  have  reared  so  high ; 
Thither  as  to  a  home  we  fly. 
May  Afric 's  rose  grow  fair  and  tall, 
Till  on  our  fane  its  shadow  fall ! 

O  Rose  of  Afric,  Lady  blessed,  etc. 

My  vow  is  paid;  my  love  of  yore, 
Virgin,  in  thy  gold  censer  quite  consumed  away. 
Xow  heal  my  heart;  and  save,  I  pray, 


THEODORE  AUBANEL.  83 

All  those  who  sail  the  waters  o'er 
From  my  Provence  to  Afric's  shore. 

O  Rose  of  Afric,  Lady  blessed,  etc. 

And  last  I  lay  tlfis  book  of  mine 
Before  thy  feet,  who  art  love,  life,  and  hope;  and  pray 
Thou  wilt  accept  the  untaught  lay, 
And  in  some  sacred  wreath  of  thine 
My  flower  of  youth  and  honor  twine. 

I  have  adhered  to  M.  Mistral's  arrangement 
of  his  friend's  verses,  but  cannot  refrain  from 
expressing  my  own  conviction  that,  however 
picturesque,  it  is  a  somewhat  artificial  one,  and 
furnishes  but  an  imperfect  clew  to  the  chron- 
ological order  of  the  poems.  In  Theodore 
Aubanel,  who  is,  in  many  ways,  a  perfectly 
representative  child  of  the  South  and  descen- 
dant of  the  Troubadours,  qualities  meet  which 
we  are  not  used  to  see  associated.  He  is  both 
soft  and  fierce.  He  loves  with  a  devotion,  and 
also  with  a  delicacy,  as  rare  as  it  is  affecting. 
He  mourns  with  infantine  desperation.  He 
hates  with  a  peculiar  and  almost  gamesome 
zest.  As  compared  with  Mistral,  he  has  less 
power,  whether  descriptive  or  dramatic,  but 
more  grace,  of  a  certain  wild,  faun-like  charac- 
ter, while  he  shows  barely  a  trace  of  the  training 


84  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

of  the  schools.  Mistral's  simplicity  is  often 
studied.  The  ideals  of  Greek  and  Roman  an- 
tiquity are  ever  present  to  his  imagination,  and 
he  avows  himself  an  "  humble  scholar  of  the 
great  Homer."  Many  of  his  critics  have  noted 
the  Homeric  character  of  the  refrains  in  the 
ninth  canto  of  "  Mireio,"  but  this  is  only  one 
among  many  instances.  The  charming  descrip- 
tion of  the  cup  of  carved  wood  which  Alari 
offered  to  Mireio  is  obviously  imitated  from 
Virgil's  third  "  Eclogue,"  as  this  again  is  imitated 
from  the  first  and  fifth  "  Idyls  "  of  Theocritus.  It 
is  greatly  enriched  indeed,  but  some,  even  of 
the  details,  are  precisely  similar ;  as  for  example, 
the  fact  that  neither  cup  had  yet  been  used  for 
drinking  :  — 

"  Sentie  'ncaro  lou  nou,  i'avie  panca  begu." 

and :  — 

"  Necdura  illis  labra  admovi,  sed  condita  servo." 

And  the  same  is  true  of  the  descriptions  of  the 
public  games  in  "  Calendau."  But  Theodore  Au- 
banel  is  purely  indigenous,  and  need  not  be 
other  than  he  is,  if  Greece  and  Rome  had  never 
existed.  The  antecedents  of  his  genius  are  the 
love-songs  and  sirventes  of  the  Troubadours,  and 
the  silence  of  the  last  few  hundred  years. 


JACQUES   JASMIN. 

I. 

TT  is  a  little  singular  that  the  band  of  enthu- 
siasts, who  style  themselves  exclusively  the 
Provengals  and  are  formally  devoted  to  the  ad- 
venture of  restoring  the  Langue  d'oc  to  its  place 
in  literature,  should  appear  almost  unconscious 
of  the  fact  that  they  were  preceded,  by  about 
twenty-five  years,  in  the  self-same  fascinating 
path  which  they  have  chosen,  by  one  of  the 
most  careful  artists  as  well  as  truest  poets  of 
this  century.  Jacques  Jasmin,  the  barber  of 
Agen,  in  Gascony,  published  his  first  volume 
of  dialect  poems  in  1835,  when  Frederic  Mistral 
was  a  child  of  four,  hardly  old  enough  to  prey 
upon  the  mulberries  and  olives  of  his  father's 
rnas,  before  he  had  come  even  under  the  mild 
restraints  of  Master  Roumanille's  school.  This 
earliest  volume  of  Jasmin's  —  called,  with  a 
mixture  of  gayety  and  simplicity  quite  peculiar 
to  himself,  "  Papillotos,  or  Curl  Papers" — was 


86  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROinTERES. 

followed,  at  intervals  of  several  years,  by  two 
others.  These,  like  their  predecessor,  contained 
hosts  of  those  little  personal  and  occasional 
Lyrics,  Tributes,  Dedications,  Thanks  for  testi- 
monials, Hymns  for  festivals,  which  M.  Sainte- 
Beuve  rather  impatiently  characterizes  as  "  im- 
provisations obligees  "  and  "  compliments  en 
madrigaux"  and  of  which  Jasmin  himself  says, 
with  something  as  near  an  apology  as  his  com- 
plete naivete  will  allow  him,  "  One  can  only  pay  a 
poetical  debt  by  means  of  impromptus  ;  and  im- 
promptus may  be  very  good  money  of  the  heart, 
but  they  are  almost  always  bad  money  of  the 
head."  But  among  these  comparatively  trivial, 
though  always  musical  and  pleasing  pieces,  there 
wrere  a  half-dozen  poems  of  another  and  higher 
order :  romantic  tales  in  verse  of  two  or  three 
or  more  paouzos  (pauses  or  cantos),  noble  in 
conception,  abounding  in  action,  and  wrought 
out  with  very  patient  care ;  instinct  with  the 
author's  own  gentle  vivacit}r,  and  at  the  same 
time  impressive  by  the  dignity  of  simple,  natural 
passion. 

The  rustic  dialect  from  which  Jasmin  never 
departed,  he  lifted  to  the  level  of  these  more 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  87 

serious  themes  as  easily,  as  triumphantly,  as 
Mr.  Lowell  adapted  his  extraordinary  Yankee 
speech  to  the  tones  of  keenest  pathos,  in  No. 
X.  of  the  second  series  of  "  Biglow  Papers ;" 
and  more  cannot  be  said.  All  the  magnates  in 
criticism  of  Jasmin's  generation  came  forward, 
soon  or  late,  and  surrounded  him  with  their  ap- 
plause. Cities  and  roj-al  personages  had  medals 
struck  in  his  honor.  His  works  were  collected  in 
a  cheap  popular  edition,  of  one  volume,  in  1860, 
a  few  months  only  after  the  Parisian  world  was 
first  electrified  by  the  publication  of  "  Mireio." 
Eight  years  before  this,  at  a  public  meeting  of 
the  French  Academy,  August  20,  1852,  an  ex- 
traordinary prize  of  five  thousand  francs  had 
been  awarded  to  the  Gascon  poet,  and  M.  Ville- 
main,  in  a  stately  address,  had  declared  it  to  be 
the  purpose  of  that  august  body  also  to  have  a 
medal  struck  in  his  honor :  "  La  medaille  du 
poete  moral  et  populaire."  Earlier  yet,  Charles 
Nodier  had  subdued  his  amazement  at  the  in- 
congruity between  Jasmin's  calling  and  his 
genius ;  and  had  begged  him,  with  an  air  of 
impulsive  patronage  at  once  amiable  and  amus- 
ing, not  to  intermit  the  manufacture  of  peri- 


88     TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

wigs;  "for  this,"  says  the  lively  Gaul,  ever 
intent  on  his  epigram,  "  is  an  honest  trade ; 
while  verse-making  is  but  a  frivolous  distrac- 
tion." M.  Leonce  cle  Lavergne  dwelt,  with  an 
enthusiasm  rather  generous  in  a  true  Provencal, 
on  the  onomatopoetic  beauties  of  the  Gascon 
patois.  M.  de  Pontmartin  classed  Jasmin  with 
Theocritus,  Horace,  and  La  Fontaine,  and  paid 
him  the  singular  tribute  of  saying  that  he  had 
made  good  as  attractive  as  other  Frenchmen 
had  made  evil.  Finally,  M.  Sainte-Beuve  Qsalut 
a  son  dme)  warmly  yet  carefully  appreciated 
him.  u  Away  on  your  snow-white  paper  wings," 
cries  Jasmin  merrily  to  his  verses,  when  he  ded- 
icates to  the  king  of  critics  a  new  edition  of  his 
first  volume,  "for  now  you  know  that  an  angel 
protects  you !  He  lias  even  dressed  you  up 
in  fine  French  robes  and  put  you  in  the  '  Deux 
Mondes  ' !  " 

It  is  to  the  "  Causeries  "  that  the  reader  must  go 
for  a  complete  analysis  of  Jacques  Jasmin's  liter- 
ary qualities,  and  a  guide  to  the  more  recondite 
beauties  of  his  speech.  Here,  preceding  some 
experiments  in  translation,  an  attempt  is  made 
merely  to  show  some  of  the  points  in  which  his 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  89 

works  resemble,  and  some  in  which  they  differ 
from,  those  of  that  younger  school  of  singers 
in  Southern  France,  a  few  of  whose  produc- 
tions have  already  been  reviewed  in  these 
pages. 

And  first,  notwithstanding  that  local  "jeal- 
ousy between  Gascon  and  Provencal "  which 
M.  de  Lavergne  frankly  allows  in  his  admirable 
notice  of  Jasmin's  masterpiece,  "  Franconette,'' 
there  seems  to  be  nothing  deliberately  disingen- 
uous in  the  silence  of  the  Provencals  about  Jas- 
min ;  no  reason  to  suppose  that  their  inspiration 
is  in  any  way  borrowed  from  him.  These  men 
of  Southern  France  were  born,  one  and  all  of 
them,  in  the  native  land  of  modern  poetry,  and 
have  breathed  none  but  its  native  air.  The 
echoes  of  all  its  varied  measures,  nay,  of  the 
veiy  rhymes  which  are  its  distinguishing  char- 
acteristic, perpetually  haunt  their  every-day 
talk.  They  tread  its  ruins  under  foot.  Its  seeds 
lie  dormant  in  all  their  soil.  One  such  seed 
germinated  at  Agen,  in  the  first  quarter  of  our 
centuiy ;  a  handful  more  about  Avignon,  twenty- 
five  years  later.  The  rich  wild  flowers  which 
they  have  borne  are  of  the  same  family,  indeed, 


90  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

and  have  certain  fundamental  resemblances,  but 
they  are  quite  distinct  in  color,  shape,  and  even 
fragrance.  Here  is  no  miracle  ;  still  less,  good 
ground  for  a  charge   of  plagiarism. 

Jasmin  is  Gascon  ;  not  in  the  present  restricted 
application  of  the  term  Provengal ;  and  his  dia- 
lect, though  closely  allied  to  that  of  the  Bouches- 
du-Rhone,  must,  it  seems  to  me,  be  pronounced 
slightly  inferior  to  the  latter  in  the  melod}^  of  its 
terminations,  and,  hence,  in  its  rhythmic  capabil- 
ities. But  the  two  sustain  the  same  relation 
to  the  classic  Romance,  —  that  lovely  but  short- 
lived eldest  daughter  of  the  Latin.  The  Gascon 
poet  is  at  once  more  conventional  in  his  imagery, 
and  less  enterprising  in  the  matter  of  metre,  than 
his  young  neighbors.  He  uses  freely  the  most  ob- 
vious and  trite  comparisons.  Lips  are  cherry-red, 
teeth  snow-white,  etc. :  whereas  the  metaphors  of 
his  juniors  are  often  too  quaint  to  be  spontaneous, 
and  we  know  that  they  know  the  beaten  paths 
by  their  sedulous  avoidance  of  them.  Jasmin 
clings  also  to  the  measures  most  approved  in 
legal  French  poetry,  especially  to  Alexandrines 
and  iambic  tetrameters,  and  to  their  irregular 
association  in  a  sort  of  ballad  metre,  which  in 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  91 

English  has  been  best  handled  by  Robert  Brown- 
ing in  "  Herve  Kiel,"  and  indeed  most  happily 
chosen  for  that  essentially  French  poem.  Mistral 
seized  these  same  irregular  iambics,  and  speedily 
moulded  them  into  the  ornate  verse  which  became 
so  astonishing  a  vehicle  of  varied  expression  in 
"  Mireio"  and  "  Calendau,"  and  upon  which  his 
followers,  in  their  turn,  executed  all  sorts  of  vari- 
ations. But  Mistral  and  his  felibi*es  seem  never 
for  a  moment  free  from  a  sense  of  their  high 
commission  to  repudiate  or  reform  all  that  is 
distinctively  French,  and  set  up  in  its  stead  that 
which  is  distinctively  Provencal.  They  may 
justly  claim,  most  of  them,  to  have  made  delib- 
erate choice  of  an  humble  and  rustic  form  of 
expression,  when  a  more  literate  one  was  equally 
at  their  command;  while  Jasmin,  in  all  probabil- 
ity, could  never  have  written  in  learned  French, 
and  did  but  sing  because  he  must.  Both  Jasmin 
and  the  Provencals  have  the  self-confidence  of 
real  power;  but  they  are  self-confident  with  a 
difference.  When  some  one  told  Jasmin  that  he 
had  revived  the  traditions  of  the  Troubadours, 
"  Troubadours  !  "  he  cried,  —  one  can  imagine 
with  what  a  lusty  peal  of  laughter,  —  "  why  I 


92  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

am  a  great  deal  better  poet  than  any  of  the 
Troubadours !  Not  one  of  them  could  have 
composed  a  long  poem  of  sustained  interest 
like  my  '  Frangonette  '  !  "  Which  is  perfectly 
true  ;  but  a  man,  to  say  it  of  himself,  must 
have  a  conspicuous  absence  of  small  vanity, 
and  a  considerable  sense  of  humor.  While 
the  Provencals,  though  they  have  doubtless  a 
fine  audacity  and  fervid  faith  with  regard  to 
the  future,  speak  always  with  due  humility  of 
Homer,  and  are  almost  preternatural  in  their 
gravity. 

Sainte-Beuve  quotes  with  keen  enjoyment  the 
demure  yet  decided  terms  in  which  Jasmin  re- 
fused, in  18-19,  the  challenge  of  one  Peyrottes, 
who  had  summoned  him  to  contend  with  him- 
self in  one  of  those  poetical  tournaments  revived 
from  the  Middle  Ages,  in  which  Mistral  and  his 
colleagues  afterwards  engaged  with  enthusi- 
asm, and  won  many  laurels.'  "  I  dare  not," 
wrote  Jasmin  quaintly,  "  enter  the  lists  with 
you.  The  courser  who  drags  his  chariot  with 
difficulty,  albeit  he  arrives  at  the  goal,  cannot 
contend  against  the  fiery  locomotive  of  the  rail- 
way.    The  art  which  produces  verses  one  by 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  93 

one  cannot  compete  with  manufacture.  My 
muse  declares  herself  vanquished  in  advance, 
and  I  hereby  authorize  you  to  record  the  de- 
claration." And  then,  as  if  sensible  and  repent- 
ant of  a  lurking  arrogance  in  his  refusal,  he  adds, 
in  a  postscript,  "  I  love  glory,  but  the  success  of 
another  never  troubles  my  sleep."  And  though 
Jasmin's  declamations  and  readings  of  his  own 
poems  are  said  to  have  been  in  the  highest  de- 
gree dramatic  and  affecting,  the  spirit  of  that 
reply  was  undoubtedly  sincere,  and  his  methods 
of  composition  were  such  as  he  describes,  —  assid- 
uous, quiet,  slow.  "  I  have  learned,"  he  once 
said,  "  that  in  moments  of  heat  and  emotion  we 
are  all  eloquent  and  laconic,  alike  in  speech  and 
action,  — unconscious  poets,  in  fact ;  and  I  have 
also  learned  that  it  is  possible  for  a  muse  to  be- 
come all  this  wittingly,  and  by  dint  of  patient 
toil." 

Sainte-Beuve,  whose  judgments  constantly 
recur,  sums  up  all  his  eloquent  praise  of  the 
Gascon  poet  by  saying  that  he  is  invariably 
sober.  No  doubt,  the  Provengals  proper,  even 
Mistral,  their  greatest  poet, —  rarely  in  "  Mireio," 
but  oftener  in  "  Calendau," — are  apt  to  be  tern- 


94  TROUBADOURS  AND  TROUVERES. 

porarily  the  worse  for  the  wine  of  what  they  are 
pleased  to  consider  their  ethnic  inspiration.  But 
their  interesting  careers  were  hardly  begun  at  a 
time  when  Jasmin's  was  rounding  to  its  close, 
and  when  he  was  already  declared  better  to  have 
fulfilled  his  promises  than  any  other  poet  of  his 
generation.  If  thej7"  can  but  imitate  his  simple 
and  conscientious  devotion  to  art,  and  grow  as 
he  grew  even  to  old  age,  they  will  shed  an  equal 
lustre  on  that  historic  land  of  song  which  aliens 
will  always  regard  as  their  common  country. 

In  no  poem  of  Jasmin's  are  the  most  charac- 
teristic qualities  of  his  mind  —  his  candor,  his 
pathos,  and  his  humor — -more  abundantly  shown 
than  in  that  which  he  has  entitled  "  My  Souve- 
nirs," and  from  which  some  extracts  will  now  be 
made.  He  begins  the  unique  story  of  his  life,  as 
he  is  very  apt  to  begin  a  story,  confidentially  and 
colloquially :  — 

Now  will  I  keep  my  promise,  and  will  tell 
How  I  was  born,  and  what  my  youth  befell. 

The  poor,  decrepit  century  passed  away, 
Had  barely  two  more  years  on  earth  to  stay, 
When  in  a  dingy  and  a  dim  retreat, 
An  old  rat-palace  in  a  narrow  street, 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  95 

Behind  a  door,  Shrove  Tuesday  morn, 
Just  as  the  day  flung  its  black  night-cap  by, 
Of  mother  lame,  and  humpbacked  sire,  was  born 
A  boy,  —  and  it  was  I. 

When  princes  come  to  life,  the  cannon  thunder 

With  joy  ;  but  when  I  woke, 

Being  but  a  tailor's  son,  it  was  no  wonder 

"Not  even  a  cracker  spoke. 

Only  a  certain  charivarian l  band 

Before  our  neighbor's  door  had  ta'en  its  stand, 

Whereby  my  little  virgin  ears  were  torn 

With  dreadful  din  of  kettle  and  of  horn, 

Which  only  served  to  echo  wide  the  drone 

Of  forty  couplets  of  my  father's  own. 

His  father,  it  seems,  was  a  village  poet,  a  spin- 
ner of  doggerel  for  these  charivari ;  and  this  was 
the  humble  seed  which,  being  mysteriously  fruc- 
tified, produced  genius  in  the  son.  He  goes  on 
to  assure  us  that,  in  his  coarse  and  mended 
swaddling-clothes,  and  sleeping  on  a  little  bed 
stuffed  with  lark's  feathers,  he  grew,  if  some- 

1  The  charivari,  so  common  in  the  south  of  France,  is  a 
terrific  uproar  produced  by  kettles,  frying-pans,  and  horns,  ac- 
companied by  shouts  and  cries,  and  the  singing  of  rather  low 
songs,  which  is  set  up  at  night,  under  the  windows  of  the  newly 
married,  especially  if  they  are  in  advanced  years  or  have  been 
married  before. 


96  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

what  lean  and  angular,  as  fast  as  any  king's 
son,  until  he  was  seven  years  old,  and  then  — 

Suddenly  life  became  a  pastime  gay. 

We  can  but  paint  what  we  have  felt,  they  say: 

Why,  then  must  feeling  have  begun  for  me 

At  seven  years  old;  for  then  myself  I  see, 

With  paper  cap  on  head,  and  horn  in  hand, 

Following  my  father  in  the  village  band. 

Was  I  not  happy  while  the  horns  were  blowing? 

Or,  better  still,  when  we  by  chance  were  going, 

A  score  or  more,  as  we  were  wont  to,  whiles, 

To  gather  fagots  on  the  river  isles? 

Bare  heads,  bare  feet,  our  luncheon  carrying, 

Just  as  the  noontide  bells  began  to  ring, 

We  would  set  forth.     Ah,  that  was  glee! 

Singing,  The  lamb  thou  gavest  me  ! 

I  'm  merry  at  the  very  memory ! 

He  goes  on  to  describe  with  extreme  zest,  and 
a  wonderful  richness  of  local  coloring,  the  im- 
promptu fttes  in  which  he  thus  bore  a  part;  the 
raids  upon  cherry  and  plum-orchards.  "  I  should 
need  a  hundred  trumpets,"  he  says,  "  to  cele- 
brate all  my  victories  !  "  And  then  the  dances 
around  bonfires,  and  other  fantastic  ceremonies 
of  St.  John's  Eve.  Then  he  tells,  in  words  of 
exquisite  softness,  how  the  first  light  shadow 
fell  upon  his  baby  spirit :  — 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  97 

Pathless,  I  was  a  dreamy  little  thing. 

One  simple  word  would  strike  me  mute  full  often, 
And  I  would  hark,  as  to  a  viol  string, 

And  knew  not  why  I  felt  my  heart  so  soften : 
And  that  was  school,  —  a  pleasant  word  enow; 

But  when  my  mother,  at  her  spinning-wheel, 
Would  pause,  and  look  on  me  with  pitying  brow, 

And  breathe  it  to  my  grandsire,  I  would  feel 
A  sudden  sorrow,  as  I  eyed  the  twain, 
A  mystery,  a  long  whole  moment's  pain. 

And  something  else  there  was  that  made  me  sad: 

I  liked  to  fill  a  little  pouch  I  had, 

At  the  great  fairs,  with  whatso  I  could  glean, 

And  then  to  bid  my  mother  look  within; 

And  if  my  purse  but  showed  her  I  had  won 

A  few  poor  coins,  a  sou  for  service  done, 

Sighing,  "  Ah  my  poor  little  one,"  she  said, 

1 '  This  comes  in  time  ; ' '  and  then  my  spirit  bled. 

Yet  laughter  soon  came  back,  and  I 

Was  giddier  than  before,  a  very  butterfly. 

So,  after  fair- time,  came  vintage  with  all  its 
manifold  joj^s  ;  and  then  suddenly  the  winter, 
when,  in  the  dearth  of  fire-wood,  the  child  was 
fain  to  sun  himself  in  sheltered  nooks  while  the 
daylight  lasted.  But  "  how  fair  is  the  nightfall 
of  the  grim  winter  day  !  "  At  that  hour  a  score 
or  more  of  women,  with  their  younger  children, 
used  to  assemble  in  a  large  room,  lighted  by  a 

7 


98  TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

single  antique  lamp,  suspended  from  the  ceiling. 
The  women  had  distaffs  and  heavy  spindles,  on 
which  they  spun  a  kind  of  coarse  pack-thread, 
which  the  children  wound,  sitting  upon  stools 
at  their  feet.  And  all  the  while,  one  old  dame  or 
another  would  be  telling  ogreish  stories  of  "  Blue 
Beard,"  "  Sorcerer,"  or  "  Loup-garou"  to  fas- 
cinate the  ears  and  trouble  the  dreams  of  her 
young  auditory. 

At  last  a  winter  came  when  I  could  keep 

Xo  more  my  footstool ;  for  there  chanced  a  thing 
So  strange,  so  sorrowful,  so  harrowing, 

That  long,  long  afterwards  it  made  me  weep. 

Sweet  ignorance,  why  is  thy  kind  disguise 
So  early  rent  from  happy  little  eyes? 

I  mind  one  Monday,  —  't  was  my  tenth  birthday,  — 
The  other  boys  had  throned  me  king,  in  play, 
When  I  was  smitten  by  a  sorry  sight  : 
Two  cartmen  bore  some  aged  helpless  wight, 
In  an  old  willow  chair,  along  the  way. 
I  watched  them  as  they  near  and  nearer  drew ; 
And  what  saw  I  ?     Dear  God,  could  it  be  true? 
'T  was  my  own  grandsire,  and  our  household  all 
Following.     I  saw  but  him.     With  sudden  yearning, 
I  sprang  and  kissed  him.     He,  my  kiss  returning, 
For  the  first  time,  some  piteous  tears  let  fall. 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  99 

"  Where  wilt  thou  go?  and  why  wilt  thou  forsake 
Us,  little  ones,  who  love  thee?  "  was  my  cry. 
"  Dear,  they  are  taking  me,"  my  grandsire  spake, 
"  Unto  the  almshouse,  where  the  Jasmins  die." 
Kissed  me  once  more,  closed  his  blue  eyes,  passed  on. 

Far  through  the  trees  we  followed  them,  be  sure. 
In  five  more  days  the  word  came  he  was  gone. 
For  me,  sad  wisdom  woke  that  Monday  dawn : 

Then  knew  I  first  that  we  were  very  poor. 

And  here  the  first  section  of  Jasmin's  memo- 
ries, which  he  began  to  rehearse  so  gayly,  closes 
as  with  a  sob.  When  he  resumes,  he  seems  half 
abashed  at  the  homeliness  of  the  tale  which  he 
has  undertaken  to  tell.  Shall  he  soften  it  ?  He 
pauses  to  query.  Shall  he  dress  it  up  with  false 
lights  and  colors  ?  For  these  are  days  when 
falsehood  in  silk  and  gold  seems  always  accept- 
able, and  the  "naked,  new-born  truth"  unwel- 
come.    But  he  repudiates  the  thought :  — 

Myself,  nor  less  nor  more,  I  '11  draw  for  you, 
And,  if  not  fair,  the  likeness  shall  be  true. 

That  death  of  his  grandfather,  he  goes  on  to 
say,  sank  like  a  plummet  into  his  heart,  and 
seemed  for  the  first  time  to  reveal  to  him  the 
utter  squalor  of  his  surroundings.    He  describes 


100         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

in  a  minute  fashion,  at  once  droll  and  exceed- 
ingly pathetic,  the  exposure  of  their  tenement 
to  the  four  winds  of  heaven ;  the  ragged  bed- 
curtains  ;  the  cracked  pottery,  and  worn  wooden 
vessels  off  which  t\\ej  ate  and  drank ;  the 
smoky,  frameless  mirror ;  the  rickety  chairs. 
"  Islj  mother  explained  it  all,"  he  says :  — 

Xow  saw  I  why  our  race,  from  sire  to  son, 

For  many  lives,  had  never  died  at  home; 

But  time  for  crutches  having  come, 

The  almshouse  claimed  its  own. 

I  saw  why  one  brisk  woman  every  morn 

Paused,  pail  in  hand,  my  grandame's  threshold  by : 

She  brought  her,  not  yet  old,  though  thus  forlorn, 

The  bread  of  charity. 
And  ah,  that  wallet!  by  two  cords  uphung, 
Wherein  my  hands  for  broken  bread  went  straying,  — 
Grandsire  had  borne  it  round  the  farms  among, 
A  morsel  from  his  ancient  comrades  praying. 
Poor  grandsire !  When  I  kept  him  company, 
The  softest  bit  was  evermore  for  me ! 


All  this  was  shame  and  sorrow  exquisite. 
I  played  no  more  at  leap-frog  in  the  street, 
But  sat  and  dreamed  about  the  seasons  gone. 
And  if  chance  things  my  sudden  laughter  won,  — 
Flag,  soldier,  hoop,  or  kite,  —  it  died  away 
Like  the  pale  sunbeam  of  a  weeping  day. 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  101 

However,  there  was  a  happy  change  at  hand : 
and  here,  unhappily  for  his  translator,  the  poet 
abandons  his  flowing  pentameters  ;  but  one  must, 
if  possible,  keep  step  with  him  :  — 

One  morn  my  mother  came,  as  one  with  gladness  crazed, 
Crying,  "  Come,  Jacques,  to  school!  "   Stupid,  I  stood  and 

gazed. 
u  To  school!    "What  then?   Are  we  grown  rich?"    I  cried, 

amazed. 
"  Nay,  nay,  poor  little  one!     Thou  wilt  not  have  to  pay! 
Thy  cousin1  gives  it  thee,  and  I  am  blessed  this  day." 

Behold  me,  then,  with  fifty  others  set, 

Mumbling  my  lesson  in  the  alphabet. 

I  had  a  goodly  memory ;  or  so  they  used  to  say. 

Thanks  to  this  pious  dame,  therefore, 

'Twixt  smiles  and  tears  it  came  to  pass 

That  I  could  read  in  six  months  more; 

In  six  months  more,  could  say  the  mass; 

In  six  months  more,  I  might  aspire 

To  tantum  ergo  and  the  choir; 

In  six  months  more,  still  paying  nothing, 

I  passed  the  sacred  college  gate ; 

In  six  months  more,  with  wrath  and  loathing, 

They  thrust  me  forth.     Ah,  luckless  fate! 


1  Sister  Boe,  the  old  school-mistress  of  Agen,  who  acted  the 
part  of  a  generous  relative,  and  gave  the  poet  the  rudiments  of 
reading  and  writing. 


102         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

'T  was  thus:  a  tempting  prize  was  offered  by  and  by 

Upon  the  term's  last  week,  and  my  theme  won  the  same. 

(A  cassock  'twas,  and  verily 

As  autumn  heather  old  and  dry.) 

Pathless,  when  mother  dear  upon  Shrove  Monday  came, 

My  cheeks  fired  when  we  kissed ;  along  my  veins  the  blood 

Eacing  in  little  blobs  did  seem. 

More  darns  were  in  the  cassock,  well  I  understood, 

Than  errors  in  my  theme ; 

But  glad  at  heart  was  I,  and  the  gladder  for  her  glee. 

What  love  was  in  her  touch !     What  looks  she  gave  her 

son! 
"  Thank  God,  thou  learnest  well!  "  said  she; 
"  For  this  is  why,  my  little  one, 

Each  Tuesday  comes  a  loaf,  and  so  rude  the  winter  blows, 
It  is  welcome,  as  He  knows." 

Thereon  I  gave  my  word  I  would  very  learned  be, 
And  when  she  turned  away,  content  was  in  her  eyes. 
So  I  pondered  on  my  frock,  and  my  sire,  who  presently 
Should  come  and  take  my  measure.     It  happened  other- 
wise. 
The  marplot  de'il  himself  had  sworn 
It  should  not  be,  so  it  would'seem, 
'Nov  holy  gown  by  me  be  worn. 

Wherefore  my  steps  he  guided  to  a  quiet  court  and  dim, 

Drove  me  across,  and  bade  me  stop 

Under  a  ladder,  slight  and  tall, 

Where  a  pretty  peasant  maiden,  roosted  against  the  wall, 

Was  dressing  pouting  pigeons,  there  atop. 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  103 

Oft  as  I  saw  a  woman,  in  the  times  whereof  I  write, 

Slid  a  tremor  through  my  veins,  and  across  my  dreary  day 

There  flashed  a  sudden  vision  on  my  sight 

Of  a  life  all  velvet,  so  to  say; 

Thus,  when  I  saw  Catrine  (rosy  she  was  and  sweet), 

I  was  fain  to  mount  a  bit,  till  I  discerned 

A  pair  of  comely  legs,  a  pair  of  snowy  feet, 

And  all  my  silly  heart  within  me  burned. 

One  tell-tale  sigh  I  gave,  and  my  damsel  veered,  alas!  — 

Then  huddled  up  with  piteous  cries ; 

The  ladder  snapped  before  my  eyes. 

She  fell !  —  escape  for  me  none  was ! 

And  there  we  twain  lay  sprawling  upon  the  court-yard 

floor, 
I  under  and  she  o'er! 

The  outcries  of  the  maid  soon  brought  all  the 
holy  household  to  the  spot.  "  Fillo  aymo  a  fa 
sabe  lous  pecats  que  fay  fa,"  remarks  Jasmin, 
in  a  quaint  parenthesis,  which,  by  the  way, 
illustrates  very  well  the  conciseness  of  expres- 
sion of  which  his  dialect  is  capable.  It  means, 
"  A  girl  always  likes  to  have  the  sins  known 
which  she  has  caused  others  to  commit."  The 
result  of  her  railing  accusation  is  a  terrific  rep- 
rimand for  poor  Jacques,  and  a  sentence  of 
imprisonment  for  the  remainder  of  the  carnival. 
In  default  of  a  dungeon  they  locked  him  into  a 
dismal  little  chamber,  w^here  he  remained  until 


104         TROUBADOURS  AND  TROUVijRES. 

the  next  clay,  very  angry  and  very  hungry,  until 
chance  enabled  him  to  fill  up  the  measure  of 
his  iniquities  by  breaking  into  a  high  cupboard, 
to  which  he  climbed  with  the  help  of  table  and 
chair,  and  feasting  upon  sundry  pots  of  the 
delicious  convent  preserves,  which  he  found 
hidden  there. 

The  result  must  be  told  in  his  own  words :  — 


But  while  so  dulcet  vengeance  is  wrought  me  by  my  stars, 
What  step  is  this  upon  the  stair?     Who  fumbles  at  the 

bars? 
Alackaday!     Who  opes  the  door? 
The  dread  superior  himself!     And  he  my  pardon  bore! 

Thou  knowest  the  Florence  Lion,  —  the  famous  picture, 

where 
The  mother  sees,  in  stark  despair, 
The  onslaught  of  the  monster  wild 
Who  will  devour  her  darling  child ; 
And,  fury  in  her  look,  nor  heeding  life  the  least, 
With  piercing  cry,  "  My  boy!  "  leaps  on  the  savage  beast; 
Who,  wondering  and  withstood, 
Seemeth  to  quench  the  burning  of  his   cruel  thirst  for 

blood, 
And  the  baby  is  released. 

Just  so  the  reverend  canon,  with  madness  in  his  eye, 
Sprang  on  my  wretched  self,  and  ' '  My  sweetmeats ! ' '  was 

his  cry; 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  105 

And  the  nobler  lion's  part,  alas,  was  not  for  me ! 

For  the  jar  was  empty  half,  and  the  bottom  plain  to  see! 

"Out  of  this  house,  thou  imp  of  hell, 

Thou  'rt   past  forgiveness  now!     Dream  not  of   such   a 

thing!" 
And  the  old  canon  summoning 
His  forces,  shook  my  ladder  well. 
Then  with  a  quaking  heart,  I  turned  me  to  descend, 
Still  by  one  handle  holding  tight 
The  fatal  jar,  which  dropped  outright 
And  shattered,  and  so  came  the  end! 

Behold  me  now,  in  dire  disgrace, 

An  outcast  in  the  street,  in  the  merry  carnival, 

As  black  as  any  Moor,  with  all 

The  sweetmeat-stains  upon  my  face ! 

My  woes,  meseemed,  were  just  begun. 

"  Ho  for  the  masque!  "  a  gamin  cried; 

Full  desperately  did  I  run, 

But  a  mob  of  howling  urchins  thronged  me  on  every  side, 

Raised  at  my  heels  a  cloud  of  dust, 

And  roared,  "  The  masque  is  full  of  must!  " 

As  on  the  wind's  own  pinions  borne 

I  fled,  and  gained  our  cot  forlorn, 

And  in  among  my  household  burst, 

Starved,  dripping,  dead  with  rage  and  thirst. 

Uprose  a  cry  of  wonderment  from  sisters,  mother,  sire. 
And  while  we  kissed  I  told  them  all,  whereon  a  silence 

fell. 
Seeing  bean-porridge  on  the  fire, 


106         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

I  said  I  would  my  hunger  quell. 

Wherefore  then  did  they  make  as  though  they  heard  not 

me, 
Standing  death  still?     At  last  arose  my  mother  dear, 
Most  anxiously,  most  tenderly. 
"  Why  are  we  tarrying?  "  said  she, 
"  No  more  will  come.     Our  all  is  here." 

But  I,    "  No   more   of  what?     Ah,   tell  me,   for   God's 

sake!"  — 
Sorely  the  mystery  made  me  quake,  — 
"  What  wast  thou  waiting,  mother  mild?  " 
I  trembled,  for  I  guessed.  And  she,  "  The  loaf,  my  child !  " 
So  I  had  ta'en  their  bread  away!     O  squalor  and  distress! 
Accursed  sweetmeats !     Naughty  feet ! 
I  am  base  indeed !     O  silence  full  of  bitterness ! 
Gentles,  who  pitying  weep  for  every  woe  ye  meet, 
My  anguish  ye  may  guess ! 

No  money  and  no  loaf!     A  sorry  tale,  I  ween. 
Gone  was  my  hunger  now,  but  in  my  aching  heart, 
I  seemed  to  feel  a  cruel  smart, 
A  stab,  as  of  a  brand,  fire-new1  and  keen, 
Rending  the  scabbard  it  is  shut  within. 

Silent  I  stood  awhile,  and  my  mother  blankly  scanned, 
While  she,  as  in  a  dream,  gazed  on  her  own  left  hand; 
Then  put  her  Sunday  kerchief  by, 
And  rose  and  spake  right  cheerily, 

1  "  Sabre  flamben  neou."     The  expression  is  interesting  as 
indicating  the  origin  of  the  degenerate  phrase,  bran*  fire  new. 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  107 

And  left  us  for  a  while ;  and  when  she  came  once  more, 
Beneath  her  arm  a  little  loaf  she  bore. 

Then  all  anew  a-talking  fell, 

And  to  the  table  turned.     Ah,  well! 

They  laughed,  but  I  was  full  of  thought, 

And  evermore  my  wandering  eyes  the  mother  sought. 

Sony  was  I  and  mute,  for  a  doubt  that  me  possessed, 

And  drowned  the  noisy  clamor  of  the  rest. 

But  what  I  longed  to  see  perpetually  withdrew 

And  shyly  hid  from  view, 

Until,  at  last,  soup  being  done, 

My  gentle  mother  made  a  move 

As  she  wrould  cut  the  loaf,  signing  the  cross  above. 

Then  stole  I  one  swift  look  the  dear  left  hand  upon, 

And  ah,  it  was  too  true !  —  the  wedding-ring  was  gone ! 

Once  more  the  poet  breaks  off  his  narrative 
abruptly,  but  when  he  resumes  it  for  the  third 
and  last  chapter  of  his  u  Souvenirs"  his  tone  ex- 
presses relief,  nay,  even  a  kind  of  modest 
triumph.  One  year  later  behold  him  appren- 
ticed to  a  hair-dresser,  an  artisto-en-piels,  with 
whom  he  works  faithfully  all  day,  but  requests 
us  to  observe  how  the  leaves  of  the  tall  elm  out- 
side the  barber's  back  attic  window  shine  at 
midnight.  Thanks  to  his  convent  schooling  he 
could  read  ;  the  remnant  of  daylight  after  work 
was  done  became    all  insufficient ;    his  savings 


108         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

went  to  the  oil-merchant,  and  the  best  pleasure 
of  his  life  was  born. 

For  ever,  as  I  read,  came  throngs  of  phantoms  fair, 

With  wonder-web  of  dreams  o'er  grievous  thoughts  to 
fling, 

Till  passed  away  in  silence  those  memories  of  despair, 
The  wallet,  and  the  almshouse,  and  the  ring. 

Those  three  painful  images  were  not  quite 
exorcised,  and  all  his  life  long  returned  at 
gloomy  intervals  to  haunt  him,  but  he  had  freed 
himself  from  their  malign  spell.  Soon  came 
first  love,  still  further  to  beautify  existence. 
"  It  was  for  her  sake,"  says  Jasmin,  "  that  I 
first  tried  to  make  verses  in  the  sweet  patois 
which  she  talked  so  well,  verses  wherein  I  asked 
her  in  lofty  and  mysterious  phrases  to  be  my 
guardian  angel."  A  little  farther  on  he  thus 
describes  what  is  always  an  era  in  the  life  of  a 
poet :  — 

One  beauteous  eve  in  summer,  when  the  world  was  all 

abroad, 
Swept  onward  by  the   human   stream  that  toward  the 

palace  bore, 
Unthinkingly  the  way  I  trod, 
And  followed  eager  hundreds  o'er 
The  threshold  of  an  open  door. 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  109 

Good  Heaven!  where  was  I?     What  might  mean 

The  lifting  of  that  linen  screen? 

O  lovely,  lovely  vision !     O  country  strange  and  fair ! 

How  they  sing  in  yon  bright  world !  and  how  sweetly  talk 

they  too ! 
Can  ears  attend  the  music  rare, 
Or  eyes  embrace  the  dazzling  view? 
"  Why,  yon  is  Cinderella!  "  I  shouted  in  my  maze. 
"  Silence!  "  quoth  he  who  sat  by  me. 
1 '  Why,  then  ?     Where  are  we,  sir?     What  is  this  whereon 

we  gaze?  " 
< '  Thou  idiot !     This  is  the  Comedy  !  ' ' 

Ah,  yes !  I  knew  that  magic  name, 

Full  oft  at  school  had  heard  the  same ; 

And  fast  the  fevered  pulses  flew 

In  my  low  room  the  dark  night  through. 

"  O  fatherland  of  poesy!     O  paradise  of  love! 

Thou  art  a  dream  to  me  no  more !  Thy  mighty  spell  I  prove. 

And  thee,  sweet  Cinderella,  my  guardian  I  make, 

And  to-morrow  I  turn  player  for  thy  sake!  " 

But  slumber  came  at  dawn,  and  next  the  flaming  look 

Of  my  master,  who  awoke  me.    How  like  a  leaf  I  shook ! 

"  Where  wast  thou  yesternight?  Answer  me,  ne'er-do-weel ! 

And  wherefore  home  at  midnight  steal?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,  how  glorious  was  the  play!  " 

"  The  play,  indeed!    'T  is  very  true  what  people  say: 

Thou  art  stark  crazy,  wretched  boy, 

To  make  so  vile  an  uproar  through  all  the  livelong  night ! 

To  sing  and  spout,  and  rest  of  sober  souls  destroy. 

Thou  who  hast  worn  a  cassock,  nor  blushest  for  thy  plight ! 


110         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

Thou  'It  come  to  grief,  I  warn  thee  so ! 

Quit  shop,  mayhap,  and  turn  thyself  a  player  low!  " 

"  Ay,  master  dear,  that  would  I  be!  " 

"  What,  what?     Hear  I  aright?  "  said  he. 

"  Art  blind?  and  dost  not  know  the  gate 

That  leadeth  to  the  almshouse  straight?  " 

At  this  terrific  word,  the  heart  in  me  went  down 

As  though  a  club  had  fallen  thereon ; 

And  Cinderella  fled  her  throne  in  my  light  head. 

The  pang  I  straightway  did  forget; 

And  yet,  meseems,  yon  awful  threat 

Made  softer  evermore  my  attic  bed. 

By  the  time  lie  was  eighteen,  Jasmin  had  sown 
his  modest  crop  of  wild  oats,  and  opened  a  bar- 
ber's shop  of  his  own,  and  the  maiden  who  had 
inspired  his  first  verses  had  promised  to  marry 
him.  "  Two  angels  took  up  their  abode  with 
me  then,''  he  says.  His  wife  was  one,  and  the 
other  was  his  rustic  muse,  the  angel  of  homely, 
pastoral  poetry,  — 

THio,  fluttering  softly  from  on  high, 

Raised  on  her  wing  and  bore  me  far 

Where  fields  of  balmiest  ether  are. 

There,  in  the  shepherd  lassie's  speech 

I  sang  a  song,  or  shaped  a  rhyme ; 

There  learned  I  stranger  lore  than  I  can  teach. 

O  mystic  lessons !     Happy  time ! 

And  fond  farewells  I  said,  when  at  the  close  of  day 

Silent  she  led  my  spirit  back  whence  it  was  borne  away. 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  Ill 

A  few  words  are  given  to  his  wedding ;  and 
then  he  adds, — 

The  rest,  methinks,  full  well  is  known; 

How  doubly  blest  my  life  hath  been 

In  plenty  and  in  peace,  how  fifteen  times  have  flown 

The  seasons  four  since  then. 

Curl-papers  now,  and  songs  anon, 

Into  my  little  shop  had  drawn 

Erelong  a  rill  of  silver  fine ; 

So  that  in  frenzy  all  divine 

I  rose  at  last,  and  brake  that  barber's  chair  of  mine ! 

No  wonder  that,  after  such  an  experience,  he 
retorts  with  spirit  and  scorn,  when  he  reads  in  a 
journal  the  malicious  remark  that  "  Pegasus  is  a 
beast  who  carries  poets  to  the  almshouse."  On 
the  contrary,  he  says,  Pegasus  conveyed  him  to 
a  notary's  place,  and  it  is  owing  to  that  friendly 
steed  alone  that  he,  figures  first  of  his  family  on 
the  tax-gatherer's  list ;  albeit  he  admits  that  the 
last-named  honor  has  its  disadvantages.  He  also 
confesses  frankly  that  his  house  is  yet  unfin- 
ished, but  assures  us  that  his  wife,  who  at  first 
rather  deprecated  his  verse-making,  now  sees  a 
joist  in  every  stanza  and  a  tile  in  every  rhyme, 
and  hands  him  his  pens  quite  officiously.  And 
the  homely  reminiscences  which  have  fluctuated 


112         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

so  fast  between  laughter  and  tears,  close  with  a 
droll  story  of  the  wrath  and  amazement  in  his 
father's  household  when  they  learned  that  he 
had  been  described,  in  the  public  print,  as  a 
"son  of  Apollo:"— 

My  sire  leaped  as  if  shot,  and  roared,  "  How's  this,  Catrine? 

Is  my  son  not  my  son?    Make  answer  what  they  mean!  " 

"  Thine  is  he,  then,"  she  said,  and  her  cheeks  with  wrath 
were  red  ; 

"  My  poor  old  Jean,  be  comforted! 

I  never  loved  a  man  but  thee."  — 

"  And  who  then  may  this  rascal  'Polio  be?  " 

"  Nay,  that  I  know  not!  Girls,  have  ye  heard  of  yonder 
rake?" 

"Xot  we  !  "  My  sisters  tossed  their  caps  while  scornfully 
they  spake. 

"  'T  is  some  old  wretch,  belike,  should  be  cited  to  at- 
tend 

The  court.  Where  lives  he,  brother  ?  "    I,  willing  to  defend 

My  good  old  master,  'Polio,  from  the  fury  of  their  spleen, 

Ere  they  could  march  him  sadly  off,  two  grim  hussars  be- 
tween, 

Before  the  justice  to  appear, 

Was  fain  to  make  the  poet's  meaning  clear. 

Long  time  they  doubted ;  but  when  I 

Had  told  them  many  a  tale  from  the  old  mythology, 

Reluctantly  they  let  the  case  go  by. 

Thus,  reader,  have  I  told  my  tale  in  cantos  three. 
Small  risk  my  muse  hath  run;  a  thrifty  singer,  she. 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  113 

For  though  Pegasus  should  rear  and  fling  me,  it  is  clear, 
However  ruffled  all  my  fancies  fair, 
And  though  my  time  I  lose,  my  verses  I  may  use ; 
For  paper  still  will  serve  for  curling  hair  ! 

I  have  been  thus  copious  in  illustrating  Jas- 
min's "Souvenirs,"  because  the  poem  gives  the 
actual  outlines  of  his  extraordinary  life,  and  re- 
flects without  reserve  the  humor,  the  sensibility, 
and  the  extreme  simple-heartedness  of  the  man. 
In  order  to  understand  the  real  scope  of  his 
genius,  its  depth  and  strength,  his  fertility  in 
romantic  and  picturesque  incident,  his  shrewd- 
ness in  reading  character  and  his  dramatic  skill 
in  representing  it,  in  what  divine  innocence 
of  established  canons  the  greater  part  of  his 
work  is  done,  and  in  what  implicit  obedience 
to  the  few  which  he  knows  the  remainder, 
we  must  study  his  graver  and  what  might  be 
called  his  more  ambitious  pieces,  if  he  did  not 
always  impress  one  as  too  spontaneous  for  am- 
bition. Of  one  of  these,  "  The  Blind  Girl  of 
Castel-Cuille,"  we  are  fortunate  in  possessing 
Mr.  Longfellow's  complete  and  very  close  and 
beautiful  version.  There  are  at  least  two  other 
poems  of  Jasmin's,  "  Frangonette  "  and  "  Marthe 

8 


114         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

La  Folle,"  which  fully  deserve  to  rank  with 
"  The  Blind  Girl "  in  dignity  of  theme  and 
treatment,  and  some  illustrations  of  one  of  these 
will  be  given  in  the  next  chapter. 


JACQUES   JASMIN. 

II. 

T  MUST  beg  leave  to  remark  in  passing  that  I 
have  constantly  recurring  doubts  about  the 
fitness  for  English  verse,  especially  in  earnest 
and  impassioned  narrative,  of  the  Alexandrine 
or  iambic  hexameter,  which  forms  the  basis  of 
all  Jasmin's  longer  poems.  It  is,  however,  diffi- 
cult to  find  a  substitute  for  it.  The  iambic  pen- 
tameter, our  natural  narrative  metre,  is  one  foot 
shorter,  and  the  Gascon  of  Jasmin  is  not  easily 
condensed.  Moreover,  the  pentameter  does  not 
lend  itself  readily  to  rhythmic  variations  and 
caprices,  and  so  I  am  fain,  though  diffidently,  still 
to  follow  the  movement  of  the  original. 

In  a  preface,  dated  July  4, 1840,  Jasmin  dedi- 
cated the  poem  of  "  Franconette  "  to  the  city  of 
Toulouse,  thereb}^  expressing  his  gratitude  for 
a  banquet  given  him  in  1836  by  the  leading 
citizens  of  that  place,  at  which  the  president  of 
the    day   had    given    the    toast,    "  Jasmin,    the 


116         TROUBADOURS  AND   TRO UTERES. 

adopted  son  of  Toulouse."  The  action  of  the 
poem  begins  during  the  persecutions  of  the 
French  Protestants  in  the  sixteenth  century. 
Blaise  de  Montluc,  Marshal  of  France,  after 
putting  men,  women,  and  children  of  the  Hugue- 
nots indiscriminately  to  the  sword,  had  shut 
himself  up  in  the  Chateau  d'Estillac,  and  was 
understood  to  be  devoting  himself  to  religious 
exercises  ;  "  taking  the  sacrament  while  dripping 
with  fraternal  blood,*'  says  the  poet. 

Xow  the  shepherds  in  those  days,  and  every  shepherd  lass. 
At  the  bare  name  of  Huguenot,  would  shiver  with  affright 
Amid  their  loves  and  laughter.     So  then  it  came  to  pass 
In  a  hamlet  nestling  underneath  a  castled  height, 
On  the  day  of  Roquefort  f£te,  while  Sunday  bells  out- 
rang, 
The  jocund  youth  danced  all  together, 
And,  to  a  fife,  the  praises  sang 
Of  Saint  James  and  the  August  weather,  — 
That  bounteous  month  which  year  by  year, 
Through  dew-fall  of  the  even  clear 
And  fire  of  tropic  noons,  doth  bring 
Both  grapes  and  figs  to  ripening. 

'T  was  the   very  finest  fete  that  eyes  had  ever  seen 
In  the  shadow  of  the  vast  and  leafy  parasol 
Where  aye  the  country-folk  convene. 
Overflowing  were  the  spaces  all; 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  117 

Down  cliff,  up  dale,  from  every  home 

In  Montagnac  or  Saint  Colombe, 

Still  they  come, 

Too  many  far  to  number ; 

More  and  more,  more  and  more,  while  flames  the  sun- 
shine o'er. 

But  there  's  room  for  all,  their  coming*  will  not  cumber ; 

For  the  fields  will  be  their  inn,  and  the  little  hillocks 
green 

The  couches  of  their  slumber. 

Among  them  came  Frangonette,  the  belle  of 
the  country-side,  concerning  whom  we  are  be- 
sought to  allow  the  poet  just  two  words. 

Never  you  fancy,  gentles,  howe'er  it  seem  to  you, 

This  was  a  soft  and  pensive  creature,  — 

Lily-fair  in  every  feature, 

With  tender  eyes  and  languishing,  half-shut  and  heaven 

blue ; 
With  light  and  slender  shape  in  languor  ever  swaying, 
Like  a  weeping  willow  with  a  limpid  fountain  playing,  — 
Not  so,  my  masters;  Franqonette 
Had  vivid,  flashing  orbs,  like  the  stars  in  heaven  set; 
And  the  laughing  cheeks  were  round,  whereon  a  lover 

might 
Gather  in  handfuls  roses  bright ; 
Brown  locks  and  curly  decked  her  head ; 
Her  lips  were  as  the  cherry  red ; 
Whiter  than  snow  her  teeth ;  her  feet 
How  softly  moulded,  small  and  fleet! 


118         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

How  light  her  limbs!     Ah,  well-a-day! 

What  if  the  whole  at  once  I  say? 

Hers  was  the  very  head  ideal 

Grafted  on  woman  of  this  earth,  most  fair  and  real! 

Such  a  miracle,  the  poet  says,  may  be  wrought 
in  any  rank  or  race,  to  the  envy  of  maidens  and 
the  despair  of  men.  All  the  swains  in  a  wide 
region  about  Roquefort  admired  Fran^onette, 
and  the  girl  knew  it ;  and  it  made  her  beauty 
shine  the  brighter.  Yet  she  felt  her  triumph 
to  be  incomplete,  until  Pascal,  the  handsomest 
of  them  all,  and  incomparably  the  best  singer, 
who  hitherto  had  held  somewhat  aloof,  should 
fairly  acknowledge  her  sway.  Her  good  old 
grandmother,  with  whom  she  lived  (for  her 
mother  was  dead,  and  her  father  had  disappeared 
in  her  own  infancy,  and  his  fate  was  unknown); 
detected  her  coquettish  manoeuvres  and  reproved 
them. 

"  Child,  child,"  she  nsed  to  frown, 

"  A  meadow  's  not  a  parlor,  and  the  country  's  not  the 

town ! 
And  thou  knowest  that  we  promised  thee  lang-syne 
To  the  soldier-lad,  Marcel,  who  is  lover  true  of  thine. 
So  curb  thy  nights,  thou  giddy  one; 
For  the  maid  who  covets  all,  in  the  end,  mayhap,  hath 

none." 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  119 

"  Nay,  nay,"  replied  the  tricksy  fay, 

With  swift  caress  and  laughter  gay 

Darting  upon  the  dame,  "  there  's  another  saw  well  known. 

Time  enough,  granny  dear,  to  love  some  later  day! 

Meanwhile,  she  who  hath  only  one  hath  none." 

Now  such  a  course,  you  may  divine, 
Made  hosts  of  melancholy  swains, 
Who  sighed  and  suffered  jealous  pains, 
Yet  never  sang  reproachful  strains 
Like  learned  lovers  when  they  pine ; 
Who,  ere  they  go  away  to  die,  their  woes  write  carefully 
On  willow  or  on  poplar  tree. 
Good  lack!  these  could  not  shape  a  letter, 
And  the  silly  souls,  though  lovesick,  to  death  did  not  in- 
cline, 
Deeming  to  live  and  suffer  on  were  better ! 
Bat  tools  were  handled  clumsily, 
And  vine-sprays  blew  abroad  at  will, 
And  trees  were  pruned  exceeding  ill, 
And  many  a  furrow  drawn  awry. 

Methinks  you  know  her  now,  this  fair  and  foolish  girl ; 
Watch  while  she  treads  one  measure,  then!     See,  see  her 

dip  and  twirl ! 
Young  Etienne  holds  her  hand  by  chance ; 
'T  is  the  first  rigadoon  they  dance. 
With  parted  lips,  right  thirstily 
Each  rustic  tracks  them  where  they  fly; 
And  the  damsel  sly 
Feels  every  eye, 
And  lighter  moves  for  each  adoring  glance. 


120         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

Holy  cross,  what  a  sight!  when  the  madcap  rears  aright 

Her  shining  lizard's  head,  and  her  Spanish  foot  falls  light, 

And  when  the  wasp-like  figure  sways 

And  swims  and  whirls  and  springs  again, 

And  the  wind  with  a  corner  of  the  blue  kerchief  plays, 

One  and  all  smack  their  lips,  and  the  cheeks  whereon 
they  gaze 

Would  fain  salute  with  kisses  twain. 

And  some  one  shall;  for  here  the  ancient  custom  is, 

Who  tires  his  partner  out  may  leave  her  with  a  kiss; 

Xow  girls  turn  weary  when  they  will,  always  and  every- 
where; 

Wherefore  already  Jean  and  Paul, 

Louis,  Guillaume,  Pierre, 

Have  breathless  yielded  up  their  place 

"Without  the  coveted  embrace. 

It  is  now  the  turn  of  Marcel,  the  big,  bluster- 
ing soldier,  comely  enough  in  feature,  "straight 
as  an  I,"  boastful  and  vain,  who  makes  a  claim 
to  the  hand  of  Fran§onette,  which  the  village 
belle  has  never  allowed.  He  has  tried  all  man- 
ner of  clumsy  stratagems  to  entrap  her  into  a 
formal  acceptance.  He  has  ostentatiously  pa- 
raded every  smile  which  he  has  won  from  any 
other  damsel  in  the  vain  hope  of  exciting  her 
jealousy  ;  and  now,  having  witnessed  the  discom- 
fiture of  so  many  of  his  rivals,  strides  forward  and 
takes  her  hand  with  an  air  of  intense  confidence 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  121 

and  satisfaction.  The  dance  begins  anew,  and 
is  watched  with  breathless  interest.  On  they 
go  for  an  incredible  while,  and  Fran<jonette  ap- 
parently grows  fresher  with  every  figure,  but 
the  Herculean  soldier  is  tired  out, at  last,  turns 
giddy,  and  reels :  — 

Then  darted  forth  Pascal  into  the  soldier's  place. 

Two  steps  they  take,  one  change  they  make,  and  Fran- 

§onette, 
Weary  at  last,  with  laughing  grace 
Her  foot  stayed  and  upraised  her  face ; 
Tarried  Pascal  that  kiss  to  set? 
Not  he,  be  snre!  and  all  the  crowd 
His  victory  hailed  with  plaudits  loud. 
The  clapping  of  their  palms  like  battledores  resounded, 
While  Pascal  stood  among  them  as  confounded. 
How  then  Marcel,  who  truly  loved  the  wayward  fair? 
Him  the   kiss   maddened.     Springing,    measuring  wTith 

his  eye, 
"  Pascal,"  he  thundered  forth,  "beware! 
Not  so  fast,  churl!  "  and  therewith  brutally  let  fly, 
With  aim  unerring,  one  fierce  blow 
Straight  in  the  other's  eyes,  doubling  the  insult  so. 

A  shadow  as  of  a  thunder-cloud  fell  on  the 
merry  fete.  "  A  man  need  not  be  a  monsieur" 
says  Jasmin,  "  to  resent  an  insult ;  "  and  the  fiery 
Pascal  returned  the  blow  with  interest.    Directly, 


122         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TROUVERES. 

with  a  zest  which  would  appear  to  be  peculiarly 
Gascon,  the  two  engaged  on  the  spot  in  a  terrific 
duel.  The3r  fought  for  a  long  time  without  de- 
cided advantage  on  either  side,  the  sympathies 
of  the  on-lookers  being  mostly  with  Pascal,  until 
suddenly  there  appeared  among  them  au  gentle- 
man all  gleaming  with  gold,"  no  other  than  the 
lord  of  the  manor,  the  Baron  of  Roquefort 
himself,  who  sternly  separated  the  combatants. 
The  young  shepherds  cheered  the  wounded 
Pascal  to  his  dwelling,  while  Marcel  turned 
silently  away  vowing  vengeance  on  them  all, 
and  swearing  that  Franconette  should  marry  no 
man  but  him. 

The  next  canto  opens  in  mid-winter,  when 
notice  is  carried  round  by  Jean  the  tambourinist, 
among  the  country-folk,  now  secluded  upon 
their  comparatively  silent  farms,  of  a  grand  busk- 
ing? followed  by  a  dance,  to  take  place  on  Fri- 
day, the  last  night  of  the  year. 

1  The  buscou,  or  busking,  was  a  kind  of  bee  at  which  the 
young  people  assembled,  bringing  the  thread  of  their  late 
spinning,  which  was  divided  into  skeins  of  the  proper  size  by 
a  broad,  thin  plate  of  steel  or  whalebone  called  a  busc.  The 
same  thing  under  precisely  the  same  name  figured  in  the  toil- 
ets of  our  grandmothers,  and  hence,  probably,  the  Scotch  use 
of  the  verb  "  to  busk  or  attire." 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  123 

But  when  the  Friday  carne,  a  frozen  dew  was  raining, 

And  by  a  tireless  forge  a  mother  sat  complaining; 

And  to  her  son,  who  stood  thereby, 

Spoke  out  at  last  entreatingly : 

"  Hast  forgot  the  summer  day,  my  boy,  when  thou  didst 

come,  m 

All  bleeding  from,  the  fray,  to  the  sound  of  music  home  ? 
Ah !  go  not  forth,  Pascal  !  I  have  dreamed  of  flowers  again, 
And  what  means  that  but  tears  and  pain?  " 
i;  Xow  art  thou  craven,  mother!  and  seest  life  all  black. 
But  wherefore  tremble,  since  Marcel  is  gone  and  comes  not 

back?" 
"  Oh  yet,  my  son,  take  heed,  I  pray, 
For  the  Wizard  of  the  Black  Wood  is  roaming  round  this 

way,  — 
The  same  who  wrought  such  harm  a  year  agone. 
And,  they  tell  me,  there  was  seen  coming  from  his  care  at 
dawn, 
But  two  days  past,  a  soldier.     Xow, 
What  if  that  were  Marcel  ?  Oh,  child,  take  care,  take  care! 

The  mothers  all  give  charms  unto  their  sons :  do  thou 
Take  mine;  but,  I  beseech,  go  not  forth  anywhere!  " 
"  Just  for  one  hour  mine  eyes  to  set 

On  friend  Thomas!     Xo  more,  my  mother. " 
"  Thy  friend,  indeed  !    Xay,  nay!  Thou  meanest  on  Fran- 
conette. 
Dreamest  I  cannot  see  thou  lovest  no  other? 
Go  to !  I  read  it  in  thine  eyes. 
Though  thou  singest  and  art  gay,  thy  secret  bravely  keep- 
ing, 
That  I  may  not  be  sad,  yet  all  alone  thou  'rt  weeping. 
My  heart  aches  for  thy  miseries ; 


124         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

Yet  leave  her  for  thy  good,  Pascal  ! 

She  would  so  scorn  a  smith  like  thee, 

With  sire  grown  old  in  penury: 

For  poor  we  are;  thou  knowest  all,  — 

How  we  have  sold  and  sold  till  barely  a  scythe  remains  * 

Oh,  dark  the  days  this  house  hath  seen, 

Pascal,  since  thou  hast  ailing  been ! 

Now  thou  art  well,  arouse  thee!    do  something  for  our 

gains; 
Or  rest  thee,  if  thou  wilt;  we  can  suffer,  we  can  fight: 
But,  for  God's  love,  go  thou  not  forth  to-night!  " 

After  a  short  struggle  with  himself,  Pascal 
yielded,  and  turned  away  to  his  forge  in  silent 
dejection,  and  soon  the  anvil  was  ringing,  and 
the  sparks  were  flying,  while  away  down  in  the 
village  the  busking  went  merrily  on.  "  If  the 
prettiest  were  always  the  most  capable,"  says 
the  sensible  poet,  "  how  much  my  Frangonette 
would  have  accomplished  ;  "  but,  instead,  she 
flitted  from  place  to  place,  idle  and  gay,  jesting, 
singing,  and,  as  usual,  bewitching  all.  At  last 
Thomas,  the  friend  of  whom  Pascal  had  spoken 
to  his  mother,  asked  leave  to  sing  a  song ;  and, 
fixing  his  keen  eyes  upon  the  coquette,  he  began 
in  tones  of  lute-like  sweetness  :  — 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  125 


THE  SIEEX  WITH  THE  HEART  OF  ICE. 

Thou  whom,  the  swains  environ, 

O  maid  of  wayward  will, 
O  icy-hearted  siren, 
The  hour  we  all  desire  when 

Thou  too,  thou  too  shalt  feel  ! 
Thy  gay  wings  thou  dost  nutter, 
Thy  airy  nothings  utter, 
"While  the  crowd  can  only  mutter, 
In  ecstasy  complete, 
At  thy  feet. 
Yet  hark  to  one  who  proves  thee 

Thy  victories  are  vain, 
Until  a  heart  that  loves  thee 

Thou  hast  learned  to  love  again ! 

Sunshine,  the  heavens  adorning, 

We  welcome  with  delight ; 
But  thy  sweet  face  returning, 
With  every  Sunday  morning, 

Is  yet  a  rarer  sight. 
We  love  thy  haughty  graces, 
Thy  swallow-like  swift  paces, 
Thy  song  the  soul  upraises, 

Thy  lips,  thine  eyes,  thy  hair,  — 
All  are  fair. 
Yet  hark  to  one  who  proves  thee,  etc. 

Thy  going  from  them  widows 
All  places  utterly. 


126         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

The  hedgerows  and  the  meadows 
Turn  scentless ;  gloomy  shadows 

Discolor  the  blue  sky. 
Then,  when  thou  comest  again, 
Farewell  fatigue  and  pain ! 
Life  glows  in  every  vein. 

O'er  every  slender  finger 

We  would  linger. 
I"et  hark  to  one  who  proves  thee,  etc. 

Thy  pet  dove,  in  his  flitting, 

Doth  warn  thee,  lady  fair! 
Thee,  in  the  wood  forgetting; 
Brighter  for  his  dim  setting 

He  shines,  for  love  is  there  * 
Love  is  the  life  of  all, 
Oh  answer  thou  his  call, 
Lest  the  flower  of  thy  days  fall, 
And  the  grace  whereof  we  wot 
Be  forgot ! 
For,  till  great  love  shall  move  thee, 

Thy  victories  are  vain. 
'T  is  little  men  should  love  thee; 

Learn  thou  to  love  again. 

There  arose  a  clamor  of  approbation  and  cries 
for  the  name  of  the  composer,  which  Thomas 
gave  without  hesitation  — Pascal.  Frangonette 
was  unwontedly  touched,  and  yet  more  when, 
in  reply  to  some  inquiry  about  his  absence  that 
night,  she   heard   Thomas   explaining   that   his 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  127 

friend  had  been  six  months  ill  from  the  se- 
vere wound  which  he  received  in  defence  of 
Frangonette ;  and  that  the  family,  dependent 
on  his  labor,  had  sunk  into  extreme  poverty. 
But  she  concealed  her  emotion  sedulously,  and 
was  in  the  midst  of  a  game  of  sarro  coutelou, 
cache  couteau,  or  hunt  the  slipper,  and  the  life 
of  it,  when  a  sudden  misfortune  interrupted 
their  sport.  Amid  her  struggles  to  free  herself 
from  Laurent,  —  who  had  caught  her  and  was 
claiming  the  customary  forfeit,  —  Franc onette 
caused  him  to  slip  on  the  floor,  and  it  presently 
appeared  that  his  arm  was  broken.  Precisely 
at  this  unlucky  moment,  a  sombre  apparition 
dawned  on  the  assembty :  — 

A  grim  old  man  above  them  peered, 
With  girdle  swept  by  flowing  beard; 
'T  was  the  Black  Forest  Wizard  !    All  knew  him,  and  all 

feared. 
"  Wretches,"  he  said,  "  I  am  come  from  my  gloomy  rocks 

up  yonder 
To  open  your  eyes,  being  filled  with  ruth  for  you,  and 

wonder ! 
You  all  adore  this  Franconette, 

Learn  who  she  is,  infatuate!  — 
Her  sire,  a  poor  man  and  an  evil, 

While  yet  the  babe  in  cradle  sate, 
Went  over  to  the  Huguenots,  and  sold  her  to  the  Devil  ! 


128         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

Her  mother  is  dead  of  grief  and  shame, 
And  thus  the  demon  plays  his  game :  — 

Full  closely  doth  he  guard  his  slave, 
Unseen,  he  tracks  her  high  and  low. 
See  Laurent  and  Pascal  !  Did  both  not  come  to  woe, 

Just  for  one  light  embrace  she  gave  ? 
Be  warned  in  time !     For  whoso  dares  this  maid  to  wed, 
Amid  the  brief  delight  of  his  first  nuptial  night, 
Suddenly  hears  a  dreadful  thunder-peal  o'erhead! 
The  Demon  cometh  in  his  might 
To  snatch  the  bride  away  in  flight, 
And  leave  the  ill-starred  bridegroom  —  dead." 

The  wizard  spake  no  more,  but  angry  fiery  rays, 

From  the  scars  his  visage  bore,  seemed  suddenly  to  blaze. 

Four  times  he  turned  his  heel  upon, 
Then  bade  the  door  stand  wide  or  ever  his  foot  he  stayed. 
With  one  long  groan  the  door  obeyed, 

And  lo,  the  bearded  man  was  gone! 

But  left  what  horror  in  his  wake !    Xone  stirred  in  all  that 

throng. 
Only  the  stricken  maid  herself  stood  brave  against  her 

wrong; 
And  in  the  hope  forlorn  that  all  might  pass  for  jest, 
With  tremulous  smile,  half  bright,  half  pleading, 

She  swept  them  with  her  eyes,  and  two  steps  forward 

pressed : 
But  when  she  saw  them  all  receding, 
And  heard  them  say,  "  Avaunt  !  "  her  fate 
She  knew.     Then  did  her  eves  dilate 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  129 

With  speechless  terror  more  and  more ; 
The  while  her  heart  beat  fast  and  loud, 
Till  with  a  cry  her  head  she  bowed, 

And  sank  in  swoon  npon  the  floor. 

It  is  very  characteristic  of  Jasmin  that  he 
pauses  at  this  crisis  of  the  story,  earnestly 
to  explain  and  excuse  the  dense  superstition 
of  his  country-folk  at  that  period,  whereby 
it  came  to  pass  that  the  once  radiant  and  tri- 
umphant Frangonette  was  shunned  thencefor- 
ward as  an  accursed  thing.  These  frequent 
confidences  of  the  poet  with  his  reader  are  so 
perfectly  unstudied  that  they  add  wonderfully 
to  the  vraisemblance  of  his  tale.  The  third  canto 
opens  with  a  lovely  picture  of  a  cottage  by  a 
leafy  brook-side  in  Estanquet,  one  of  the  ham- 
lets adjacent  to  Roquefort  (and  where  tradition 
still  identifies  the  home  of  Frangonette).  There, 
when  the  next  spring  opened,  the  "jealous 
birds  "  listened  in  vain  for  a  girlish  voice,  the 
music  of  which  in  years  gone  by  had  been 
sweeter  than  their  own.  At  last  the  nightin- 
gales, more  curious  than  the  rest,  made  their 
way  into  the  maid's  garden,  —  and  what  did 
thejr  see  ?    Her  straw  hat  lay  on  a  bench  ;  there 

9 


130         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

was  no  ribbon  about  the  crown.  Her  rake  and 
watering-pot  were  dropped  among  her  neglected 
jonquils  ;  the  branches  of  her  rose-trees  ran  riot. 
Peering  yet  farther,  even  inside  the  cottage- 
door,  these  curious  birds  discovered  an  old 
woman  asleep  in  an  arm-chair,  and  a  pale,  quiet 
girl  beside  her,  who,  from  time  to  time,  let  fall 
a  tear  upon  her  little  hands.  "  It  is  Frango- 
nette,"  says  the  poet.  "  You  will  have  guessed 
that  already." 

On  the  terrible  New- Year's  Eve  just  described, 
when  Franconette  had  lied  for  shelter  to  the 
arms  of  her  good  old  grandmother,  the  latter 
had  soothed  her  as  best  she  might,  by  solemn 
assurances  that  the  sorcerer's  cruel  charge  was 
false.  But  how  could  it  be  proved  so,  save  by 
Frangonette's  father,  whose  whereabouts  no  one 
knew,  even  if  he  were  alive,  so  long  ago  had  he 
vanished  from  the  place?  For  the  remainder*of 
the  winter  the  two  women  lived  almost  alone, 
neglected  by  all  their  neighbors,  and  scarce  vent- 
uring abroad.  Only  with  the  return  of  spring, 
one  sweet  gleam  of  hope  had  come  to  Fran<jo- 
nette  with  the  rumor  that  Pascal  defended  her 
everywhere,  and  boldly  declared  her  to  be  the 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  131 

victim  of  a  brutal  plot.  She  was  dreaming  of 
his  goodness  even  now,  and  it  was  this  which 
had  softened  her  proud  spirit  to  tears.  But  her 
trance  was  dispelled  by  a  sudden,  sharp  cry  from 
the  aged  sleeper :  — 

Then  sprang  she  to  her  side  and  found  her  open-eyed, 
And  caught  the  awesome  word,  "Is  the  wall  not  all  a- 

flame?  " 
And  then,  -"  Ah,  'twas   a   dream!     Thank   God!"   the 

murmur  came. 
"  Dear  heart,"  the  girl  said  softly,  "  what  was  this  dream 

of  thine?  " 
uO  love,  'twas   night;   and  loud,   ferocious   men,   me- 

thought, 
Were  lighting  fires  all  round  our  cot, 
And  thou  didst  cry  unto  them,  daughter  mine, 
To  save  me  ;  but  didst  vainly  strive, 
And  here  we  two  must  burn  alive ! 
Oh  torment  that  I  bare!     How  shall  I  cure  my  fright? 
Come  hither,  darling,  let  me  hold  thee  tight!  " 

Then  the  white-headed  dame,  in  withered  arms  of  love, 

Long  time  with  yearning  tenderness 

Folded  the  brown-haired  girl,  who  strove 

By  many  a  smile  and  mute  caress 

To  hearten  her,  until  at  length 

The  aged  one  cried  out,  for  that  love  gave  her  strength, 

"  Sold  to  the  demon?     Thou!     It  is  a  hideous  lie ! 

Wherefore  weep  not  so  patiently 


132         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROU VERES. 

And  childlike,  but  take  heart  once  more, 

For  thou  art  lovelier  than  before. 

Take  granny's  word  for  that!     Arise, 

Go  forth !     Who  hides  from  envious  eyes 

The  thirst  of  envy  slakes.     I  have  heard  so  o'er  and  o'er! 

Also  I  know  full  well  there  is  one  who  loves  thee  yet; 

Only  a  word  lie  waiteth  to  claim  thee  for  his  own. 

Thou  likest  not  Marcel?     But  he  could  guard  thee,  pet, 

And  I  am  all  too  feeble  grown. 

Or  stay,  my  darling,  stay!     To-morrow 's  Easter  day ; 

Go  thou  to  Mass,  and  pray  as  ne'er  before! 

Then  take  the  blessed  bread,  if  so  the  good  God  may 

The  precious  favor  of  his  former  smile  restore; 

And,  on  thy  sweet  face,  clear  as  day, 

Prove  thou  art  numbered  with  his  children  evermore." 

Then  such  a  light  of  hope  lit  the  faded  face  again, 

Furrowed  so  deep  with  years  and  pain, 

That,  falling  on  her  neck,  the  maiden  promised  well; 

And  once  more  on  the  white  cot  silence  fell. 


When,  therefore,  on  the  morrow,  came  all  the  country- 
side 
To  list  the  hallelujahs  in  the  Church  of  Saint-Pierre, 
Great  was  their  wonderment  who  spied 
The  maiden  Franconette  silently  kneeling  there, 
Telling  her  beads  with  downcast  eyes  of  prayer. 
She  hath  need,  poor  little  thing,  Heaven's  mercy  to  im- 
plore ! 
Xever  a  woman's  will  she  win, 
For  these,  beholding  her  sweet  mien, 
And  Marcel  and  Pascal  who  eyed  her  fondly  o'er, 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  133 

Smote  her  with  glances  black  as  night ; 

Then,  shrinking  back,  left  her  alone, 

Midway  of  a  great  circle,  as  they  might 

Some  guilty  and  condemned  one, 

Branded  upon  his  brow  in  sight. 

Nor  was  this  all.     A  man  well  known, 

Warden  and  uncle  to  Marcel, 

Carried  the  blessed  Easter  bread, 

And  like  a  councillor  did  swell 

In  long-tailed  coat,  with  pompous  tread. 

But  when  the  trembling  maid,  signing  the  cross,  essayed 

To  take  a  double  portion,  as  the  dear  old  grandame  bade, 

Bight  in  the  view  of  every  eye 

The  sacred  basket  he  withdrew,  and  passed  her  wholly  by. 

And  so,  denied  her  portion  of  the  bread  whereby  we  live, 

She,  on  glad  Easter,  doth  receive 

Dismissal  from  God's  house  for  aye! 

Death-sick  with  fear,  she  deemeth  all  is  lost  indeed. 

But  no,  —  she  hath  a  friend  at  need. 

Pascal  hath  seen  her  all  the  while ; 

Pascal's  young  foot  is  on  the  aisle; 

He  is  making  the  quest,  and,  nothing  loath, 

In  view  of  uncle  and  of  nephew,  both, 

Quietly  doth  to  her  present 

Upon  a  silver  plate,  with  fair  flowers  blossoming, 

The  crown-piece  '  of  the  holy  element,  — 

And  all  the  world  beholds  the  thing. 

1  A  custom  formerly  prevailed  in  some  parts  of  France,  and 
was  brought  thence  by  emigrants  to  Canada,  where  it  flourished 
not  long  ago,  of  crowning  the  sacramental  bread  by  one  or 
more  frosted,  or  otherwise  ornamented,  cakes,  which  were  re- 
served for  the  family  of  the  Seigneur,  or  other  communicants 
of  distinction. 


134        TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

O  moment  full  of  sweetness!     Her  blood   sprang  into 
fleetness, 

Warmth  was  in  all  her  frame,  and  her  senses  thrilled 

once  more, 
As  the  body  of  God,  arisen 
Out  of  its  deathly  prison, 
Could  life  unto  her  own  restore. 
But  wherefore  did  her  brow  suddenly  rosy  grow? 
Because  the  angel  of  love,  I  trow, 
Did  with  his  glowing  breath  impart 

Life  to  the  flame  long  smouldering  in  her  wayward  heart,  — 
Because  a  something  strange,  and  passing  all  desire, 
As  honey  sweet,  and  quick  as  fire, 
Did  her  sad  soul  illuminate 
With  a  new  being;  and,  though  late, 
She  knew  the  name  of  her  delight,  — 
The  fair  enigma  she  could  guess. 
People  and  priest  vanished  from  sight, 
And  she  saw  in  all  the  church  only  one  man  aright,  — 
He  whom  she  loved  at  last  with  utmost  gratefulness. 

Leave  we  the  throng  dispersing,  and  eagerly  conversing 

Of  all  I  here  have  been  rehearsing, 

But  lose  not  sight  of  her  at  all, 

Who  hath  borne  the  bread  of  honor  to  the  ancient  dame 

ere  this, 
And  sitteth  now  alone,  shut  in  her  chamber  small, 
Face  to  face  with  her  new-found  bliss. 

First  fall  of  happy  dew  the  parched  lands  to  quicken, 
First  mild  sun-ray  in  winter,  ye  are  less  welcome  far 
Unto  the  earth  with  sorrow  stricken 
Than  these  mysterious  transports  are 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  135 


To  the  dazed  maiden  dreaming  there, 
Forgetful  of  her  heavy  care, 
And  softly  in  her  spirit  moving 
To  the  name-new  delight  of  loving. 


From  evil  tongues  withdrawn,  did  she  — 

As  do  we  all  —  sink  open-eyed  in  reverie, 

And  built,  with  neither  hammer  nor  stone, 

A  small  fair  castle  of  her  own, 

Where  shone  all  things  in  Pascal's  light,  and  cheer  and 

rest 
Flowed  like  a  living  brook.     Ah,  yes,  the  sage  was  right! 
The  sorrowing  heart  aye  loveth  best. 
But  when  the  heart  controls  us  quite, 
Quick  turns  to  gall  the  honey  of  our  delight. 
Suddenly  she  remembers  all!     Her  heaven  turns  gray; 
A  dread  thought  smites  her  heavily,  — 
To  dream  of  love?     Why,  what  is  she? 
Sweet  love  is  not  for  her !     The  mighty  sorcerer 
Hath  said  she  is  sold  for  a  price,  —  a  foredoomed  murderer 
With  a  heart   of   devilish  wrath,  which  whoso  dares  to 

brave, 
And  lie  one  night  in  her  arms,  therein  shall  find  his  grave. 
She  to  see  Pascal  perish  at  her  side? 
"  0  my  good  God,  have  pity  on  me!  "  she  cried. 


So,  rent  with  cruel  agonies 

And  weeping  very  sore, 
Fell  the  poor  child  upon  her  knees 

Her  little  shrine  before. 


136         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES." 

"  0  holy  Virgin,"  sighing,  "  on  thee  alone  relying 

I  come.     I  am  all  astray!     Father  and  mother  too 

Are  dead  lang  syne,   and  I   accursed!     All  tongues  are 

crying 
The  hideous  tale!  yet  saye,  if  haply  it  be  true  ; 
Or  if  they  have  falsely  sworn,  be  it  on  my  soul  borne 
When  I  shall  bring-  my  taper  to  thy  church1  on  fete-day 

morn. 
Then,  blessed  mother,  let  me  see 
That  I  am  not  denied  of  thee!  " 

Brief  prayer  and  broken, 

If  truly  spoken, 

Doth  lightly  up  to  heaven  fly. 

Sure  t<»  have  wod  a  gracious  ear 

The  maid  her  purpose  holds,  and  ponders  momently, 

And  oftentimes  turns  sick,  ami  cannot  speak  for  fear, 

But  sometimes  taketh  heart,  and  sudden  hope  and  strong 

Shines  in  her  soul,  as  a  meteor  gleams  the  night  along. 

So  ends  the  third  canto,  and  the  fourth  and 
last  begins  with  the  dawn  of  the  fete  day  on 
which  are  fixed  Franconette's  desperate  hopes 
and  fears.  The  inhabitants  of  half-a-dozen  vil- 
lages,—  Puymirol,  Artigues,  Astaffort,  Lusig- 
nan,    Cardonnet,    Saint-Cirge,    and    Roquefort, 

1  Notre  Dame  de  bon  Encontre,  a  church  in  the  suburbs  of 
Agen  celebrated  for  its  legend,  its  miracles,  and  the  numerous 
pilgrimages  which  are  annually  made  to  it  in  the  month  of 
May. 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  137 

with  priests  and  crucifixes,  garlands  and  candles, 
banners  and  angels,1  are  mustering  at  the  church 
of  Notre  Dame  in  Agen,  and  somehow,  not  only 
is  the  tale  rife  among  them  of  the  maiden  who 
has  been  sold  to  the  demon,  but  the  rumor  cir- 
culates that  to-day  she  will  publicly  entreat  the 
blessed  Virgin  to  save  her.  The  strangers  are 
kinder  to  her  than  her  more  immediate  neigh- 
bors, and  from  many  a  pitying  heart  the  prayer 
goes  up  that  a  miracle  may  be  wrought  in  the 
beautiful  girl's  behalf.  She  feels  their  sympathy 
and  gathers  confidence.  And  now  the  special 
suppliants  are  passing  up  to  the  altar  one  by 
one,  —  anxious  mothers,  disappointed  lovers, 
the  orphaned,  and  the  childless.  They  kneel, 
they  ask  for  their  blessing,  they  present  their 
candles  for  the  old  surpliced  priest  to  bless,  and 
they  retire :  — 

Xor  did  a  sign  of  sorrow  on  any  suppliant  fall, 

Bnt  with  lightened  hearts  of  hope  their  ways  went  one 

and  all. 
So  Franconette  grew  happy  too, 
And  most  of  all,  because  Pascal  prayed  smiling  in  her 

view ; 

1  The  angels  walked  in  procession  and  sang  the  Angelus  at 
the  appropriate  hours. 


138         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

Yea,  dared  to  raise  her  eyes  to  the  holy  father's  own; 
For  it  seemed  to  her  that  love  and  lights  and  hymns  and 

incense,  too, 
Were  crying  "  grace,' '  in  sweet  unison. 
And  she  sighed,  "  Oh,  grace  divine,  and  love!  — let  these 

be  mine ! ' ' 
Then  straightway  lit  her  taper  and  followed  to  the  shrine, 
Bearing  flowers  in  her  other  hand;  and  every  one 
Kindly  gave  place,  and  bade  her  forward  move, 
Then  fixed  their  eyes  upon  the  priest  and  her, 
And  scarce  a  breath  was  drawn,  and  not  a  soul  did  stir, 
While  the  priest  laid  the  image  of  redeeming  love 
Upon  the  orphan's  lips.     But,  ere  her  kiss  was  given, 
Brake  a  terrific  peal,  as  it  would  rend  the  heaven, 
Darkening  her  taper  and  three  altar-lights  above! 
Oh,  what  is  this?     The  crashing  thunder, 
The  prayer  denied,  the  lights  put  out. 
"Good  God!    she  is  sold  indeed!     All,   all  is   true,  no 

doubt!" 
So  a  long  murmur  rose,  of  horror  and  of  wonder; 
And  while  the  maiden  breathlessly, 

Cowering  like  a  lost  soul  their  shuddering  glances  under, 
Crept  forth,  all  shrank  away  and  let  her  pass  them  by. 

Howbeit,  that  great  peal  was  but  the  opening  blow 

Of  a  wild  storm  and  terrible 

That  straightway  upon  Roquefort  fell. 

The  spire  of  Saint-Pierre  l  was  laid  in  ruin  low. 

And,  smitten  by  the  sharp  scourge  of  the  hail, 

In  all  the  region  round  men  could  but  weep  and  wail. 

1  The  ancient  parish  church   of  Roquefort,  whose  ruins 
only  now  remain. 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  139 

The  angel-bands  who  walked  that  day 
In  fair  procession,  hymns  to  sing, 
Turned  sorrowing,  all  save  one,  away, 
Or  a  pro  nobis  murmuring. 

But  in  those  early  times,  not  yet,  as  now, 

Her  perilous  waves  to  clear, 

To  other  jealous  towns  could  stately  Agen  show 

Great  bridges  three,  as  she  a  royal  city  were,  — 

Two  simple  barges  only,  by  poles  propelled  slow, 

Waited  the  sacred  minstrels  to  bear  them  to  Roquefort, 

To  whom  came  rumors  of  the  wide-spread  woe, 

Ere  landing  they  were  ranged  for  singing  on  the  shore. 

And  first  the  tale  but  half  they  heed; 

But  soon  they  see,  in  very  deed, 

Vineyards  and  happy  fields  with  hopeless  ruin  smit. 

Then  each  let  fall  his  banner  fair, 

And  lamentations  infinite 

Bent  on  all  sides  the  evening  air, 

Till,  o'er  the  swelling  throng  rose  deadly  clear  the  cry, 

u  And  still  we  spare  this  Franconette!  "    Then  suddenly, 

As  match  to  powder  laid,  the  word 

Set  all  on  fire,  and  there  were  heard 

Howls  of  "Ay,  ay,  the  wretch!   now  let  her  meet  her 

fate! 
She  is  the  cause  of  all,  't  is  plain! 
Once  hath  she  made  us  desolate, 
But  verily  shall  not  so  again." 
And  ever  the  press  grew,  and  wilder,  angrier,  too, 
And  ' '  Hunt  her  off  the  face  of  the  earth ! ' '  shrieked  one 

anew. 


140         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

"  At,  hunt  her  to  death !  'T  is  meet !  "  a  thousand  tongues 

repeat ; 
And  the  tempest  in  the  skies  cannot  with  this  compete. 
Oh,  tli en,  to  have  seen  them  as  they  came 
With  clenched  fists  and  eyes  aflame, 

You  had  said,  "  Hell  doth  indeed  its  demons  all  unchain." 
And  while  the  storm  recedes,  and  the  night  is  growing 

clear, 
Hot  poison  shoots  through  eTery  vein 
Of  the  possessed  madmen  here. 

Thus  goaded  they  themselves  to  crime;  but  where  was 

she, 
Unhappy  Franconette?     To  her  own  cottage  driven, 
She  worshipped  her  one  relic,  sadly,  dreamily, 
And  whispered  to  the  withered  flowers  Pascal  had  given, 
11  Dear  nosegay,  when  I  saw  thee  first, 
Methought  thy  sweetness  was  divine, 
And  I  did  drink  it,  heart-athirst ; 
But  now  thou  art  not  sweet  as  erst, 
Because  these  wicked  thoughts  of  mine 
Have  blasted  all  thy  beauty  rare. 
I  am  sold  to  the  powers  of  ill,  and  Heaven  hath  spurned 

my  prayer ! 
My  love  is  deadly  love!     Xo  hope  on  earth  have  I! 
So,  treasure  of  my  heart,  flowers  of  the  meadow  fair, 
Because  I  love  the  hand  that  gathered  you,  good-by! 
Pascal  must  not  love  such  as  I ! 
He  must  the  accursed  maid  forswear, 
AYho  yet  to  God  for  him  doth  cry. 
In  wanton  merriment  last  year 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  141 

Even  at  love  laughed  Franconette : 
&  ft  7 

Now  is  my  condemnation  clear. 

Now  whom  I  love,  I  must  forget. 

Sold  to  the  demon  at  my  birth,  — 

My  God,  how  can  it  be?     Have  I  not  faith  in  thee? 

0  blessed  blossoms  of  the  earth, 

Let  me  drive  with  my  cross  the  evil  one  from  me ! 

And  thou,  my  mother,  in  the  starry  skies  above, 

And  thou,  my  guardian,  Mother  of  God, 

Pity !     I  love  Pascal !     Must  part  from  him  I  love ! 

Pity  the  maid  accursed,  by  the  rod 

Sore  smitten,  to  the  earth  down-trod; 

Help  me  the  heart  divine  to  move!  " 

"  Franconette,  little  one,  what  means  thy  plaintive  moan?  " 

So  spake  the  hoary  dame.     "  Didst  thou  not  smiling  say 

Our  Lady  did  receive  thy  offering  to-day? 

But  sure,  no  happy  heart  e'er  made  so  sad  a  moan! 

Thou  hast  deceived  me!     Some  new  ill,"  she  said, 

"  Hath  fallen  upon  us!  "     "  Nay,  not  so.     Be  comforted; 

1  —  I  —  am  happy. "     "So,  my  deary, 
God  grant  some  respite  we  may  have, 
For  sorrow  of  thine  doth  dig  my  grave, 

And  this  hath  been  a  lonesome,  fearsome  day,  and  weary; 
That  cruel  dream  of  the  fire  I  had  a  while  ago, 
However  I  strove,  did  haunt  me  so! 

And  then,  thou  knowest  the  storm;  anew  1  was  terrified, 
So  that  to-night,  meseems,  I  shudder  at  nought  "  — 

What  sudden  roar  is  this  outside? 

"  Fire!     Fire!     Let  us  burn  them  in  their  cot!  " 

Shine  all  the  cracks  in  the  old  shutter  gaping  wide ; 


142         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

And  Franconette  springs  to  the  doorway  tremblingly, 

And,  gracious  Heaven!  what  doth  she  see? 

By  the  light  of  the  burning  rick, 

An  angry  people  huddled  thick ; 

She  hears  them  shout:  "  Xow,  to  your  fate! 

Spare  neither  the  young  one,  nor  the  old; 

Both  work  us  ruin  manifold. 

Off  with   thee,   child  of  wrath!   or  we  will  roast  thee, 

straight!  " 
Then  cried  the  girl  on  her  knees  to  the  cruel  populace, 
"  You  will  slay  my  granny  with  your  very  words!  "  and 

prayed  for  grace. 
But  when,  in  their  infuriate  blindness,  heed  they  take 
Of  the  poor  pleader  in  her  unbound  hair, 
They  only  think  they  see  her,  then  and  there, 
Torn  by  the  rage  demoniac, 
And  all  the  fiercer  cry,  "  A  vaunt!  " 
While  the  more  savage  forward  spring, 
And  their  feet  on  the  threshold  plant, 
Fragments  of  blazing  cord  in  their  arms  brandishing. 

"Hold!  I  command  you,  hold!"  cried  one,  before  un- 
heard ; 

And  a  man  leaped  into  the  crowd  like  lightning  with  the 
word,  — 

One  whom  we  know,  —  and  over  all 

His  voice  uplifted  thus  Pascal: 

11  What!  will  ye  murder  women,  then? 

Children  of  God,  and  you,  the  same ; 

Or  are  ye  tigers,  and  not  men? 

And  after  all  they  have  suffered!     Shame! 


JACQUES  J  ASM  IX.  143 

Fall  back,  fall  back,  I  say !     The  walls  are  growing  hot !  " 

';  Then  let  them  quit  for  aye  our  shore! 

They  are  Huguenots  —  knowest  thou  not?  — long  since  by 

the  demon  bought; 
God  smites  because  we  drave  them  not  before." 
"  Quick,  bring  the  other  forth,  or  living  she  will  burn! 
Ye  dogs,  who  moved  you  to  this  crime? 
It  was  the  wroth  Marcel!     See  where  he  comes  in  time!  " 
"  Thou  liest!  "  the  soldier  thundered  in  his  turn; 
u  I  love  her,  boaster,  more  than  thou!  " 
1  'How   wilt   thou   prove   thy   love,    thou   of    the   tender 

heart?" 
"I  am  come  to  save  her  life!     I  am  come  to  take  her 

part ! 
I  am  come,  if  so  she  will,  to  marry  her,  even  now!  " 

"  And  so  am  I."  replied  Pascal;  and  steadfastly. 

Before  his  rival's  eyes,  bound  as  by  some  great  spell, 

Unto  the  orphan  girl  turned  he 

With  worship  all  unspeakable. 

"  Answer  us,  Franconette.  and  speak  the  truth  alone! 

Thou  art  followed  from  place  to  place,  by  spite  and  scorn, 

my  own; 
But  we  two  love  thee  well,  and  ready  are  to  brave 
Death,  ay,  or  helh  thy  life  to  save. 
Choose  which  of  us  thou  wilt!  "     lc  Xay,"  she  lamented 

sore, 
"  Dearest,  mine  is  a  love  that  slays. 
Be  happy  then  without  me!     Forget  me;  go  thy  ways!  " 
14  Happy  without  thee,  dear?     That  can  I  never  more! 
Nay,  were  it  true,  as  lying  rumor  says, 


144         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROU VERES. 

An  evil  spirit  ruled  thee  o'er, 

I  would  rather  die  with  thee  than  live  bereaved  days!  " 

When  life  is  at  its  bitterest 

The  voice  of  love  aye  rules  us  best. 

Instantly  rose  the  girl  above  her  mortal  dread, 

And,  on  the  crowd  advancing  straight, 

"  Because  I  love  Pascal,  alone  I  would  meet  my  fate. 

Howbeit,  his  will  is  law,"  she  said, 

"  Wherefore  together  let  our  souls  be  sped." 

Then  was  Pascal  in  heaven,  Marcel  in  the  dust  laid  low, 

Whom  amid  all  the  quaking  throng  his  rival  sought, 

Crying,  l\  I  am  more  blessed  than  thou.     Forgive!     Thou 

art  brave,  I  know; 
Some  squire  should  follow  me  to  death,  and  wilt  thou 

not? 
Serve   me!     I  have   no   other   friend."     Marcel   seemed 

dreaming, 
And  now  lie  scowled  with  wrath,  and  now  his  eye  grew 

kind; 
Terrible  was  the  battle  in  his  mind 
Till  his  eye  fell  on  Franconette,  serene  and  beaming, 
But  with  no  word  for  him.     Then  pale  but  smilingly, 
"  Because  it  is  her  will,"  he  said,  "  I  follow  thee." 

Two  weeks  had  passed  away,  and  a  strange  nuptial  train 
Adown  the  verdant  hill  wound  slowly  to  the  plain. 
First  came  the  comely  pair  we  know  in  all  their  bloom, 
While,  gathered  from  far  and  wide,  three  deep  on  either 

side, 
The  ever  curious  rustics  hied, 
Shuddering  at  heart  o'er  Pascal's  doom. 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  145 

Marcel  conducts  their  march,  but  pleasure's  kindly  hue 

Glows  not  on  the  unmoving  face  he  lifts  to  view, 

And  something  glances  from  his  eye 

Which  makes  men  shudder  as  they  pass  him  by. 

Yet  verily  his  mien  triumphant  is ;  at  least 

Sole  master  is  he  of  this  feast, 

And  gives  his  rival,  for  bouquet, 

A  supper  and  a  ball  to-day. 

But,  at  the  dance  and  at  the  board 

Alike,  scarce  one  essayed  a  word; 

None  sang  a  song,  none  raised  a  jest, 

For  dark  forebodings  that  oppressed. 

And  the  betrothed,  by  love's  deep  rapture  fascinated, 

Silent  on  the  sheer  edge  of  fate  the  end  awaited. 

No  sound  their  dream  dispelled,  but  hand  in  hand  did 

press, 
And  eyes  looked  ever  on  a  visioned  happiness. 
And  so,  at  last,  the  evening  fell. 

Then  one  affrighted  woman  suddenly  brake  the  spell. 
She  came.     She  fell  on  Pascal's  neck.     "  Fly,  son!  "  she 

cried ; 
' '  I  am  come  from  the  sorceress  even  now !     Fly  thy  false 

bride ! 
For  the  fatal  sieve !  hath  turned ;   thy  death  decree   is 

spoken ! 

1  Lou  sedas.  The  sedas  is  a  sieve  of  raw  silk  used  for  sift- 
ing flour.  It  has  also  a  singular  use  in  necromancy.  When 
one  desires  to  know  the  name  of  the  author  of  an  act,  —  a 
theft,  for  instance,  —  the  sieve  is  made  to  revolve,  but  woe  to 
him  whose  name  is  spoken  just  as  the  sieve  stops. 

10 


146    TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

There  's  a  sulphur  fume  in  the  bridal  room,  by  the  same 

dread  token. 
Enter  it  not!     If  thou  livest,  thou  art  lost,"  she  said, 
11  And  what  were  life  to  me  if  thou  wert  dead?  " 

Then  Pascal  felt  his  eyelids  wet, 
And  turned  away,  striving  to  hide  his  face;  whereon, 

"  Ingrate!  "  the  mother  shrieked,  "  but  I  will  save  thee 
yet; 
Thou  wilt  not  dare  "  —  and  fell  at  the  feet  of  her  son  — 
'•  Thou  shalt  pass  over  my  body,  sure  as  thou  goest  forth! 
A  wif  '.  it  Beems,  is  all,  and  a  mother  nothing  worth; 

Unhappy  that  I  am!  "  All  wept  aloud  for  woe. 

"Marcel  !"  the  bridegroom  said,   "her  grief  is  my  de- 
spair; 
But  love,  thou  knowest,  is  stronger  yet.   'T  is  time  to  go ! 
Only,  if  I  should  die,  my  mother  be  thy  care." 

u  I  can  no  more!    Thy  mother  hath  conquered  here," 
The  sturdy  soldier  said,  and  he  too  brushed  a  tear. 

11  Prythee  take  courage,  friend  of  mine! 
Thy  Frangonette  is  good  and  pure; 

Yon  tale  was  told  of  dark  design. 
But  give  thy  mother  thanks :  but  for  her  coming,  sure 

This  night  had  seen  my  death  and  thine." 
"  What  sayest  thou?  "     "  Hush !  I  wilt  tell  thee  all. 
Thou  knowest  I  loved  this  maid,  Pascal; 
For  her,  like  thee,  I  would  have  shed  my  blood. 
And  I  dreamed  I  was  loved  again, — she  held  me  so  in 

thrall,  — 
Albeit  my  prayer  was  aye  withstood. 


JACQUES  JASMIN,  147 

She  knew  her  elders  promised  her  to  me, 
And  so,  when  other  suitors  barred  my  way,  in  spite, 

Saying,  '  In  love  as  in  war  one  may  use  strategy,' 
I  gave  the  wizard  gold,  my  rivals  to  affright. 

Thereafter  chance  did  all;  insomuch  that  I  said, 
My  treasure  is  already  won ; 

But  when,  in  the  same  breath,  we  two  our  suit  made 
known, 

And  when  I  saw  her,  without  turn  of  head 
Toward  my  despair,  choose  thee,  it  was  not  to  be  borne! 
I  vowed  her  death,  and  thine,  and  mine,  ere  morrow  morn ! 

I  had  thought  to  lead  you  forth  to  the  bridal  bower  ere- 
long, 
And  there,  the  bed  beside,  which  I  had  mined  with  care, 
To  say,  i  Xo  prince  of  the  power  of  the  air 

Is  here !     I  burn  you  for  my  wrong. 
Ay,  cross  yourselves,'  quoth  I,  '  for  you  shall  surely  die! ' 
And  the  folk  had  seen  us  three  together  fly ! 

"  But  thy  mother,  with  her  tears,  hath  put  my  vengeance 

out. 
I  thought  of  my  own,  Pascal,  who  died  so  long  ago. 
Care  thou  for  thine !     Thou  hast  nought  to  fear  from  me, 

I  trow ; 
Eden  is  coming  down  to  earth  for  thee,  no  doubt, 
But  I,  whom  men  henceforth  can  only  hate  and  flout, 
Will  to  the  wars  away!  for  something  in  me  saith, 
I  may  recover  from  my  rout 

Better  than  by  a  crime,  —  ay,  by  a  soldier's  death!  " 
Saying,  he  vanished;  and  loud  cheers  broke  forth  on  every 

side, 


148         TROUBADOURS  AND    TROUVERES. 

The  while,  with  deepening  blushes,  the  Wain  each  other 

eyed, 
As  they  were  suddenly  timid  grown. 

For  now  the  morning  stars  in  the  dark  heaven  shone  — 
1  lift  my  pencil  here,  my  breath  comes  hurriedly; 
Colors  for  strife  and  pain  have  I, 
Bui  for  their  perfect  rapture  —  none.1 

And  bo  the  morning  came  with  softly  dawning  light; 

and,  no  stir,  as  yet,  inside  the  cottage  white, 
Albeit,  at  Estanquet,  three  hamlets  gathered  were 
To  wait  the  waking  of  the  wedded  pair. 

Marcel  had  told  the  whole  unhappy  truth.     Nathless, 
The  devil  was  mighty  in  those  days; 

Some  fear  for  the  bridegroom  yet,  and  guess 
At  strange  mischance.     "In  the  night  wild  cries  were 

heard,"  one  says; 
One  hath  seen  shadows  dance  on  the  wall  in  wondrous 
ways. 
Lives  Pascal  yet?     None  dares  to  dress 
The  spiev  broth  '2  to  leave  beside  the  nuptial  door; 
And  so  another  hour  goes  o'er. 

Then  floats  a  lovely  strain  of  music  overhead, 

1  The  reader  will  he  reminded  of  William  Morris,  at  the  close 
of  his  exquisite  story  of  Psyche  :  — 

"  My  lyre  is  hut  attuned  to  tears  and  pain ; 
How  can  I  sing  the  never-ending  day  ?  " 

2  Lou  tourrin,  a  highly-spiced  onion  soup,  which  is  carried  by 
the  wedding  guests  to  the  bridegroom  at  a  late  hour  of  the 
night. 


JACQUES  JASMIN.  149 

A  sweet  refrain  oft  heard  before, 

'T  is  the  aubado 1  offered  to  the  newly  wed. 

So  the  door  opes  at  last,  and  the  young  pair  are  seen; 
And  she,  though  flushing  for  the  folk,  with  friendly  hand 

and  mien, 
The  fragments  of  her  garter  gives, 
And  every  woman  two  receives. 

Then  winks  and  words  of  ruth  from  eye  and  lip  are  passed, 
And  the  luck  of  our  Pascal  makes  envious  all  at  last ; 
For  the  poor  lads  whose  hearts,  I  ween,  are  healed  but 
slightly 

Of  their  first  passionate  pain, 
When  they  see  Franconette,  blossoming  rose-like,  brightly, 
All  dewy  fresh,  all  sweet  and  sightly, 

Cry,  "  We  will  ne'er  believe  in  sorcerers  again!  " 

The  action  of  the  poem  is  so  rapid  that,  in 
order  to  give  a  complete  outline  of  the  plot, 
and  some  notion  of  the  fine  discrimination  of 
character  which  it  contains,  I  have  been  obliged 
to  omit  some  descriptive  passages  of  extreme 
beauty.  M.  de  Lavergne  says  truly  of  "  Franco- 
nette," that  it  is,  of  all  Jasmin's  works,  the 
one  in  which  he  has  aimed  at  being  most  en- 
tirely  popular,  and  that  it  is,  at  the  same  time, 
the  most  noble  and  the  most  chastened.  He 
might  have    added,   the    most   chivalrous    also. 

1  A  song  of  early  morning,  corresponding  to  the  serenade  or 
evening  song. 


150         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

There  is  something  essentially  knightly  in  Pas- 
cal's cast  of  character,  and  it  is  singular  that,  at 
the  supreme  crisis  of  his  fate,  he  assumes,  as  if 
unconsciously,  the  very  phraseology  of  chivalry: 
"  Some  squire  (donzel)  should  follow  me  to 
(hath,"  etc.;  and  we  find  it  altogether  natural 
and  becoming  in  the  high-hearted  smith.  There 
are  many  places  where  Jasmin  addresses  his 
readers  directly  as  "  Messieurs  ;  "  where  the  con- 
text also  makes  it  evident  that  the  word  is 
emphatic ;  that  he  is  distinctly  conscious  of 
addressing  those  who  are  above  him  in  rank, 
and  that  the  proper  translation  is  "  gentles," 
or  even  "  masters  :  "  yet  no  poet  ever  lived  who 
was  less  of  a  sycophant.  The  rather  rude  wood- 
cut likeness  prefixed  to  the  popular  edition  of 
the  Gascon's  works  represents  a  face  so  widely 
unlike  all  well-known  modern  types,  that  one 
feels  sure  it  must  be  like  the  original.  Once 
seen  in  living  reality,  it  must  have  haunted  the 
memory  for  ever.  It  is  broad  and  massive  in 
feature,  shrewd  and  yet  sweet  in  expression, 
homely,  and  serenely  unconscious.  It  is  "  vilain 
et  tres  vilain"  in  every  line,  but  the  head  is  car- 
ried high,  with  something  more  than  a  courtier's 
dignity. 


THE    SONGS   OF   THE   TROUBADOURS. 

I. 

|"T  is  not  easy  to  say  how  much  of  the  interest 
of  the  new  Provengal  literature  is  due  to  the 
ancient  dignity  of  its  name,  and  to  a  kind  of  re- 
flected lustre  which  it  receives  from  the  far- 
away glories  of  the  old.  Yet  when  we  come  to 
look  carefully  for  the  connection  and  resem- 
blance between  the  two,  we  shall  be  surprised 
to  find  how  slight  these  are.  Nearly  all  the 
modern  literatures  of  Europe  owe  as  much  to 
the  early  Provencal  poetry,  as  does  the  literature 
of  the  Troubadours'  own  land.  Nay,  it  has 
seemed,  until  very  lately,  as  if  France  had  been 
the  smallest  heir  to  the  rich  legacy  of  modern 
song,  if  not  completely  disinherited.  The  truth 
is,  that  the  literature  of  the  troubadours,  childish 
in  spirit,  but  precociously  mature  and  beautiful 
in  form,  perished  early  by  violence  and  without 
issue.  Aliens  had  already  caught  the  spirit  of 
it,  and  imitated  its  music  with  more  or  less  sue- 


152         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

cess ;  but  six  hundred  years  were  to  elapse  be- 
fore a  school  of  poetry  would  arise  in  which  we 
might  reasonably  look  for  a  true  family  likeness 
to  this  the  first  untutored  outburst  of  modern 
minstrelsy.  The  likeness  may  be  traced,  no 
doubt,  but  it  is  faint  and  fleeting.  The  early 
Provencal  literature  stands  before  us  as  some- 
thing unique,  integral,  immortally  youthful,  and 
therefore  unconscious  of  its  own  range  and  limi- 
tations, pathetic  from  the  brevity  of  its  course, 
a  development  of  art  without  an  exact  parallel 
in  the  world's  history. 

There  lias  never  been  a  more  brilliant  analysis 
of  what  may  be  called  the  technique  of  the  trou- 
badour poetry  than  Sismondi's  in  his  u  Literature 
of  the  South  of  Europe."  He  does  no  less  than 
furnish  a  key  to  the  whole  mystery  of  modern 
versification,  and  whoever  would  study  that 
versification  as  an  art  ought  to  bestow  the  most 
careful  attention  on  Sismondi's  first  four  chap- 
ters. But  even  Sismondi  has  his  prepossessions  ; 
and  in  particular  we  are  inclined  to  think  that 
he  lays  too  much  stress  on  the  influence  of  the 
Arabs,  at  least  over  the  forms  of  modern  verse. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  the  frequent  incursions 


SOXGS   OF   THE   TROUBADOURS.  153 

of  the  Saracens  into  the  south  of  France,  dur- 
ing the  three  centuries  preceding  a.d.  1000, 
influenced  powerfully  the  imagination  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Provence,  and  furnished  them 
with  subjects  for  an  abundant  ballad  literature 
of  a  crude  order,  slight  but  sufficient  traces  of 
which  remain.  But  the  mutual  aversion  of 
Christian  and  infidel  was  then  at  its  height ; 
the  Mocarabins,  or  mixed  Arabians,  —  Chris- 
tian Goths,  who  under  special  circumstances 
accepted  the  amnesty  of  their  Mussulman  con- 
querors and  lived  peaceably  under  their  sway, 
and  on  wdiose  influence  in  diffusing  Orien- 
tal  culture  Sismondi  lays  great  stress,  —  wrere 
shunned  as  the  vilest  of  apostates  ;  and  although 
these  were  the  days  of  Haroun  Al  Raschid  and 
his  son,  Al  Mamoun,  under  whom  every  branch 
of  Moorish  art  flourished  amazingly,  there  seems 
no  good  reason  to  suppose  that  the  Christians 
borrowed  more  from  the  Saracens  in  the  depart- 
ment of  poetry  than  they  did  in  that  of  con- 
structive architecture  or  general  decoration. 
There  are  words  of  Arabian  origin  in  the  Ro- 
mance language,  and  there  are  many  more  of 
Greek  origin,  preserved  from  that  long  period 


15 J:         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

of  Greek  occupation  and  civilization  which  ante- 
dated even  the  Roman  conquest.  But  the  lan- 
guage as  a  whole  remains  Latin,  modified  by 
the  speech  of  the  northern  barbarians,  and  the 
first  of  a  family  of  such  languages  to  produce  a 
literature. 

And  as  with  the  form  of  this  literature,  so 
with  its  substance  and  inspiration.  We  have 
twhere  traced  what  seems  to  us  the  unbroken 
descent  —  through  the  Latin  hymnology  of  the 
earlier  Middle  Age — of  the  troubadour  meas- 
ures in  which,  as  in  all  modern  verse,  the  effect 
depends  upon  accent,  from  the  classic  measures 
in  which  the  effect  depends  upon  quantity.  It  is 
possible,  although  by  no  means,  certain,  that  the 
first  idea  of  those  terminal  rhymes  which  were 
destined  to  play  so  important  a  part  in  the  new 
poetry  may  have  been  derived  from  Oriental  com- 
positions, of  which  they  were  a  conspicuous  orna- 
ment. But  at  all  events,  it  was  in  the  cell  of 
the  Christian  monk  that  the  seeds  of  poetic  as 
of  all  other  culture  were  kept  and  fostered  as 
carefully  as  the  flowers  of  the  convent-garden, 
through  the  troubled  season  of  the  first  Chris- 
tian millennium.     During  that  most  dreary  time 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  155 

of  transition,  Christianity  was  slowly  spreading 
among  the  half-savage  races  which  had  replaced 
the  Romans  and  their  colonists  in  the  south  of 
Europe,  and  adopting  and  assimilating  to  itself 
certain  of  the  native  barbarian  ideas.  Promi- 
nent among  these  was  that  serious,  almost  su- 
perstitious respect  for  woman  which  seems  a 
birthright  of  the  northern  nations.  It  was  a 
notion  wholly  at  variance  with  the  view  of 
classic  paganism,  but  one  which  the  spirit  of 
Christianity  favored.  The  grand  primitive  pas- 
sion—  the  love  of  man  for  woman  —  received  a 
sort  of  theoretic  consecration,  and  the  virgin 
mother  of  Jesus  Christ  became  one  of  the  chief 
objects  of  public  worship.  And  then  in  the 
period  of  reaction  and  exhilaration  which  fol- 
lowed the  close  of  the  tenth  century,  and  the 
relief  from  that  harrowing  presentiment  of  the 
end  of  the  world  and  the  last  judgment  which 
had  prevailed  almost  everywhere  as  the  first 
millennial  year  approached,  at  the  time  also  of 
the  final  repulse  of  the  Saracens  in  the  south- 
west, —  then,  if  ever,  chivalry,  or  the  adventurous 
service  of  God  and  womankind,  took  systematic 
shape,  and  the  Crusades  were  its  first  outgrowth 


156         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUYERES. 

in  action,  and  the  love-poetry  of  the  trouba- 
dours, or  minstrels  of  the  south,  its  first  symmet- 
rical expression  in  art. 

Many  volumes  have  been  written  on  the  posi- 
tion and  profession  of  the  troubadour  ;  charming 
volumes,  too,  which  are  accessible  to  almost 
every  reader.  Yet  when  all  is  gathered  which 
can  be  certainly  known,  how  strange  a  phenom- 
enon lie  remains  to  our  modern  eyes!  How 
much  is  still  left  to  tie1  imagination  !  We  know 
that  he  was  usually  attached  to  the  household 
of  a  great  seignior  or  the  court  of  a  reigning 
sovereign,  and  was  a  frequent,  though,  as  it 
would  seem,  voluntary  attendant  on  their  dis- 
tant expeditions.  We  know  that  it  was  his 
metier,  or  at  any  rate  a  principal  part  of  it,  to 
select  some  lady  as  the  object,  for  the  time  being, 
of  his  formal  worship,  and  to  celebrate  her 
charms  and  virtues  in  those  melodious  numbers, 
the  secret  of  whose  infinitely  variable  beauty  he 
himself  never  ceased  to  regard  as  a  kind  of 
miraculous  discovery  or  revelation.  We  know 
that  while  the  singer  was  sometimes  even  of 
kingly  rank,  oftener  a  poor  cavalier  who  had 
need  to  live  upon  his  skill  in  finding,  and  oftener 


SOXGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  157 

yet  a  man  of  humble  birth  whom  genius  was 
readily  allowed  to  ennoble,  the  lady-love  was 
almost  always  of  exalted  station  ;  frequently,  by 
the  operation  of  the  Salic  law,  a  great  heiress 
in  her  own  right ;  and  that  hence  her  hand  was 
certain  to  have  been  disposed  of  for  prudential 
or  political  reasons  before  she  had  any  choice  in 
the  matter.  There  were  reasons,  therefore, 
besides  total  depravity,  why  she  was  regularly 
a   married  woman.1     We   know   that,  theoret- 


1  "  The  prolonged  barbarity  of  the  feudal  marriage  relation 
gave  rise  to  the  most  singular  moral  and  social  phenomena. 
Of  those  first  germs  of  civilization  which  we  have  seen  ferment- 
ing and  developing  themselves  in  the  eleventh  century,  that  new 
sentiment,  that  respectful  enthusiasm  which  even  then  tended 
to  become  the  principle  of  disinterested  actions,  was  the  most 
deep-rooted  and  the  most  energetic.  This  new  sentiment  how- 
ever could  not  manifest  itself  truly  and  become  a  moral  force, 
a  principle  of  heroism,  in  conjugal  relations.  ...  It  was 
rather  in  contradistinction  with  those  relations,  and  as  if  with 
a  view  to  compensate  for  their  defects,  that  the  love  of  chivalry 
developed  itself;  and  if  any  thing  can  aid  us  in  forming  a 
correct  conception  of  the  exaggerated  pretensions,  the  refine- 
ments, and  the  subtleties  of  this  love,  it  is  the  precarious  and 
interested  motives  of  the  feudal  marriage-tie.  The  sufferings 
to  which  women  were  exposed  as  wives  explain  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent the  adoration  which  they  exacted  and  obtained  as  the  ladies 
of  the  chevaliers/'  Fauriel's  "  History  of  Provencal  Poetry," 
p.  321  of  Adler's  English  translation.  I  cite  the  translation 
because  I  have  not  the  original  at  hand,  but  it  is  in  most 
respects  a  very  bad  one. 


158         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

ically,  cliivalric  love  was  a  something  mystical 
and  supersensual ;  but  that  the  courts  of  love 
sanctioned  much  which  the  courts  of  law,  even 
of  those  days,  forbade.  We  know  that  a  seign- 
ior and  a  husband  could  regard  with  compla- 
cency, not  to  say  pride,  the  ceremonial  devotion 
of  his  vassal  to  his  wife  ;  yel  that  he  was  liable 
to  be  visited,  when  all  things  appeared  most 
picturesque  and  prosperous,  by  movements  of 
what  we  cannot  help  regarding  as  a  natural 
jealousy,  and  impulses  to  deadly  revenge.  We 
know  thai  in  the  great  majority  of  cases  there 
came  a  "sombre  close"  to  the  troubadour's 
14  voluptuous  day,"  and  thai  his  life  of  amatory 
adventure  and  artificially  stimulated  emotion 
was  apt  to  end  in  the  shadow  of  the  cloister. 
We  seem,  in  fine,  to  see  him  as  an  airy,  graceful 
insouciant  figure,  who  sports  and  sings  along  a 
dainty  path,  skirting  the  sheer  and  lofty  verge 
of  the  great  gulf  of  human  passion  ;  and  the 
student  will  probably  decide,  from  his  own 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  in  what  proportion 
of  cases  he  kept  his  perilous  footing  upon  the 
flowery  heights,  and  in  what  he  plunged  head- 
long into  the  raging  deeps  below. 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  159 

So  much  for  the  man  ;  and  now  a  word  or  two 
more  about  his  work.  Let  it  be  understood 
that  we  are  to  speak  of  the  chansons,  or  love- 
songs,  chiefly.  There  is  another  great  body  of 
troubadour  literature,  coming  under  the  gen- 
eral head  of  sirventes  and  comprising  narrative 
and  satirical  poems,  which,  though  full  and 
overfull  of  suggestions  about  the  manners  of 
the  time,  have,  as  a  rule,  no  great  literary  merit. 
The  chief  wonder  of  the  chansons  is,  and  must 
ever  be,  the  contrast  between  the  consummate 
beauty  and  immense  variety  of  their  forms,  and 
the  simplicity,  the  sameness,  and  the  frequent 
triviality  of  their  sentiments.  In  this  respect 
troubadour  poetry  is  like  Greek  sculpture.  The 
technical  excellence  of  it  is  so  incredible  that 
we  cannot  help  regarding  it  as  something  spon- 
taneous, half-unconscious,  — found,  as  the  trou- 
badours themselves  so  strikingly  said*  rather 
than  learned,  —  which  no  care  and  patience  of 
deliberate  effort  could  ever  quite  have  attained. 
Sismondi  complains  of  the  monotony  of  the 
troubadour  compositions  ;  that  they  begin  by 
amazing  and  end  by  disappointing  the  student. 
But  they  can   disappoint,  it  seems  to  us,  only 


160         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

him  who  is  predetermined  to  seek  for  more  than 
is  in  them.  It  is  little  to  say  that  they  show 
no  depth  of  thought.  They  contain  hardly  any 
thought  at  all.  The  love  of  external  nature  is 
represented  in  them  alone  by  the  poet's  peren- 
nial rapture  at  the  return  of  spring;  spring, 
which  terminated  his  winter  confinement  and  set 
him  free  to  wander  over  the  sunny  land  ;  spring, 
with  its  mysterious  but  everlastingly  intimate 
association  with  thoughts  of  love.  Of  sensuous 
imagery  of  any  kind  these  poems  contain  very 
little,  which  is  another  reason  for  distrusting 
the  theory  of  Arabian  origin  and  influence. 
They  are  "all  compact"  of  primary  emotion,  of 
sentiment  pure  and  simple  ;  and,  as  such,  they 
rank  in  the  scale  of  expression  between  music 
and  ordinary  poetry,  partaking  almost  as  much 
of  the  nature  of  the  former  as  of  the  latter; 
which  again  is  one  reason  why,  although  the 
rules  of  their  language  are  simple,  these  lyrics 
are  often  so  very  obscure, — so  elusive,  rather, 
and  intangible  in  their  meaning.  Their  words 
are  like  musical  notes,  not  so  much  signs  of 
thought  as  symbols  of  feeling,  which  almost 
defy  an  arbitrary  interpretation,  and  must  be 


SONGS   OF   THE   TROUBADOURS.  161 

rendered  in  part  by  the  temperament  of  the  per- 
former. 

And  herein  will  be  found  our  excuse,  or  rather 
our  reason,  for  having,  in  the  versions  which  we 
have  attempted,  preserved  at  all  hazards  the 
measure  and  movement  of  the  originals,  the 
lines  of  widely  varying  length,  the  long-sus- 
tained  and  strangely  distributed  rhymes.  The 
reader  who  cares  to  examine  these  originals  —  to 
which  he  is  referred  —  will  find  the  rendering 
not  always  close,  according  to  the  present  high 
standard  of  accuracy ;  but  where  form  is  so 
wonderfully  paramount  to  sense,  a  likeness  in 
form  seems  of  the  first  importance,  and  the 
rest  has  to  come  somewhat  as  Heaven  pleases. 
Strictly  speaking,  however,  some  of  these  ver- 
sions, at  least,  should  rather  be  called  para- 
phrases. 

The  selections  which  follow  have  been  made, 
with  one  or  two  exceptions,  from  Raynouard's 
"  Choix  des  Poesies  originates  des  Troubadours," 
first  published  in  1816,  or  three  years  later  than 
Sismondi's  analysis  of  the  structure  of  the  trou- 
badour verse.  In  a  note  to  one  of  his  later 
editions,  Sismondi   expresses  himself   as    disap- 

11 


162         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

pointed  in  many  ways  in  the  collection  of  Ray- 
nouard  ;  chiefly  because,  like  other  bodies  of 
elegant  extracts,  it  shows  little  of  the  coarser 
side  of  the  Provencal  poetry,  and  thus  fails  to 
illustrate  its  range.  Out  of  the  two  or  three 
hundred  poets  whom  Ravnouard  specifies,  we, 
however,  shall  have  mentioned  in  this  series  of 
articles  hardy  a  score,  and  may  certainly  be 
pardoned  Tor  having  selected  those  of  their 
strains  which  we  found  most  delicate  and  sweet, 
and  which  seemed  to  us  to  exhibit,  with 
the  least  defacement  from  the  license  of  the 
time,  the  Bublimated  ideal  of  that  lisping,  short- 
lived school  of  song.1  We  have  also  preferred 
those  authors  whose  names  are  most  associated 
with  contemporary  history,  and  if  we  dared 
hope    that  our  imperfect-  versions  might  evoke 

1  And  it  need  hardly  be  said,  that,  so  far  as  we  have  treated 
this  poetry  at  all,  we  have  treated  it  seriously.  Like  all  modes 
of  exclusively  sentimental  expres-ion,  it  is  easily  open  to  ridi- 
cule ;  but  the  entire  literature  can  hardly  have  partaken  in  its 
day  of  the  nature  of  a  joke.  Those,  however,  who  desire  to 
see  it  travestied  with  considerable  ability,  and  the  stories  of  its 
chief  masters  flippantly  and  amusingly  told  from  a  thoroughly 
modern  and  rather  vulgar  point  of  view,  are  recommended  to 
a  little  book  entitled,  "  The  Troubadours  :  their  Loves  and 
Lyrics,"  by  John  Rutherford,  published  in  London  by  Smith 
and  Elder,  1873. 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  163 

around  the  reader  any  thing  resembling  the 
Cor6t-like  atmosphere  haunted  by  simple  bird- 
notes,  with  which  we  felt  ourselves  invested 
during  the  dark  winter-days  while  we  were 
transcribing  them,  we  should  be  more  than 
content. 

It  is  matter  for  rejoicing,  that  the  first  of  the 
troubadours  whose  works  are  well  authenticated 
was  a  sovereign  who  figured  somewhat  conspic- 
uously in  the  history  of  his  time,  so  that  his  most 
important  piece  can  be  exactly  dated,  and  the 
rest  approximately.  The  ease  and  finish  of 
William  of  Poitiers's  versification,  and  the  fact 
that  his  was  a  life  of  constant  war  and  crowded 
adventure,  in  which  poetry  can  have  been  only 
a  pastime,  forbid  us  to  suppose  that  he  was 
really  the  father  of  Provencal  song.  But  al- 
though, as  the  editor  of  Sainte  Palaj'e  dryly  ob- 
serves in  the  notice  of  William  in  his  "  Histoire 
litt^raire  des  Troubadours,"  it  is  the  quality 
of  the  poetry  that  concerns  us,  not  that  of  the 
poet,  — it  is  doubtless  to  the  quality  of  the  poet 
that  we  owe  the  preservation  of  the  poetry. 

William  IX.,  Count  of  Poitiers  and  Duke  of 
Aquitaine,  was  born  in  1071,  and  succeeded  in 


164         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TROUVERES. 

his  fifteenth  year  to  the  sovereignty  of  a  region 
comprising,  besides  Gascony  and  the  northern 
half   of   Aquitaine,   Limousin,  Berry,  and  Au- 

^ne.  He  grew  up  hold  in  war,  unscrupulous 
in  wit,  and  unbridled  in  love,  a  man  of  many 
crimes,  bul  famed  for  the  courtesy  of  his  man- 
ners, and  capable  of  generous  and  even  pious 
the  French  call  them.  He  is.  in  fact, 
one  of  tin*  first  distinctly  knight-like  figures  we 
have,  —  a  character  of  which  the  strong  tints 
and  picturesque  outlines  yet  stand  out  clearly 
from  the  faded  canvas  of  history.  Of  the  many 
anecdotes  preserved  concerning  him  we  give,  on 
the  authority  of  William  of  Malmesbury,  one 
which  piquantly  illustrates  his  usual  attitude 
toward  the  clergy  and  the  church.  In  William's 
forty-third  year,  the  Bishop  of  Poitiers  excom- 
municated him  on  account  of  one  of  the  many 

ndals  with  which  his  name  was  associated. 
When  the  bishop  began  his  formula,  William 
fiercely  drew  his  sword  and  threatened  to  kill 
him  if  he  went  on.  The  prelate  made  a  feint 
of  pausing,  and  then  hurriedly  pronounced  the 
rest  of  the  sentence.  "  And  now  you  may 
strike,"  said  he,  "  for  I  have  done."     "  No,"  re- 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.         165 

plied  William,  coolly  putting  up  his  sword,  "  I 
don't  like  you  well  enough  to  send  you  to 
Paradise  !  "  Many  of  William's  amatory  poems 
are  unfit  for  translation,  and  there  is  too  much 
reason  to  suppose  that  they  describe  adventures 
of  his  own ;  but  some  are  wholly  noble  and 
refined,  and  seem  to  show  that  the  fine  ideal  of 
chivalric  love  was  already  formed,  even  in  so 
stormy  a  breast  as  William's.  We  give  a  speci- 
men of  one  of  these  last.  It  is  in  the  favorite 
spring  key :  — 

Behold,  the  meads  are  green  again,1 
The  orchard-bloom  is  seen  again, 
Of  sky  and  stream  the  mien  again 

Is  mild,  is  bright ; 
Now  should  each  heart  that  loves  obtain 

Its  own  delight. 

But  I  will  say  no  ill  of  love, 
However  slight  my  guerdon  prove : 
Repining  doth  not  me  behoove ; 

And  yet  —  to  know 
How  lightly  she,  I  fain  would  move, 

Might  bliss  bestow ! 

1  "  Pus   vezem   de   nouelh  Jlorir,"  etc.  (Raynouard,  vol.   v., 
p.  117.) 


166         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

There  are  who  hold  my  folly  great, 
Because  with  little  hope  I  wait ; 
But  one  old  saw  doth  animate 

And  me  assure : 
Their  hearts  are  high,  their  might  is  great, 

Who  well  endure. 

Almost  alone  of  the  great  nobles  of  Southern 
Europe,  William  resisted  the  call  of  Ra}rmon(l 
of  Toulouse  to  the  first  Crusade  in  1095;  but 
when,  in  1099,  the  great  news  arrived  of  the 
Capture  of  Jerusalem,  and  an  appeal  was  made 
for  the  reenforcement  of  the  small  garrison  left 
in  the  Holy  Land,  William  was  overcome  and 
prepared  to  go;  and  the  second  of  his  pie< 
which  we  have  attempted  to  render  was  com- 
posed early  in  the  year  1101,  on  the  eve  of  his 
departure  :  — 

Desire  of  song  hath  taken  me,1 
Yet  sorrowful  must  my  song  be. 
No  more  pay  I  my  fealty 
In  Limousin  or  Poitiers. 

Since  I  go  forth  to  exile  far, 
And  leave  my  son  to  stormy  war, 
To  fear  and  peril,  for  they  are 

Xo  friends  who  dwell  about  him  there. 

1  "Pus  de  chantar  rnyes  pres  talens,"  etc.    (Raynouard,  vol. 
iv.3  p.  83.) 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  167 

What  wonder,  then,  my  heart  is  sore 
That  Poitiers  I  see  no  more, 
And  Fulk  of  Anjou  must  implore 
To  guard  his  kinsman  and  my  heir? 

If  he  of  Anjou  shield  him  not, 
And  he  who  made  me  knight,1  I  wot 
Many  against  the  boy  will  plot, 
Deeming  him  well-nigh  in  despair. 

Xay,  if  he  be  not  wondrous  wise, 
And  gay  and  ready  for  enterprise, 
Gaseous  and  Angevins  will  rise 
And  him  into  the  dust  will  bear. 

Ah,  I  was  brave,  and  I  had  fame, 
But  we  are  sundered  all  the  same. 
I  go  to  him  in  whose  great  name 
Confide  all  sinners  everywhere. 

Surrendering  all  that  did  elate 
My  heart,  all  pride  of  steed  or  state, 
To  him  on  whom  the  pilgrims  wait, 
Without  more  tarrying,  I  repair. 

Forgive  me  comrade,  most  my  own, 
If  aught  of  wrong  I  thee  have  done ! 
I  lift  to  Jesus,  on  his  throne, 

In  Latin  and  Romance,  my  prayer. 

1  Philip  I.  of  Prance,  "William's  suzerain. 


168         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

Oh,  I  was  gallant,  I  was  glad, 
Till  my  Lord  spake,  and  me  forbade  : 
But  now  th'*  end  is  coming  sad, 
Nor  can  I  more  my  burden  bear. 

Good  friends,  when  that  indeed  I  die, 
Pay  me  due  honor  \\ here  I  lie; 
Tell  how  in  Love  and  luxury 

I  triumphed  still,  or  here  or  there. 
Bui  farewell  now,  love,  Luxury, 

And  Bilkeu  robes,  and  minnevair!1 

The  suggestions  of  this  naive  lament  are  almost 

infinite.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  impossible  to 
doubt  that  it  came  straight  from  the  heart  of 
the  writer,  and  expresses,  without  the  faintest 
disguise,  his  conflicting  emotions.  As  the  out- 
burst of  $  reckless,  vehement,  voluptuous  nature, 
under  a  sort  of  moral  arrest  or  conviction,  it  is 
touchingly  frank.  A  second  summons  to  the 
Holy  Land  had  come,  one  which  it  would  be 
palpable  dishonor  to  disregard.  If  the  going 
thither  might  serve  by  way  of  expiation  of  for- 
mer sins  of  sense  and  violence,  the  ducal  poet 
felt  bound  to  go,  since  he  had  more  upon  his 

1  The  movement  of  these  two  specimens  is  almost  the  same, 
but  William  was  master  of  a  variety  of  measures,  and  some- 
times managed  trochaic  verse  with  great  skill,  as  in  the  song 
beginning  "  Farai  cansoneta  nova." 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  169 

conscience  in  that  way  than  he  could  comfort- 
ably sustain.  But  he  makes  not  the  faintest 
pretence  to  enthusiasm,  religious  or  other.  It 
is  grievous  to  him  to  leave  his  own  realms,  the 
scene  of  all  his  pleasures  and  triumphs.  He 
really  loved  his  child,  and  would  have  enjo^l 
superintending  his  education  in  knightly  e^r^^ 
cises ;  and  to  abandon  him  to  the  attacks  and 
encroachments  of  jealous  neighbors  was  intoler- 
able. It  is  evident  also  that  he  put  no  very 
implicit  faith  in  the  disinterestedness  either  of 
his  seignior  or  of  Fulk  of  Anjou.  Never  did 
his  home-life  look  more  alluring  ;  and  the  notion 
of  turning  his  back  upon  it  at  the  Lord's  behest 
was  altogether  melancholy.  He  feels  that  he  can- 
not long  survive  such  a  sacrifice,  yet  that  he  has 
hardly  a  choice  about  making  it.  The  allusion, 
in  the  eighth  stanza,  apparently  to  his  comrade 
in  arms,  is  positively  tender ;  and  the  impulse 
which  leads  him  to  request,  in  the  closing  lines, 
that  he  may  be  honored  after  his  death  for  those 
things  in  which  he  did  really  delight  and  excel,  is 
almost  droll  in  its  honesty.  We  have  lingered  the 
longer  over  these  personal  revelations  because 
they  are,  after  all,  the  soul  of  literary  history, 


170         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TROUVERES. 

and  we  shall  find  only  too  little  of  the  sort  in 
most  of  the  remaining  songs  which  we  shall  cite. 
It  remains  to  add,  that  William's  presentiment 
of  martyrdom  was  not  realized.  He  escaped 
the  manifold  disasters  of  the  campaign  of  1101, 
and  returned  within  two  years  to  his  native 
land.  With  characteristic  levity,  lie  afterwards 
applied  himself,  in  the  brief  intervals  of  his 
struggles  with  Alphonse  Jourdain  for  the  pos- 
sion  of  Toulouse,  t<>  the  composition  of  a  long 
narrative  poem,  in  which  he  seems  to  have  de- 
tailed, in  a  rather  humorous  fashion,  the  events 
of  that  tragic  Syrian  campaign;  but  the  poem, 
though  frequently  mentioned,  has  not  heen  pre- 
served. He  died  in  1127,  at  the  age  of  fifty- 
six. 

Very  little  is  known  concerning  the  life  and 
character  of  Marcabrun,  the  author  of  our  next 
specimen.  The  question  has  even  been  raised, 
whether  the  Crusade  mentioned  in  this  little 
sirvente  were  the  Crusade  of  1147,  or  that  of 
St.  Louis,  preached  in  1209.  The  former  is 
more  probable.  The  Louis  named  in  the  fourth 
stanza  was,  presumably,  Louis  VII.,  the  fiist 
husband   of   Queen  Eleanor  of  England,   who 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  171 

accompanied  him  on  this  Crusade  ;  and  Mar  cab' 
run  must  therefore  have  been  contemporary,  for 
a  few  years  at  least,  with  William  of  Poitiers. 
In  the  twenty  or  more  pieces  ascribed  to  him, 
there  are  but  few  allusions  to  love,  and  Mar- 
cabrun  alone,  of  ail  the  troubadours,  is  not 
known  ever  to  have  been  himself  a  subject  of 
the  tender  passion.  The  contrast  is  curious 
between  the  highly  artificial  structure  of  the 
following  verses,  —  one  rhyme  five  times  re- 
peated, and  the  others  separated  by  the  length 
of  an  entire  stanza,  —  and  the  extreme  sim- 
plicity and  obviousness  of  the  sentiments:  — 

A  fount  there  is,  doth  overfling1 

Green  turf  and  garden  walks ;  in  spring, 

A  glory  of  white  blossoming 

Shines  underneath  its  guardian  tree, 
And  new-come  birds  old  music  sing ; 
And  there,  alone  and  sorrowing, 

I  found  a  maid  I  could  not  cheer, 

Of  beauty  meet  to  be  adored, 
The  daughter  of  the  castle's  lord; 
Methought  the  melody  outpoured 
By  all  the  birds  unceasingly, 

1  "A  la  fontanel  del  vergier,"  etc.    (Raynouard,  vol.  iii.,  p. 
875.) 


172         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

The  season  Bweet,  the  verdant  sward, 
Might  gladden  her,  and  eke  my  word 
Her  grief  dismiss,  would  she  but  hear. 

Her  tears  into  the  fountain  fell; 
With  sorry  sighs  her  heart  did  swell. 
14  ( )  Jesus,  king  invisible," 

She  cried,  "  of  fchee  is  my  distr 
Through  thy  deep  wrong  berefl  I  dwell. 
Earth's  best  have  bidden  us  farewell, 

I  ha  thee  at  thine  own  shrine  to  wait. 

li  And  my  true  love  is  also  gone, 

The  free,  fair,  gentle,  valiant  one; 

8    whal  can  I.  but  make  my  moan? 

And  how  the  sad  desire  suppr< 
Thai  Louis1  name  were  here  unknown: 
The  prayers,  the  mandates  all  undone, 

Whereby  I  am  made  desolal 

Soon  as  I  heard  this  plaintive  cry, 

Moving  the  limpid  wave  anigh, 

11  Weep  not,  fair  maid,  so  piteously, 

Nor  waste  thy  roa  -'  "  thus  I  cried; 
"  Neither  despair,  for  he  is  by 
"Who  wrought  this  leafy  greenery, 

And  he  will  give  thee  joy  one  day." 

11  Seigneur,  I  well  believe,"  she  said, 
11  Of  God  I  shall  be  comforted 
In  yonder  world,  when  I  am  dead, 
And  many  a  sinful  soul  beside: 
But  now  hath  he  prohibited 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  173 

My  chief  delight.     I  bow  ray  head, 
But  heaven  is  very  far  away ! ' ' 

Even  more  studied  in  structure,  but  also  more 
musical  than  the  above,  are  the  few  love-poems 
of  Peter  of  Auvergne,  who  was  born  near  the 
time  of  William  of  Poitiers's  death,  and  whose 
career  of  nearly  a  century,  lasting  at  least  until 
1214,  won  for  him  the  surname  of  "  the  An- 
cient." In  the  old  manuscript  "  Lives  of  the 
Troubadours,"  1  Peter  of  Auvergne  is  described 
as  having  risen  by  his  genius,  from  a  humble 
station,  to  be  the  favored  companion  of  princes. 
"  He  made,"  observes  the  monkish  historian, 
"  better-sounding  verses  than  had  ever  been 
made  before  his  time,  especially  one  famous 
verse  about  the  short  days  and  long  nights. 
He  made  no  song  [chanson']^  for  at  that  time 
no  poems  were  called  songs,  but  verses,  and  Sir 

1  Of  these  there  are  two  collections,  made  "by  the  monks,  and 
still  preserved  in  the  original  manuscripts.  One  of  these  was 
made  in  the  twelfth  century,  by  Carmentiere,  a  monk  of  the 
Isles  of  Thiers,  under  the  direction  of  Alphonso  II.,  King  of 
Aragon  and  Count  of  Provence.  The  other  was  made,  near 
the  close  of  the  fourteenth  century,  by  a  Genoese,  called  "  The 
Monk  of  the  Isles  of  Gold,"  who  completed  and  corrected  the 
work  of  Carmentiere.  In  1576,  Jean  Nostradamus  compiled, 
from  these  and  other  sources,  his  rather  apocryphal  "  Lives  of 
the  Provencal  Poets;"  and  Crescimbeni,  in  his  "  Stdria  della 
Volgar  Poesie,"  has  made  a  good  selection  from  Nostradamus. 


174         TROUBADOURS  AND    TROUVERES. 

Giraud  de  Borneil  made  the  first  chanson  that 
ever  was  made.  But  he  was  graced  and  honored 
by  all  worthy  men  and  women,  and  was  held  to 
be  the  best  troubadour  in  the  world,  before  the 
days  of  Giraud  de  Borneil.  He  praised  himself 
and  his  own  Bongs  a  great  deal,  and  blamed  the 
other  troubadours:"  both  of  which  assertions 
his  remains  abundantly  confirm;  "and,"  adds 
the  biographer,  who  occasionally  makes  a  pa- 
rade of  citing  an  authority,  "the  Dauphin  of 
Auvergne,  who  was  born  in  his  day,  has  told 
me  that  he  lived  long  and  honorably  in  the 
world,  and  finally  went  into  his  order,  and 
died.''  A  few  verses  out  of  the  longest  and 
most  elaborate  of  Peter's  love-lyries  will  suffice 
as  a  specimen  of  his  manner:  — 

"  Now  unto  my  lady's  dwelling1 
Hie  thee,  nightingale,  away, 

Tidings  of  her  Lover  telling, 
Waiting  what  herself  will  say; 

Make  thee  'ware 

How  she  doth  fare; 
Then,  her  shelter  spurning, 

Do  not  be, 

On  any  plea, 
Let  from  thy  returning. 

1  ■*  Rossinhol  en  son  Repaire"  etc.    ("  Parnasse  Occitanien," 
page  138.) 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  175 

"  Come,  thine  utmost  speed  compelling, 

Show  her  mien,  her  state,  I  pray! 
All  for  her  is  my  heart  swelling ; 
Comrades,  kindred,  what  are  they? 
Joyons  bear 
Through  the  air, 
Wheresoever  turning, 
Zealously, 
Fearlessly, 
All  thy  lesson  learning!  " 

When  the  bird  of  grace  excelling 

Lighted  on  her  beauty's  ray, 
Song  from  out  his  throat  came  welling, 
As  though  night  had  turned  to  day. 

Then  and  there 

He  did  forbear, 
Until  well  discerning 

Hear  would  she, 

Seriously, 
All  his  tale  of  yearning. 

And  so  on  through  the  three  stanzas  of  the 
poet's  formal  message  to  his  laoly,  as  delivered 
by  the  bird.  The  text  is  very  obscure  in  parts, 
and  is  given  with  unusual  variations  by  different 
compilers,  and  the  reiterated  rhyme  grows  well- 
nigh  impossible  to  imitate,  ever  so  remotely.  In 
the  seventh  stanza,  where  the  lady's  answer  be- 
gins, a  second  set  of  rhymes  is  adopted,  and  this 
is  preserved  through  the  latter  half  of  the  poem. 


176         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TROUVERES. 

All  that  is  known  of  Guirand  le  Roux,  the 
author  of  our  next  specimen,  is  very  interesting, 
and  intimately  associates  the  poet's  name  with 
some  of  the  famous  persons  and  events  of  his 
time.  The  manuscript  "  Lives  of  the  Trouba- 
dours" contain  only  this  brief  notice  of  him: 
"Girandos  le  Rox  was  of  Toulouse,  the  son  of 
a  poor  cavalier  who  came  to  serve  at  the  court 
of  his  seignior,  the  Count  Alphonse.  He  was 
courteous,  and  a  line  singer,  and  became  enam- 
oured of  the  countess,  the  daughter  of  his  seign- 
ior; and  the  love  which  he  bore  het  taught  him 
how  to  find  [trobar],  and  he  made  many  \ 
Now  the  Count  Alphonse,  here  mentioned,  was 
Alphonse  Jourdain,  second  son  of  Raymond  de 
it  Gilles,  the  ardent  and  self-devoted  captain 
of  the  first  Crusade.  Alphonse  himself  was  born 
in  the  Holy  Land,  and  baptized  by  his  father  in 
the  Jordan  :  whence  his  surname.  Raymond,  as 
is  well  known,  took  a  vow  to  die  where  Christ 
had  died,  and  performed  it;  and  his  elder  son, 
Bertrand,  followed  his  example,  resigning  the 
county  of  Toulouse  to  his  brother  Alphonse, 
then  a  lad  of  thirteen  or  fourteen,  when  he  left 
for  Syria  in  1109.  For  ten  years,  our  old  friend 
William  of  Poitiers  disputed,  with  varying  for- 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  177 

tune,  the  right  of  Alphonse  of  Toulouse.    After 
this,  the    latter,   having    established   his   claim, 
reigned  in  peace,  until  he  himself  fulfilled  the 
family  destiny  by  joining  the  second  Crusade ; 
and  the  poems  of  Guirand  le  Roux  all  belong  to 
the  period  between  1120  and  1147,  the  date  of 
that  Crusade  ;    probably,  also,  to  the  last  ten 
years  of  that  period.     As  for  Guirand's  lady- 
love, the  only  daughter  of  Alphonse  mentioned 
in  trustworthy  history  is  a  natural  one,   who 
accompanied  her  father  to  the  Holy  Land,  and 
there   became   the    wife,  or   a  wife,  of  Sultan 
Noureddin,  and  the  heroine   of  some   wonder- 
fully romantic  adventures.     And  though  Sainte 
Palaye,   or    his    editor,   insists    that   a   natural 
daughter  never  had  the  title  of  countess,  and 
even    persuades   himself  of  a   certain   Faidide 
married  to  Humbert  III.  of  Sicily,  there  is  little 
reason  for  doubting  the  identity  of  Guirand's 
mistress  with  the  brilliant  heroine   of  Eastern 
story.     At  all  events,  he,  almost  alone  of  the 
troubadours,  loved  one   woman  only,  and  sang 
of  love  exclusively,  in  strains  of  unfailing  dig- 
nity and  refinement.     Here  is  one  of  which  the 
high-flown    devotion,    whimsical    but    not    un- 

12 


178         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

manly,  reminds  us  a  little  of  the  latest  and  no- 
blest lyrics  of  chivalry,  —  the  melodies  of  Love- 
lace, Wotton,  and  Montrose.  Observe,  as  in 
our  last  specimen,  the  rhymes  corresponding  in 
successive    stanzas  :  — 

Come,  lady,  to  my  Bong  incline,1 
The  last  that  shall  assail  thine  ear. 
None  other  caies  my  strains  to  hear, 
And  scarce  thou  feign'st  thyself  therewith  delighted; 
Nor  know  I  well  it'  I  am  loved  or  slighted; 

But  this  I  know,  thou  radiant  one  and  BWeet, 
That,  loved  or  spurned,  I  die  before  thy  feet! 

Yea,  I  will  yield  this  life  of  mine 
In  very  <\>-^d.  if  cause  appear, 
Without  another  boon  to  cheer. 

Honor  it  IS  to  !>»'  by  tie"*  incited 

Toanydeed;  and  I.  when  most  benighted 

By  doubt,  remind  me  that  fcim  *s  change  and  fleet, 

And  brave  men  still  do  their  occasion  meet. 

Thus  far  we  have  quoted  minor  poets  only  ; 
but  our  next  name  is  one  of  the  most  illustrious 
in  Provencal  literature.  The  long  and  con- 
spicuous life  of  Bernard  of  Ventadorn  —  or 
Ventadour  —  teems  with  historic  associations; 
and  the  works  which  he  has  left  would  fill  a 
volume  by  themselves.     We  must  confine  our- 

1  "  Auiatz  la  dcrreira  chanso."    ("Ravnouard,  vol.  iii.,  p.  12.) 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  179 

selves  to  the  briefest  outline  of  his  life,  resisting 
the  temptation  of  its  fascinating  details,  and  to 
a  few  passages,  taken  almost  at  random,  from 
poems  which  are  fairly  embarrassing  from  the 
abundance  of  their  beaut}*. 

In  Bernard  we  have  once  more,  as  so  often 
among  the  troubadours,  the  association  of  lowly 
birth  with  lovely  gifts.  He  was  a  son  of  the 
baker  at  the  castle  of  Ventadorn,  the  seat  of 
the  viscounts  of  that  name,  Ions:  famous  anions: 
the  petty  sovereigns  of  Southern  France  for 
their  enthusiastic  patronage  of  the  poetic  art. 
Bernard's  own  seignior  was  Ebles  III.,  of  whom 
the  Prior  of  Vigeois  records,  in  his  chronicle, 
that  he  "  loved,  even  to  old  age,  the  songs  of 
alacrity" — "  usque  ad  senectam  carmina  alacri- 
tatis  dilexit" —  But  Bernard  was  forty  years 
old  when  Ebles  died,  consequently  the  latter 
was  yet  in  his  early  prime  when  Bernard  was 
born  at  Ventadorn,  not  far  from  the  year  1130, 
and  he  speedily  discovered,  and  carefully  cul- 
tivated, the  boy's  talent.  The  not  unnatural 
result  was,  that  the  young  troubadour  selected, 
as  the  object  of  his  melodious  homage,  the 
youthful   second   wife    of    Ebles,    Adelaide    of 


180         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROU  VERES. 

Montpellier.  And  here  let  the  monkish  biog- 
rapher take  up  the  tale  :  "  She  [Adelaide] 
was  a  very  lively  and  gentle  lady,  and  was 
highly  delighted  with  Bernard's  songs,  so  that 
she  became  enamoured  of  him  and  he  of  her. 
.  .  .  And  their  love  had  lasted  a  good  while 
before  her  husband  perceived  it;  but  when  he 
did  he  was  angry,  and  had  the  lady  very  closely 
watched  and  guarded  :  wherefore  she  dismissed 
Bernard,  and  he  wenl  quite  out  of  the  country. 
lie  betook  himself  to  the  Duchess  of  Norman- 
dy, who  was  illustrious  and  much  admired,  and 
well  versed  in  matters  of  fame  and  honor,  and 
knew  how  to  award  praise.  And  the  songs  of 
Bernard  pleased  her  mightily,  wherefore  she 
gave  him  a  most  cordial  welcome,  and  he  resided 
at  her  court  a  long  time,  and  was  in  love  with 
her,  and  she  with  him  ;  and  he  made  many  fine 
songs  about  it.  But  while  he  was  staying  with 
her.  the  King  of  England,  her  husband,  removed 
her  from  Normandy,  and  Bernard  remained  here, 
sad  and  sorrowful."  Now  this  second  royal 
lady-love  of  our  aspiring  poet  was  none  other 
than  the  celebrated  Eleanor,  president  of  one 
of  the  most  illustrious  of  the  courts  of  love, 


SONGS  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS.  181 

the  granddaughter  of  William  of  Poitiers,  the 
divorced  wife  of  Henry  VII.  of  France,  the 
wife  of  Henry  II.  of  England,  the  merciless,  but 
by  no  means  immaculate,  censor  of  the  fair 
Rosamond  Clifford,  and  the  mother  of  Richard 
Coeur  de  Lion.  When  Bernard  entered  her 
service,  in  1152,  Eleanor  was  thirty-three  years 
old,  and  fully  ten  years  the  senior  both  of  the 
troubadour  and  of  her  husband,  Henry  II.  But 
her  beauty  was  perennial ;  she  had  other  charms 
which  did  not  depend  upon  the  freshness  of 
youth,  and  her  personal  prestige  was  destined 
to  last  unweakened  for  many  a  long  year,  and  to 
survive  extraordinary  vicissitudes  of  lot.  If  Ber- 
nard were  ever  profoundly  in  earnest,  he  would 
seem  to  have  been  so  in  some  of  the  lines  which 
he  addressed  to  Eleanor ;  but  he  was  a  very 
troubadour  of  the  troubadours  in  his  constant 
mingling  of  levity  and  tenderness,  of  graceful 
insouciance  with  keen  and  sudden  pathos.  Our 
first  extract  belongs  to  Adelaide's  time  ;  and, 
though  sufficiently  far  from  simple,  these  verses 
have  in  them  something  of  the  fresh  enthusiasm, 
half-confident  and  half-jealous,  of  a  first  expe- 
rience :  — 


182         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

Xo  marvel  is  it  if  I  sing  ■ 

Better  than  other  minstrels  all; 

For  more  than  they  am  I  love's  thrall, 
And  all  myself  therein  I  fling,  — 
Knowledge  and  souse,  body  and  soul, 

And  whatso  power  I  have  beside; 

The  rein  that  doth  my  being  guide 
Impels  me  to  this  only  goal. 

His  heart  is  dead  whence  doth  not  spring 

Love's  odor,  sweet  and  magical; 

His  life  doth  ever  on  him  pall 
Who  knoweth  not  that  blessed  thing; 
Yea,  God,  who  doth  my  lit',,  control, 

Were  cruel  did  he  bid  me  hide 

A  month,  or  even  a  day,  denied 
The  love  whose  rapture  1  extol. 

How  keen,  how  exquisite  the  sting, 

( n  that  sweet  odor!     At  its  call 

An  hundred  times  a  day  I  fall 
And  faint,  an  hundred  rise  and  Bingl 
S    fair  the  Bemblance  of  my  dole, 

'T  is  lovelier  than  another's  pride; 

If  Buch  the  ill  doth  me  betide, 
1  hap  were  more  than  I  could  thole! 

Yet  haste,  kind  Heaven,  the  sundering 

True  swains  from  false,  great  hearts  from  small ! 
The  traitor  in  the  dust  bid  crawl, 

The  faithless  to  confession  bring ! 

L  "  Non    est   mcrevelha   s'ieu  clian,"   etc.       (Raynouard,    vol. 
hi.,  p.  44.) 


SONGS   OF   THE   TROUBADOURS.  183 

Ah,  if  I  were  the  master  sole 

Of  all  earth's  treasures  multiplied, 

To  see  my  lady  satisfied 
Of  my  pure  faith,  I  'd  give  the  whole ! 

And  here  are  some  fugitive  strains  out  of  that 
ever-recurring  spring  melody  which  no  singer 
tried  oftener  or  executed  more  sweetly  than 
Bernard  of  Ventadora :  — 

When  tender  leafage  doth  appear,1 

When  vernal  meads  grow  gay  with  flowers, 
And  aye  with  singing  loud  and  clear 

The  nightingale  fulfils  the  hours, 
I  joy  in  him  and  joy  in  every  flower 
And  in  myself,  and  in  my  lady  more. 
For  when  joys  do  inclose  me  and  invest, 
My  joy  in  her  transcendeth  all  the  rest. 

The  following  exhales  the  true  spring  sad- 
ness :  — 

Well  may  I  hail  that  lovely  time  2 

When  opening  buds  proclaim  the  spring, 

And,  in  the  thickening  boughs,  their  chime 
The  birds  do  late  and  early  ring. 

1  "  Qnand  erba  vertz  e  fuelha  pai',"  etc.  (Baynouard,  vol. 
iii.,  p.  53.) 

2  "  Bels  m'es  qu'  ieu  chant  in  aiselh  mes,"  etc.  (Kay- 
nouard,  vol.  iii.,  p.  77.) 


184         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TRO UTERES. 

Ah,  then  anew 
The  yearning  cometh,  strong, 

For  bliss  more  true, 
Whose  lack  my  soul  doth  wrong, 
Which,  if  I  have  not,  I  must  die  erelong. 

The  next  is  not  quite  so  tender:  — 

When  leaves  expand  upon  the  hawthorn-tree,1 
Ami  the  -mi's  rays  are  dazzling  grown  and  strong, 

And  birds  do  voice  their  vows  in  melody 
And  woo  each  other  sweetly  all  day  long, 

And  all  th»'  world  sways  to  love's  Influence, 
Thou  only  art  unwilling  to  be  won. 
Proud  beauty,  in  whose  train  I  mope  and  moan 

Denied,  and  Beem  but  half  a  man  to  be. 

Then  there  is  a  very  fanciful  little  piece  in  an 
odd  but  melodious  measure,  which  runs  thus:  — 

Such  is  now  my  glad  elation,1 
All  things  change  their  seeming; 

All  with  flowers  —  white,  blue,  carnation  — 
Hoary  frosts  are  teeming; 

Storm  and  Hood  but  make  occasion 

For  my  happy  scheming; 
Welcome  is  my  song's  oblation, 

Praise  outruns  my  dreaming. 

1  "  Quand  la  fuel  ha  solre  Valbre  s'espan,"  etc.   (Raynouard, 
vol.  iii.,  p.  49.) 

2  "  Tant  ai  mon  cor  pi  en  de  joya"  etc.     ("  Parnasse  Occita- 
nien,"  page  7.) 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  185 

Oh,  ay!  this  heart  of  mine 
Owns  a  rapture  so  divine, 
Winter  doth  in  blossoms  shine, 
Snow  with  verdure  gleaming ! 

When  my  love  was  from  me  riven, 

Steadfast  faith  upbore  me ; 
She  for  whom  I  so  have  striven 

Seems  to  hover  o'er  me ; 
All  the  joys  that  she  hath  given 

Memory  can  restore  me ; 
All  the  days  I  saw  her,  even, 

Gladden  evermore  me. 
Ah ,  yes !  I  love  in  bliss ; 
All  my  being  tends  to  this ; 
Yea,  although  her  sight  I  miss, 

And  in  France  deplore  me. 

Yet,  if  like  a  swallow  flying 

I  might  come  unto  thee, 
Come  by  night  where  thou  art  lying, 

Verily  I  'd  sue  thee, 
Dear  and  happy  lady,  crying, 

I  must  die  or  woo  thee, 
Though  my  soul  dissolve  in  sighing 

And  my  fears  undo  me. 
Evermore  thy  grace  of  yore 
I  with  folded  hands  adore, 
On  thy  glorious  colors  pore, 

Till  despair  goes  through  me. 

This     threatens     to     become     commonplace. 
Nevertheless  the  whole  of  the  lyric  sings  itself 


186         TROUBADOURS  AXD    TROUYERES. 

in  a  very  remarkable  manner;  and  the  remain- 
der, which  need  not  be  inflicted  on  the  reader, 
is  interesting  from  an  allusion  it  contains  to  the 
story  of  Tristram  and  Iseult,  with  which  the 
poet  probably  became  acquainted  in  Normandy, 
and  which  is  thus  shown  to  have  been  popular 
and  familiar  as  far  back  at  least  as  the  middle 
of  the  twelfth  century.  We  now  subjoin,  though 
with  much  diffidence,  from  our  conscious  inabil- 
ity to  do  them  justice,  portions  of  two  songs  in 
Bernard's  most  perfect  style,  both  of  which  ap- 
pear to  have  been  addressed  to  Eleanor,  —  the 
one,  perhaps,  while  she  was  yet  in  Normandy, 
the  other  after  her  departure  for  England. 

When  I  behold  on  eager  wing1 

The  sky-lark  soaring  to  the  sun, 
Till  e'en  with  rapture  faltering 

He  sinks  in  glad  oblivion, 
Alas,  how  fain  b  re  I 

The  Bame  ecstatic  fate  of  fire! 
Yea,  of  a  truth  I  know  not  why 

My  heart  melts  not  with  its  desire! 

Methought  that  I  knew  every  tiling 
Of  love.     Alas  my  lore  was  none! 

For  helpless  now  my  praise  I  bring 
To  one  who  still  that  praise  doth  shun, 

1  u  Qnand   vei  la   laudeta    mover"   etc.      (Ravnouard,    vol. 
iii.,  p.  68.) 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  187 

One  who  hath  robbed  me  utterly 

Of  soul,  of  self,  of  life  entire, 
So  that  my  heart  can  only  cry 

For  that  it  ever  shall  require. 

For  ne'er  have  I  of  self  been  king, 

Since  the  first  hour,  so  long  agone, 
When  to  thine  eyes  bewildering, 

As  to  a  mirror,  I  was  drawn. 
There  let  me  gaze  until  I  die ; 

So  doth  my  soul  of  sighing  tire, 
As  at  the  fount,  in  days  gone  by, 

The  fair  Narcissus  did  expire. 

The   metre  of  the  next   is   more    constrain- 
ing :  — 

When  the  sweet  breeze  comes  blowing 1 

From  where  thy  country  lies, 
Meseems  I  am  foreknowing 

The  airs  of  Paradise. 
So  is  my  heart  o'erflowing 
For  that  fair  one  and  wise 

Who  hath  my  glad  bestowing 
Of  life's  whole  energies, 
For  whom  I  agonize 

Whithersoever  going. 

I  mind  the  beauty  glowing, 

The  fair  and  haughty  eyes, 
Which,  all  my  will  o'erthrowing, 

Made  me  their  sacrifice. 

1  "  Quand  la   douss'  aura   venta."      (Raynouard,    vol.  iii., 
p.  84.) 


188         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TROUVERES. 

Whatever  mien  tliou'rt  showing, 

Why  should  I  this  disguise? 
Yet  let  me  ne'er  be  ruing 

Our  of  thine  old  repli 

Mian's  daring  wins  the  prize, 
But  fear  is  his  undoing. 

We  come  now  to    the   name  of   William    of 
Cabestaing,  and  the  reader  is  requested  to  accept 

for  just  what  it  is  worth  the  tragic  tradition  of 
him  and  his  lady-love.  Incredible  as  the  tale 
appears,  it  La  given  with  but  trifling  variations 

by  an  unusual  number  of  writers;  and,  in  the 
absence  of  all  conflicting  testimony,  we,  at  least, 
shall  not  attempt  to  mar  its  horrible  unity. 
Listen  to  the  ancient  biographer:  — 

••  William  of  Cabestaing  was  a  cavalier  of  the 
country  of  Rossillon,  which  borders  on  Catalonia 

and  Xarbonne.  He  was  a  very  attractive  man 
in  person,  and  accomplished  in  arms  and  courtesy 
and  service.  Xow  in  his  country  there  was  a 
lady  called  Lady  Soremonda  [elsewhere  she 
is  called  Margaret],  the  wife  of  Raymond  of 
Castle  Rossillon  ;  and  Raymond  was  high-born 
and  evil-minded,  brave  and  fierce,  rich  and 
proud.  And  William  of  Cabestaing  loved  the 
lady  exceedingly   and   made  songs   about  her, 


SONGS  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS.  189 

and  the  lady,  who  was  young  and  gay,  noble 
and  fair,  cared  more  for  him  than  for  any  one 
else  in  the  world.  And  this  was  told  to  Ray- 
mond of  Castle  Rossillon,  who,  being  a  jealous 
and  passionate  man,  made  inquiries  and  found 
that  it  was  true,  and  set  a  watch  over  his  wife. 
And  there  came  a  day  when  Raymond  saw 
William  pass  with  but  few  attendants,  and  he 
killed  him.  Then  he  had  his  head  cut  off,  and 
the  heart  taken  out  of  his  body.  And  the  head 
he  had  carried  to  his  castle,  and  the  heart  he 
had  cooked  and  seasoned,  and  gave  it  to  his 
wife  to  eat.  And  when  the  lady  had  eaten  it, 
Raymond  of  Castle  Rossillon  said  to  her,  '  Do 
you  know  what  you  have  eaten  ?  '  She  said, 
1  No,  except  that  it  was  a  very  good  and  savory 
viand.'  Then  he  told  her  that  it  was  the  heart 
of  William  of  Cabestaing  which  she  had  eaten, 
and  to  convince  her  he  made  them  show  her  the 
head ;  which  when  the  lady  saw  and  heard  she 
swooned,  but  presently  came  to  herself  and 
said,  '  My  lord,  you  have  given  me  such  excel- 
lent food  that  I  shall  eat  no  more  at  all.'  When 
he  heard  this,  he  sprang  upon  her  with  his  sword 
drawn  and  would  have   smitten  her  upon  the 


190         TROUBADOURS  AND   TnOUVERES. 

head,  but  she  ran  to  the  balcony  and  flung  her- 
self over,  and  perished  on  the  spot.  The  ti- 
dings flew  through  Rossillon  and  all  Catalonia, 
that  William  of  Cabestaing  and  the  lady  had 
come  to  this  dreadful  end,  and  that  Raymond 
had  given  William's  heart  to  the  lady  to  eat. 
And  there  was  great  Borrow  and  mourning  in  all 
that  region,  and  at  last  tin'  story  was  told  to  the 
King  of  Aragon,  who  was  the  seignior  both  of 
Raymond  of  ('astir  Rossillon  and  of  William  of 
Cabestaing.  Then  the  king  went  to  Perpignan, 
in  Rossillon,  and  summoned  Raymond  to  appear 

•re  him.  And  when  Raymond  was  come,  the 
king  had  him  seized,  and  took  away  from  him 
all  his  castles  and  every  thing  else  which  lie 
had.  and  caused  the  cables  to  be  destroyed,  and 
put  him  in  prison.  But  William  of  Cabestaing 
and  the  lady  he  had  conveyed  to  Perpignan  and 
.  buried  under  a  monument  before  the  door  of  the 
church,  and  the  manner  of  their  death  he  had 
depicted  on  the  monument,  and  gave  orders  that 
all  the  ladies  and  cavaliers  in  the  country  of 
Rossillon  should  visit  the  monument  every  year. 
And  Raymond  of  Castle  Rossillon  died  miser- 
ably in  the  King  of  Aragon's  prison."     This  king 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  191 

must  have  been  Alphonse  IT.,  who  held  the 
suzerainty  of  Rossillon  in  1181,  and  who  had  no 
successor  of  his  own  name  upon  the  throne  of 
Aragon  for  nearly  two  hundred  years.  The 
seventy  of  the  punishment  which  he  inflicted 
marks  the  deep  impression  made  by  Rajmiond's 
brutal  revenge,  and  the  extraordinary  loathing 
which  it  excited.  The  story  was  too  fascinating 
in  its  horror  not  to  be  repeated  with  other 
names ;  and  accordingly  we  have  the  tale  of  Raoul 
(or  Renard),  Chatelain  de  Coucy,  who  died  at 
the  siege  of  Acre  in  1192  and  in  his  last  moments 
requested  the  friend  who  attended  him  to  have 
his  heart  preserved  and  to  carry  it  home  to  his 
mistress,  the  Lady  of  Fayel.  The  Lord  of  Fayel 
intercepted  the  relic  and  followed  the  example  of 
Raymond  of  Rossillon ,  and  the  lady  starved  herself 
to  death.  De  Coucy's  commission  was  a  probable 
one  enough,  and  accords  with  the  reckless  roman- 
ticism of  the  time  ;  but  the  end  of  the  story  is 
doubtless  borrowed  from  that  of  the  lovers  of  Ros- 
sillon. Read  by  the  lurid  light  of  this  monstrous 
tale,  the  verses  of  William  of  Cabestaing  seem  ani- 
mated by  a  peculiarly  personal  force  and  inten- 
sity ;  and  if  the  reader  does  not  discover  this  in 


192         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TROUVERES. 

the  following  specimens,   he  may  consider  the 
translator  to  blame  :  — 

There  is  who  spurns  the  l»4af,  and  turns  l 

The  stateliest  flower  of  all  to  cull; 
So  on  life's  topmost  bough  sojourns 

My  Lady,  the  most  beautiful ! 
Wlmm  with  his  own  nobility 

Our  lonl  hath  graced,  so  Bhe  may  move 

In  glorious  worth  our  lives  above, 

Yet  BOft  with  all  humility. 

Her  pleading  look  my  spirit  shook 

And  won  my  fealty  long  ago; 
My  heart's-blood  Btronger  impulse  took, 

Freshening  my  colors;  and  yet  so, 
No  otherwise  discovering 

My  love,  I  bode.     Now,  lady  mine, 

At  last,  before  thy  thronged  shrine, 
I  also  lay  my  offering. 

The  next  is  yet  more  fervid  and  exalted  : 

The  visions  tender 2 

Which  thy  love  giveth  me 
Still  bid  me  render 

My  vows  in  song  to  thee; 
Gracious  and  slender 

Thine  image  I  can  see, 
Where'er  I  wend,  or 

What  eyes  do  look  on  me. 

1  "Aissi  cum   selh   que   laissa    7  fudh."     (Raynouard,   vol. 
iii.,  p.  113.) 

2  "  La  clous  consire."     (Raynouard,  vol.  iii.) 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  193 

Yea,  in  the  frowning  face 
Of  uttermost  disgrace, 
Proud  would  I  take  my  place 

Before  thy  feet, 
Lady,  whose  aspect  sweet 
Doth  my  poor  self  efface, 
And  leave  but  joy  and  praise. 

Who  shall  deny  me 

The  memory  of  thine  eyes? 
Evermore  by  me 

Thy  lithe,  white  form  doth  rise. 
If  God  were  nigh  me 

Alway,  in  so  sure  wise, 
Quick  might  I  hie  me 

Into  his  Paradise ! 

This  was,  perhaps,  the  strain  which  the  trou- 
badour was  trying  on  the  day  when  Raymond 
overtook  him  "  followed  by  but  few  attendants." 


13 


THE   SOXGS    OF   THE    TROUBADOURS. 

II. 

"|3ASSING  by  the  names  of  Gui  d'Uisel,  who 
bore  a  part  in  some  rather  spirited  tensons, 
or  poetical  dialogues,  yet  extant,  but  whose 
other  poems  arc  deficient  in  tenderness  and 
grace  ;  of  Gaucelm  Faidit,  of  whom  the  record 
says,  that  "he  went  about  the  world  for  twenty 
years  without  making  either  himself  or  his  songs 
acceptable;"  of  Peire  Roger  and  Peirol,  Ave 
come  to  those  of  the  two  Arnauts, — 'Arnaut 
Daniel  and  Arnaut  de  Maroill,  or  Marveil.  To 
Arnaut  Daniel  was  awarded,  within  a  century 
after  his  death,  distinguished  praise  by  botli 
Dante  and  Petrarch.  Dante  describes,  in  the 
twenty-sixth  canto  of  the  "  Purgatorio,"  a 
meeting  with  him  in  the  shades;  and  Petrarch, 
speaking  of  him  and  Arnaut  de  Maroill,  calls 
the  latter  "  the  less  famous  Arnaut."  Judging 
by  those  of  their  remains  which  we  possess,  the 
distinction  seems  a  very  strange  one.  The 
verses  of  Arnaut  Daniel  are  chiefly  remarkable 


SOXGS   OF   THE   TROUBADOURS.  195 

for  an  extraordinary  ingenuity  and  complexity 
in  the  arrangement  of  their  rhymes,  for  verbal 
conceits  which  are  necessarily  untranslatable, 
and  for  the  first  introduction  into  the  Romance 
rhythm  of  a  sort  of  verbal  echo,  which  was 
afterwards  much  more  skilfully  managed  by 
Raimon  de  Miraval.  But  the  modest  beauties 
of  Arnaut  de  Maroill's  verse  are  at  least  of  a 
universal  and  enduring  kind.  This  is  his  story  : 
"  Arnaut  de  Maruelh  was  of  the  bishopric  of  Peir- 
agorc,  of  a  castel  [that  is,  a  castle  domain]  named 
Maruelh,  a  clerk,  and  lowly  born.  And  because 
he  could  not  live  on  his  letters  [a  difficulty  not 
confined  to  Provence  and  the  twelfth  century], 
he  travelled  about  the  world,  and  he  knew  how 
to  find ,  and  was  very  skilful.  And  his  stars  led 
him  to  the  court  of  the  Countess  of  Burlas,  a 
daughter  of  the  celebrated  Count  Raymond,1 
and  wife  of  that  Viscount  of  Beziers  who  was 
surnamed  Taillefer.  This  Arnaut  sang  well 
and  was  a  good  reader  of  romance.  He  was 
handsome,  too,  and  the  countess  distinguished 
him  greatly.  So  he  became  enamoured  of  her 
and  made  songs  about  her,  but  dared  not  com- 
municate them  to  her,  wherefore  he  said  that 
1  This  was  Raymond  V.  of  Toulouse. 


196         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

others  had   made    them.     But   love    compelled 
him,  as  he  says  in  one  song :  — 

■  The  frank  bearing  which  I  cannot  forget,'  etc. 

This  was  the  song  in  which  he  discovered  his 
love.  And  the  countess  did  not  repulse  him, 
hut  heard  his  prayer  and  encouraged  him  \  for 
she'put  him  in  armor  and  gave  him  the  honor 
of  singing  and  finding  for  her.  So  he  was  a 
man  esteemed  at  court.  Then  made  he  many 
1  songs  by  which  we  judge  that  he  had  great 
sorrow  and  great  joy." 

4*  You  have  heard  how  Arnaut  came  to  love 
the  Countess  of  Burlas,  the  daughter  of  the 
brave  Count  Raymond,  and  mother  of  that  Vis- 
count de  Beziers  whom  the  French  slew  when 
they  took  Carcassonne.1  The  viscountess  was 
called  l)e  Burlas,  because  she  was  born  in  the 
castle  of  Burlas.  She  liked  Arnaut  well,  and 
King  Alphonse  (of  Castile),  who  also  had  de- 
signs upon  her,  perceived  her  kindness  for  the 

1  In  1209,  at  the  beginning  of  the  Albigenses  war.  This 
Viscount  de  Beziers  was  the  chivalric  Raymond  Roger,  the 
young  and  far  braver  nephew  of  Raymond  VI.  of  Toulouse. 
He  was  not,  however,  killed  at  the  siege,  but  languished  three 
months  in  prison,  at  the  end  of  which  time  the  execrable  Simon 
de  Mont  fort  gave  orders  that  he  should  "die  of  dysentery/' 
and  he  was  accordingly  poisoned. 


SONGS  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS.  197 

troubadour.  And  the  king  was  extremely  jeal- 
ous ;  ...  so  he  accused  her  concerning  Arnaut, 
and  said  so  much,  and  made  her  say  so  much, 
that  she  gave  Arnaut  his  dismissal,  and  forbade 
him  to  come  into  her  presence  any  more,  or  to 
sing  of  her.  When  Arnaut  received  his  conge, 
he  was  sorrowful  above  all  sorrow,  and  went 
away  from  her  and  her  court  like  a  man  in 
despair.  He  went  to  William  of  Montpellier, 
who  was  his  friend  and  seignior,  and  stayed 
with  him  a  great  while ;  and  there  he  plained 
and  wept,  and  made  that  song  which  says :  — 

*  Mot  eran  dous  miei  cossir.'  " 

We  know  the  date  of  the  Viscount  cle  Beziers's 
marriage  to  Adelaide  de  Burlas  (1171),  and 
from  this  we  infer  the  principal  dates  of  Ar- 
naut's  history.  He  was  certainly  the  contempo- 
rary of  William  of  Cabestaing,  and  may  well 
have  heard  from  his  own  lips  the  later  songs  of 
Bernard  of  Ventadour,  the  best  of  which  are 
hardly  sweeter  than  this  of  Arnaut's :  — 

Softly  sighs  the  April  air, 
Ere  the  coming  of  the  May;1 

1  "  Bel  m'es  quan  lo  vens  m'alena"  (Raynouard,  vol.  iii., 
p.  208.) 


198         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

Of  the  tranquil  night  aware, 
Murmur  nightingale  and  jay; 

Then,  when  dewy  dawn  doth  rise, 
Every  bird  in  his  own  tongue 

Wakes  his  mate  with  happy  cries; 
All  their  joy  abroad  is  flung. 

Gladness,  lo !  is  everywhere 

When  the  first  Leaf  sees  the  day; 
And  shall  I  alone  despair, 

Turning  from  sweet  love  away? 
Something  to  my  hear!  replies, 

Thou  too  wast  for  rapture  strung; 
Wherefore  else  the  dreams  that  rise 

Round  tlic;  when  the  year  is  young? 

.  than  II<-1<mi  yet  more  fair, 

Loveliest  blossom  of  the  May, 
B    ---tints  hath  and  Bunny  hair, 

And  a  gracious  mien  and  gay; 
Heart  that  soorneth  all  disguise, 

Lips  where  pearls  of  truth  are  hung, — 
God,  who  gives  all  sovereignties, 

Knows  her  like  was  never  sung. 

Though  she  lead  through  long  despair, 

I  would  never  say  her  nay, 
If  one  kiss  —  reward  how  rare !  — 

Each  new  trial  might  repay. 
Swift  returns  I  'd  then  devise, 

Many  labors,  but  not  long. 
Following  so  fair  a  prize 

I  could  nevermore  go  wrong. 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  199 

There  is  a  very  long  poem  of  Arnaut's  in 
simple  consecutive  rhymes,  in  which  the  praises 
of  the  fair  countess  are  prettily  if  somewhat 
monotonously  chanted,  and  the  palm  is  awarded 
her  over  a  long  list  of  heroines,  whose  names, 
however  incongruous,  betray  some  acquaintance 
with  literature  on  our  troubadour's  part ;  —  Ro- 
docesta  and  Bibles,  Blanchefleur  and  Semiramis, 
Thisbe,  Leda,  and  Helen,  Antigone,  Ismene, 
and  Iseult.  And  here  is  that  final  and  fruitless 
plaint  quoted  by  Arnaut's  biographer :  — 

Sweet  my  musings  used  to  be,1 
Without  shadow  of  distress, 
Till  the  queen  of  loveliness, 
Lowly,  mild,  yet  frank  as  day, 
Bade  me  put  her  love  away; 

Love  so  deeply  wrought  in  me. 
And  because  I  answered  not, 
Nay,  nor  e'en  her  mercy  sought, 
All  the  joy  of  life  is  gone, 
For  it  lived  in  her  alone. 

O  my  lady,  hearken  thee ! 
For  thy  wondrous  tenderness, 
Nor  my  faltering  cry  repress ; 
Bid  thy  faithful  servant  stay; 
Deign  to  keep  my  love,  I  pray; 

Let  me  not  my  rival  see ! 

1  "Mot  eran  dous  miei  cossir."  ("  Parnasse  Occitanien,"  p.  17.) 


200         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUViRES. 

That  which  never  cost  thee  aught 
Were  to  me  with  rapture  fraught. 
Who  would  grudge  the  sick  man's  moan 
When  his  pain  is  all  his  own? 

Thou  art  wise  as  thou  art  fair, 
And  thy  voice  is  ever  kind; 
Thou  for  all  dost  welcome  find, 

With  a  courtesy  so  bright, 

Praise  of  all  it  doth  invite. 

Hope  and  comforting  of  care 
In  thy  smile  are  horn  and  live 
Wh  thou  dost  arrive. 

Not  my  Love  doth  canonize, 
But  the  truth  and  thine  own  price. 

Unto  one  thus  everywhere 
In  the  praise  of  men  enshrined, 
A\ 'hat  \s  my  tribute  u n refuted  ? 
And  yet,  lady  of  delight, 
True  it  is,  however  trite. 

He  shall  sway  the  balance  fair 
Who  a  single  grain  doth  give, 
Be  the  poise  right  sensitive. 
So  might  one  poor  word  suffice 
To  enhance  thy  dignities. 

It  would  be  an  interesting,  if  not  edifying, 
study  in  the  manners  of  the  time,  to  consider 
minutely  the  long  story  of  Raimon  de  Miraval's 
adventures.  One  of  his  early  biographers  re- 
marks, with  charming  simplicity,  that  he  "  loved 


SONGS  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS.  201 

a  great  many  ladies,  some  of  whom  treated  him 
well,  and  others  ill.  Some  deceived  him ;  and 
to  these  he  rendered  like  for  like  :  but  he  never 
deceived  honest  and  loyal  ladies."  It  is  also 
true  that  he  was  a  favorite  with  famous  and 
gallant  princes,  such  as  Peter  II.  of  Aragon 
and  Raymond  Roger,  before  mentioned,  the 
heroic  defender  of  the  Albigenses  ;  and  that 
these  princes  vied  with  one  another  in  heaping 
upon  the  troubadour  presents  of  rich  robes,  and 
steeds  and  accoutrements  of  war ;  whereby  the 
beggarly  cavalier,  who  had  inherited  only  the 
fourth  part  of  a  small  estate,  was  enabled  to 
make  a  splendid  appearance  in  the  world. 
Nevertheless,  although  personally  brave,  he 
seems  not  to  have  been  a  man  of  generous 
nature,  and  the  songs  which  he  has  left,  though 
graceful  sometimes,  and  very  remarkable  for 
their  technical  ingenuity,  show  few  traces  of 
genuine  feeling.  Raimon  de  Miraval's  first 
mistress  was  the  notorious  Loba  de  Penautier, 
the  wife  of  a  wealthy  lord  of  Carbares,  of  whom  — 
that  is,  of  Loba  —  we  shall  hear  more  in  con- 
nection with  Peire  Vidal.  The  fervor  and  sin- 
cerity of  the  relations  of.  these    two   may  be 


202         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

guessed  from  the  fact  that  Loba,  who  was 
besieged  by  numerous  lovers,  made  a  feint  of 
encouraging  Raimon,  because  she  wished  to  con- 
ceal her  real  passion  for  the  Count  de  Foix,  also 
honorably  memorable  for  the  part  he  bore  in  the 
religious  wars.  "  For,"  observes  the  historian, 
wit  h  the  same  incredible  naivetS  as  before, "  a  lady 
was  considered  lost  who  openly  accepted  a  power- 
ful baron  as  her  lover, "  Raimon  seems  to  have 
continued  his  formal  homage  for  some  little  time 
after  lie  perfectly  understood  the  state  of  the 
case  between  Loba  and  De  Foix.  But  at  last 
he  wearied  of  the  game,  as  our  readers  would 
certainly  weary,  were  we  to  attempt  giving 
them  any  thin;.;'  like  a  circumstantial  account, 
or  even  a  complete  list,  of  the  poet's  numerous 
affaires.  We  pass  directly  from  his  first  "  attach- 
ment "  to  his  last,  the  object  of  which  was  also  a 
lady  of  Carbares,  apparently  a  younger  sister-in- 
law  of  Loba,  one  who  herself  made  some  unusual 
advances  to  the  troubadour.  The  sport  of  these 
two  experienced  lovers  was  interrupted  in  1208 
by  the  opening  of  the  crusade  against  the  Albi- 
genses  ;  that  cruelest  of  religious  wars,  in  which 
the  early  Provencal  poetry  virtually  received  its 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  203 

death-blow.  Raimon  de  Miraval  was  shut  up, 
with  the  Count  of  Toulouse,  in  the  capital  of  the 
latter,  while  Beziers  and  Carcassonne  fell  before 
the  onslaught  of  Simon  de  Montfort.  Thence 
when  Peter  II.  of  Aragon  had  come  to  their  as- 
sistance, he  addressed  to  the  Spanish  prince  some 
animated  verses,  foretelling  that,  if  successful,  he 
would  make  his  name  as  terrible  to  the  French 
as  it  had  hitherto  been  to  the  Saracens.  But 
Peter  fell  in  the  battle  of  Muret,  on  the  12th 
of  September,  1213,  and  Raimon  followed  the 
flight  into  Aragon  of  the  Counts  of  Toulouse 
and  Foix,  and  there  died,  not  long  after,  in  a 
monastery  at  Lerida.  We  have  attempted,  in 
the  paraphrase  which  follows,  to  give  some  idea 
of  the  mechanical  complexity  of  Raimon's  ver- 
sification, and  of  the  verbal  or  syllabic  echo, 
spoken  of  before,  which  Arnaut  Daniel  had 
introduced :  — 

Fair  summer  time  doth  me  delight, 
And  song  of  birds  delights  no  less; 
Meadows  delight  in  their  green  dress, 
Delight  the  trees  in  verdure  bright : 

And  far,  far  more  delights  thy  graciousness, 

Lady,  and  I  to  do  thy  will  delight. 

Yet  be  not  this  delight  my  final  boon, 

Or  I  of  my  desire  shall  perish  soon ! 


204         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

For  that  desire,  most  exquisite 

Of  all  desires,  I  live  in  stress, 

Desire  of  thy  rich  comeliness. 

Oh,  come,  and  my  desire  requite! 

Though  doubling  that  desire  by  each  caress, 

Is  my  desire  not  Bingle  in  thy  sight? 

Let  me  not,  then,  desiring,  Bink  undone. 

To  love's  high  joys,  desire  be  rather  prone! 

X  i  alien  joy  will  I  invite, 

But  joy  in  thee  to  all  excess; 

Joy  in  thy  grace,  nor  e'en  confess 

Whatso  might  do  my  joy  despite. 

So  deep  the  joy,  1 1 1 \'  lady,  no  distress 

That  joy  >hall  master;  for  thy  beauty's  light 
Such  joy  hath  Bhed  for  each  day  it  hath  shone, 
Joyless  1  cannot  l>e  while  I  live  on. 

This  is  enough.  We  have  just  managed  to 
Lint  at  the  labored  quaintness  of  the  verse. 
But  that  peculiarity  of  rhythm  which  we  have 
called  an  echo,  should  have,  and  very  likely  did 
have,  a  name  of  its  own.  There  is  a  hackneyed, 
vet  unspoiled,  strain  of  melody  in  the  death 
scene  in  "  Lucia,"  of  which  the  effect  upon 
the  ear  is  almost  precisely  similar  to  this  in 
the   Provencal. 

It  would  be  unfair  to  the  reader  to  transcribe, 
otherwise  than  literally,  the  manuscript  biogra- 
phy of  the  absurdest  of  men  and  troubadours, 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  205 

Peire  Vidal.  Thus  it  runs  :  "  Peire  Vidal  was 
of  Toulouse,  the  son  of  a  tanner.  He  was  the 
best  singer  in  the  world,  and  a  good  finder;  and 
he  was  the  most  foolish  man  in  the  world, 
because  he  thought  every  thing  tiresome  except 
verse.  .  .  .  He  said  much  evil  of  others,  and 
made  some  verses  for  which  a  cavalier  de  San 
Gili  had  his  tongue  cut,  because  he  proclaimed 
himself  the  accepted  lover  of  San  Gili's  wife. 
But  Oc  del  Baux  treated  the  wound,  and  cured 
him.  So,  when  he  was  healed,  he  went  away 
beyond  the  sea,  and  brought  thence  a  Greek 
woman  whom  he  had  married  in  Cyprus;  and 
she  gave  him  to  understand  that  she  was  the 
granddaughter  of  the  Emperor  of  Constantino- 
ple, and  that,  through  her,  he  ought  by  rights 
to  have  the  empire.  Wherefore  he  put  all  his 
substance  into  a  navy,  because  he  intended  to  go 
and  conquer  the  empire ;  and  he  assumed  the 
imperial  arms,  and  had  himself  called  emperor 
and  his  wife  empress.  He  courted  all  the  fine 
ladies  he  saw,  and  besought  them  for  their  love, 
and  talked  Oc  to  them,  for  he  deemed  himself 
a  universal  lover,  and  that  any  one  would  die 
for  him.     And  he  always  had  fine  horses  and 


206         TROUBADOURS  AND   TRO  UTERES. 

armor,  and  an  imperial  chair  (or  throne),  and 
thought  he  was  the  best  knight  in  the  world, 
and  the  most  loved  of  ladies.  Peire  Vidal,  as 
I  have  said,  courted  all  fine  ladies  ;  .  .  .  and, 
among  others,  he  courted  my  Lady  Adelaide, 
the  wife  of  Barral,  the  Lord  of  Marseilles,  .  .  . 
and  Barral  knew  it  well.  .  .  .  So,  there  came 
a  day  when  Peire  Vidal  knew  that  Barral  was 
away,  and  the  lady  alone  in  her  chamber,  and 
he  went  in  and  found  her  sleeping,  and  kneeled 
down  and  kissed  her  lips.  Feeling  the  kiss,  and 
thinking  that  it  was  Lord  Barral,  she  started 
Up,  smiling,  then  looked  and  saw  that  it  was 
that  fool  of  a  Peire  Vidal  (#  vi  lo  fol  de  Peire 
77</'//),  and  began  to  make  a  great  outcry.  Her 
women  rushed  in,  crying  i  What  is  this?  '  And 
Peire  Vidal  fled.  Then  the  lady  sent  for  Lord 
Barral,  and  loudly  complained  of  Peire  for  kiss- 
ing her,  and  wept,  and  prayed  that  he  might  be 
punished.  Then  Lord  Barral,  like  a  brave  man, 
made  light  of  the  thing,  and  reproved  his  wife 

for  her  distress But  Peire  Vidal  was 

frightened,  and  took  ship  for  Genoa,  where  he 
remained  until  he  went  over-seas  with  King 
Richard.    .   .   .    He   remained   a   long   time    in 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  207 

foreign  parts,  not  daring  to  return  to  Provence 
until  Lord  Barral,  who  was  well  disposed  toward 
him,  as  you  have  heard,  prayed  his  wife  to  par- 
don the  kiss,  and  make  him  (Peire)  a  present 
of  it.  So  Barral  sent  Peire  his  wife's  good 
wishes,  and  ordered  him  to  return.  And  back 
he  came,  with  the  greatest  rejoicing,  to  Mar- 
seilles, and  was  well  received  by  everybody,  and 
every  thing  was  forgiven  him  ;  wherefore  Peire 
made  the  famous  song :  — 

'Pos  tornat  soi  en  Proensa.' 

.  .  .  [Afterwards]  he  fell  in  love  with  Loba 
de  Penautier,  and  with  Madame  Stephania,  of 
Sardinia,  and  with  Lady  Raimbauda  de  Biolh. 
Loba  was  of  Carbares,  and  out  of  compliment 
to  her  Peire  Vidal  had  himself  called  Wolf,  and 
wore  a  wolf  on  his  arms.  And  he  caused  him- 
self to  be  hunted  in  the  mountains  of  Carbarns, 
with  dogs  and  mastiffs  and  leverets,  as  wolves 
are  hunted  ;  and  he  wore  a  wolf-skin,  to  give 
himself  the  appearance  of  a  wolf.  And  the  shep- 
herds, with  their  dogs,  hunted  him,  and  abused 
him  so  that  he  wras  carried  for  dead  to  the  inn 
of  Loba  de  Penautier.     As  soon  as  she  knew 


208         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

that  it  was  Peire  Vidal,  she  began  to  scoff  at 
him  for  his  folly,  and  her  husband  likewise,  and 
they  received  him  with  great  merriment.  But 
her  husband  had  him  taken  and  conveyed  to  a 
retired  place,  and  did  the  best  he  could  with 
him,  and  kept  him  till   he   was  well." 

Happily  the  craze  of  Peire  appears  chiefly  in 
his  actions,  and  many  of  his  verses  are  unusually 
sane  and  elegant.  We  give  the  song  mentioned 
above  as  addressed  to  Adelaide  on  his  return  to 
Marseilles.  The  grace  and  good-nature  of  the 
original  sufficed,  no  doubt,  to  atone  for  its  un- 
deniably -aucy  and  perfunctory  air.  It  is  also 
interesting  from  the  allusion  in  the  sixth  verse 
—  which  is  the  fifth  in  Raynouard's  text  —  to 
the  fancied  return  of  King  Arthur,  either  in  the 
person  of  Coeur  de  Lion  himself,  in  whose  train 
Peire  went  to  the  Holy  Land,  or,  more  prob- 
ably, in  that  of  his  presumptive  heir,  Arthur  of 
Brittany,  the  victim  of  John 

Xow  into  Provence  returning,1 
Well  I  know  my  call  to  sing 
To  my  lady  some  sweet  thing, 
Full  of  gratitude  and  yearning. 

1  "  Pos  tornatz  sui   en   Proensa."     (Raynouard,    vol.    iii.   p 
321.) 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.         209 

Such  the  tribute  still  whereby 
Every  singer,  nobly  taught, 
Favor  of  his  queen  hath  bought, 
Ever  loving  learnedly ; 
Like  the  rest,  then,  why  not  I? 

Sinless,  and  yet  pardon  earning 
By  the  penitence  I  bring, 
Grace  from  grievance  gathering, 
Yea,  and  hope  from  anger  burning! 
Bliss  in  tears  I  can  descry, 
Sweet  from  bitter  I  have  brought, 
Courage  in  despair  have  sought, 
Gained,  in  losing,  mightily, 
And  in  rout  met  victory ! 

Fearless,  then,  my  fate  concerning, 
In  my  choice  unwavering, 
If,  at  last,  I  see  upspring 
Honor  in  the  place  of  scorning. 
All  true  lovers  far  and  nigh 
Shall  take  comfort  from  the  thought 
Of  the  miracle  I  wrought, 
Drawing  fire  from  snow,  and  aye 
Sweetest  draught  the  salt  wave  by  1 

I  can  hail  her  very  spurning, 
Bow  to  her  abandoning, 
Though  her  mien  my  heart  should  wring, 
Well  her  sovereign  right  discerning 
Me  to  give,  or  sell,  or  buy! 
14 


210         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

That  man's  wisdom,  sure,  is  naught 
Who  would  bid  me  loathe  my  lot. 
Pain  she  gives  is,  verily, 
But  a  kind  of  ecstasy  I 

Blame  Dot,  then,  my  hope's  adjourning: 
I !  we  the  Britons  not  their  king, 
Arthur,  for  whose  tarrying 

I.     ig  lit*-  land  did  Bit  in  mourning? 

Nor  ran  any  me  deny 

Tlit*  nip-  prize  for  which  I  fought, 

Tin'  on--  kiss  that  once  I  caught. 

5      : .  tin*  theft  <>t'  days  ur,,ne  by 

She  hath  made  a  charity ! 

Once  more,  in  the  case  of  Raimbaut  de  Va- 
queiras,  we  are  fain  to  throw  aside  all  attempt 
at  critical  examination  and  selection,  and  simply 

quote  the  text  of  the  early  biographer.  The 
reader  will  please  compare  the  manner  of  telling 

the  tale  of  the  mantle  with  the  similar  incident 
of  the  sword  and  circlet  in  the  story  of  "  Pelleas 
and  Etard"  or  Ettarre,  so  solemnly  and  touchingly 
rehearsed  by  Tennyson  in  the  eighth  idyl  of  the 
complete  edition.  It  will  furnish  him  once  for 
all  with  a  measure  of  the  strange  difference  in 
native  moral  sense  between  the  races  who  cul- 
tivated the  troubadour  and  the  trouvere  poetry. 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.         211 

"  Raimbaut  de  Vaqueiras  was  the  son  of  a 
poor  cavalier  of  Provence,  of  the  Castle  of 
Vaqueiras.  And  Raimbaut  became  a  jongleur 
and  was  a  long  while  with  the  Prince  of  Orange, 
William  of  Baux.  He  was  skilled  in  singing 
and  in  making  couplets  and  sirventes,  and  the 
Prince  of  Orange  did  him  great  honor  and  favors 
for  it,  and  made  him  to  be  generally  known  and 
praised.  Yet  Raimbaut  left  him  (the  Prince  of 
Orange)  and  went  to  the  Marquis  Boniface  of 
Montferrat,  and  was  long  established  at  his 
court  also.  And  he  grew  in  wit  and  wisdom  and 
soldierly  accomplishments,  and  became  enam- 
oured of  the  marquis's  sister,  nry  Ladjr  Beatrice, 
the  wife  of  Henry  of  Carret,  and  found  many 
good  songs  about  her,  and  it  was  thought  that 
she  was  favorably  disposed  toward  him.  Now 
you  have  heard  who  Raimbaut  was,  and  how  he 
came  to  honor,  and  by  whom.  So,  as  I  said, 
when  the  marquis  had  knighted  him,  he  fixed  his 
affections  on  my  Lady  Beatrice,  who  was  also  the 
sister  of  my  Lady  Adelaide  de  Salutz.  He  loved 
and  desired  her  greatly,  taking  care  that  no  one 
should  suspect  it,  and  he  enhanced  her  reputa- 
tion very  much,  and  gained  for  her  many  friends, 


212         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

both  men  and  women.  And  she  received  him 
flatteringly,  but  he  was  dying  of  apprehension 
because  lie  dared  not  openly  ask  her  love  nor 
confess  that  he  had  set  Ins  heart  upon  her. 
But  as  a  man  distraught,  he  told  her  that  he 
loved  a  very  distinguished  lady,  and  knew  her 
very  intimately,  but  dared  not  speak,  nor  betray 
his  feeling,  nor  ask  her  for  her  love,  because  of 
her  high  consideration.  And  lie'  prayed  her  in 
God's  name  to  advise  him  whether  he  should 
speak  out  the  wish  of  bis  heart,  or  perish  in 
silent  devotion.  Thai  gentle  lady,  my  Lady 
Beatrice,  when  she  heard  this,  and  knew  the 
admiration  of  Iiaimbaut,  having  plainly  per- 
ceived before  that  he-  was  dying  of  love  for  her, 
was  touched  by  his  passion  and  his  piety.  And 
she  said,  *  Raimbaut,  it  is  well  known  that  every 
faithful  friend  loves  a  gentle  lady  in  such  wise 
that  he  fears  to  betray  his  love.  But  sooner 
than  die,  I  would  counsel  him  to  speak  and  pray 
her  to  take  him  for  a  servitor  and  friend.  For 
if  she  is  wise  and  courteous  she  will  not  despise 
him.  So  this  is  the  advice  which  I  give  you. 
Ask  her  to  receive  you  for  her  cavalier.  For 
you    are    such    an    one    that    any   lady   in    the 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.         213 

universe  might  so  take  you,  as  Adelaide,  the 
Countess  of  Salutz  holds  Peire  Vidal;  and  the 
Countess  of  Burlas,  Arnaut  cle  Maroill ;  and 
rny  Lady  Mary,  Gaucelm  Faidit ;  and  the  Lady 
of  Marseilles,  Folquet.'  .  .  .  When  Lord  Raim- 
baut  heard  the  comfortable  advice  which  she 
gave,  ...  he  told  her  that  she  was  herself  the 
lady  whom  he  loved,  and  concerning  whom  he 
had  asked  advice.  And  my  Lady  Beatrice  told 
him  that  it  was  w^ell  done,  .  .  .  and  that  she 
would  accept  him  for  her  cavalier.  Lord  Raim- 
baut  did  then  exalt  her  fame  to  the  utmost  of 
his  ability,  and  it  was  then  he  made  the  song 
which  begins,  — 

1  Era  m'  requier  sa  costum  e  son  us/ 
"  Now  it  came  to  pass  that  the  lady  lay  down 
and  fell  asleep  beside  him,  and  the  marquis,  her 
husband,  who  loved  her  well,  found  them  so, 
and  was  wroth.  But,  like  a  wise  man,  he  for- 
bore to  touch  them,  only  he  took  his  own  mantle 
and  covered  them  with  it,  and  took  that  of 
Raimbaut  and  went  his  way.  And  when  Raim- 
baut  arose  he  knew  well  what  had  happened, 
and  he  took  the  mantle  of  the  marquis  and 
sought  him  straightway,  and  kneeled  before  him 


214         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

and  prayed  for  mercy.  And  the  marquis  per- 
ceived that  Raimbaut  knew  how  he  had  been 
discovered,  and  lie  recalled  all  the  pleasure 
which  Raimbaut  had  given  him  in  divers  places. 
And  because  Raimbaut  had  said  softly,  in  order 
that  he  might  not  be  understood  to  be  bespeak- 
ing pardon,  thai  he  would  forgive  the  marquis  for 
tting  on  his  robe,  those  who  overheard  thought 
that  all  this  was  because  the  marquis  had  taken 
Raimbaut's  mantle.  And  the  marquis  forgave 
him  and  made  answer  that  lie  would  wear  his 
mantle  no  more.  And  only  they  two  under- 
-  od  it.  After  that  it  came  to  pass  that  the 
marquis  went  with  his  forces  into  Roumania,  and 
with  great  help  from  the  church  conquered  the 
kingdom  of  Thessalonica.  And  there  Lord 
Raimbaut  distinguished  himself  by  the  feats 
which  he  performed,  and  there  he  was  rewarded 
with  great  lands  and  revenues,  and  there  he 
died.  And  concerning  the  deeds  of  his  liege 
lord  he  made  a  song  which  has  been  transmitted 
by  Peire  Yidal  which  begins,  — 

'  Cant  ai  ben  dig  del  Marquis/  M 

It  was  in  120J:  that  Raimbaut  embarked  from 
Venice   for   the  East,  his   master,   Montferrat, 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.         215 

having  been  chosen  leader  of  the  expedition  of 
that  year  in  place  of  Thibaut  of  Champagne, 
who  had  died  just  as  all  things  were  made  ready 
for  departure  two  years  before.  This  was  the 
famous  expedition  which  digressed  to  Constan- 
tinople, and  expended  its  consecrated  energies 
in  the  capture  of  that  city  and  the  subjugation 
of  the  Greek  empire.  The  Marquis  of  Mont- 
ferrat  received  the  kingdom  of  Thessalonica  as  his 
share  in  the  spoils  of  this  victory,  and  thence  he 
overran  nearly  the  whole  of  Greece.  Raimbaut 
was  constantly  with  him  and  won  abundant  lau- 
rels ;  but  underneath  all  the  excitement  and 
splendor  of  this  adventurous  life  he  seems  to  have 
carried  a  heart  haunted  by  homesick  longings  and 
melancholy  presentiments,  which  were  soon  to  be 
justified.  He  fell  in  battle  in  the  same  year  with 
his  master,  1207,  possibly  upon  the  same  field. 
The  song  in  which  he  is  said  to  have  celebrated 
the  fame  of  Montferrat  is  invariably  ascribed  in 
the  collections  to  Peire  Vidal.  There  is  also  an 
extremely  interesting  piece,  transcribed  at  length 
by  Fauriel,  a  sort  of  impetuous  declaration  of 
independence  of  the  tyranny  of  love,  the  text  of 
which  is  not  in  Raynouard's  collection,  nor  in 


216         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TRO UTERES. 

any  other  accessible  to  ourselves.  We  give  a 
few  verses  out  of  the  song  first  cited  in  the  Life 
just  quoted,  and  the  whole  of  one  of  Raimbaut's 
latest  pieces,  a  really  noble  and  affecting  lament 
composed  in  Rouinania  :  — 

Now  Love,  who  will  have  Bighs,  desires,  and  tears,1 
Demands  his  wonted  tribute,  even  of  me. 
And  [,  who  have  received  the  gift  to 

The  loveliesl  lady  of  all  mortal  years, 

I       v.     She  is  my  surety  Bincere, 
Love  will  be  glorious  gain,  and  never  Lot 
Greal  are  my  hoot*  and  courage,  even  because 

I  seek  the  one  best  treasure  of  our  sph<  i 

For  since  my  Lady  hath  not  any  peers, 
Matchless  in  all  the  past  my  Love  must  be; 
Thisbe  Loved  Pyramus  less  utterly. 

Hers  am  I.  and  my  vow  Bhe  kindly  hears; 

Y     .  and  thus  Lifted  o'er  all  others  here, 
And  very  rich,  and  versed  in  honor's  laws, 
for  the  worthy  keeps  h  applause, 

While  the  base  know  her  lofty  and  austere. 

"Wherefore  not  Percival,  when  to  loud  cheers 

The  red  knight's  arms  in  Arthur's  court  bore  he, 
Received  his  honors  more  exultantly 
Than  I,  nor  ever  keener  death-pang  tears 

1  "Era  m'  requier  sa  costum  e  son  us."     (Raynouard,  vol.  iii., 
P- 258.) 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.         217 

The  breast  of  Tantalus  than  I  should  bear, 
Did  she  her  bounty  stint,  from  whatso  cause, 
Who  is  earth's  clearest,  without  any  flaws, 

And  keen  of  wit,  and  innocent  of  fear. 

Of  the  lay  which  follows,  it  may  be  remem- 
bered that  Mistral  quotes  the  first  verse,  to  illus- 
trate the  tender  sorrows  of  his  friend  Aubanel. 
Owing  to  the  length  of  the  piece,  and  the  diffi- 
culty of  dividing  it,«  I  have,  for  once,  abandoned 
the  attempt  to  keep  the  same  rhyme  in  the  cor- 
responding lines  of  each  stanza,  but  otherwise 
the  form  of  the  original  is  preserved.  I  have 
not  been  able  to  establish  the  identity  of  the 
"  English  lord  "  —  evidently  a  man  of  note, 
though  not  the  king  —  to  whom  the  poem  seems 
to  have  been  addressed,  in  reply,  perhaps,  to 
some  friendly  challenge  :  — 

Nor  winter-tide,  nor  Easter-tide,1 
Xor  cloudless  air,  nor  oak-wood  fair, 
Gladden  me  more;  for  joy  seems  care, 
And  heavy  all  was  once  my  pride ; 
And  leisure  hours  are  weary  while 
Now  hope  no  more  doth  on  me  smile. 
And  I,  who  sprang  to  gallantry 
And  love  like  fishes  in  the  sea, 

1  "  No  m'  agrad  ivers  ni  pascors."  ("Parnasse  Occitanien," 
p.  8.) 


218         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TROUVERES. 

Now  both  of  these  are  from  me  gone, 
Live  like  an  exile,  sad  and  lone. 
All  other  life  to  me  is  death, 
All  other  joy  discourageth. 


The  flower  of  love  is  fallen  away. 

And  the  sweet  fruit;  the  grass  and  grain, 

1  sang  full  many  a  pleasant  Btrain 

Thereof,  and  honor  found  that  way. 

But  Love,  thai  Lifted  me  o'er  all, 
Ay,  Love  itself  hath  wrought  my  fall. 

And  but  that  1  would  Boon]  to  .-how 

A     ward  fa<-f  before  my  \\ 

1  M  put  my  Life  out  like  a  flame, 

And  quench  my  deeds,  and  blot  my  name; 

So  deepeneth  in  my  memory 

Despair  that  one  day  brought  to  me. 


But  honor's  voice  commands  me  thus: 
••  Thou  shalt  not,  in  thy  mood  forlorn, 
Thy  foes  fulfil  with  gleeful  scorn, 
Of  thine  old  praise  oblivious." 
Nor  will  I.     Blows  I  yet  can  deal, 
And  wear  a  merry  mask  with  skill 
Before  a  Greek  or  Latin  horde, 
While  he  who  girt  me  with  my  sword, 
My  marquis,  doth  the  pagan  fight. 
For  since  this  world  first  saw  the  light, 
Xever  hath  God  such  conflict  thrown 
On  any  race  as  on  onr  own. 


SOXGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  219 

Resplendent  arms  and  warriors  bold, 
And  battle  given,  and  joust  arrayed, 
Engine  and  siege  and  flashing  blade, 
And  toppling  walls,  or  new,  or  old, 
As  in  a  dream,  I  hear,  I  see ; 
For  what  save  love  availeth  me? 
Yea,  I  myself,  in  harness  brave, 
Ride  forth  to  strike,  to  fell,  to  save, 
And  laurel  still,  and  treasure,  win, 
But  never  more  that  joy  within ; 
The  world  is  but  a  desert-shore, 
And  my  songs  comfort  me  no  more. 

Not  Alexander  in  his  pride, 

Nor  Charlemagne,  nor  Ludovic; 

Held  court  like  ours.     Not  Emeric, 

Nor  Roland,  with  his  warriors  tried, 

E'er  won  so  great  a  victory 

O'er  half  so  rich  a  realm  as  we. 

Laws  have  we  given,  and  they  're  obeyed, 

And  kings  and  dukes  and  emperors  made, 

And  decked  our  castles  for  delight, 

In  Mussulman  or  Arab  sight, 

And  cleared  each  way,  and  oped  each  gate, 

From  Brindes  to  St.  Georges' s  Strait. 

Yet  what  to  me,  brave  English  lord, 
Are  spoils  like  these  and  glory  worth, 
Who  sought  no  other  boon  on  earth 
Save  to  adore  and  be  adored? 
Deem  not  my  splendid  heritage 
A  single  sorrow  can  assuage. 


220         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

The  more  jncreaseth  here  my  pelf, 
The  more  I  mourn  and  scorn  myself. 
My  fair  and  gracious  cavalier1 
Is  wroth  with  me,  is  far  from  here; 
A  wound  like  mine  no  healing  hath, 
lint  ever-growing  pain  and  wrath. 

Yet  thou,  Bweet  Beigneur,  warrior  high, 

Great  both  in  arms  and  courtesy, 

Thou  dost  a  little  comforl  give, 
Tempting  me  yet  awhile  to  live. 

We  twain  will  make  Damascus  cower, 
Jerusalem  restore  to  power, 

And  wrest  the  sacred  Syrian  land 

From  pagan  Turks1  relentless  hand. 
Shame  on  us,  Laggard  pilgrims  all, 

B       •  those  \\lx>  nol.lv  fight  and  fall! 
Shame  on  our  courts,  and  court  we  strife! 
For  death  availeth  more  than  life! 

In  this  lament  of  Raimbaut  tie  Vaqueiras, 
we  seem  to  hear  the  trumpet  contending  with 
the  lute;  and  in  the  clang  of  its  abrupt  close, 
the  harsher  strain  prevails.  It  was  ominous 
of  the  change  which  was  immediately  to  pass 
upon  Provencal  song,  the  rapid,  but  not  inglo- 

1  Raimbaut  called  Beatrice  his  "  Bel  Cavalier,"  because  he 
once  surprised  her  practising  a  sword  exercise  all  by  herself. 


SONGS   OF   THE   TROUBADOURS.  221 

rious,  decline  of  which  was  already  decreed. 
The  domestic  crusade  of  the  Roman  church 
against  the  heretics  of  Albigeois  was  formally 
inaugurated  in  1208,  one  year  after  the  death, 
in  the  Orient,  of  Raimbaut  and  his  master,  Bon- 
iface of  Montferrat.  We  are  rather  used  to 
regard  that  infamous  war  —  the  strange  horrors 
by  which  it  was  attended,  and  the  appalling 
desolation  of  some  of  earth's  most  delightful 
regions  which  it  entailed  —  from  a  merely  the- 
ological point  of  view.  In  reality,  it  was  a 
conflict  involving  a  great  variety  of  social  and 
political  interests,  and  in  its  lingering  catastro- 
phe many  hopes  perished  which  were  wholly  of 
this  world.  It  was,  in  fact,  or  it  became,  a 
match  between  the  great  feudal  nobles  and  the 
clergy ;  between  the  princes  of  the  province  and 
the  fast-growing  central  power  of  France,  al- 
waj's  highly  orthodox,  and  in  strict  alliance  with 
the  court  of  Rome.  It  was  hardly  more  than 
incidentally  and  symbolically  the  resistance  of 
darkness  to  light ;  priestly  tyranny  to  the  prog- 
ress of  free  thought ;  regnant  superstition  to 
simple  faith.  The  struggle  lasted  for  about  a 
generation,  and  our  indignant  sympathies  are 


222         TROUBADOURS  AND    TROUVERES. 

with  the  conquered  side  :  less,  however,  because 
that  side  had  a  monopoly  of  piety,  than  because 
it  was,  broadly  speaking',  the  side  of  chivalry, 
culture,  and  common  sense.  We  are  glad  to 
find  that  our  troubadours,  almost  to  a  man,  es- 
poused the  nobler  and  worse-fated  cause  ;  but 
we  can  see  that,  from  the  nature  of  their  avoca- 
tions and  their  personal  relations  with  the  great 
Provencal  nobles,  it  could  hardly  have  been 
otherwise. 

One  of  them,  indeed,  Folquet  of  Marseilles, 
whom  the  chagrin  of  disappointed  love  had 
early  driven  into  the  cloister,  and  who  had  been 
made  Bishop  of  Toulouse  while  yet  a  compara- 
tively young  man,  won  an  immortality  of  dis- 
honor, by  the  ingenious  atrocity  with  which  he 
persecuted  the  heretics  and  their  defenders; 
and  one  other,  Perdigon,  a  man  of  considerable 
gifts,  but  of  the  basest  origin,  turned  traitor  to 
his  seignior  and  his  first  patron,  Raymond  of 
Toulouse,  and  accompanied  the  embassy  which 
went  to  Rome,  under  the  leadership  of  William 
of  Baux,  to  demand  the  intervention  of  the  Pope 
on  behalf  of  sound,  old-fashioned  doctrine.  In 
his  own  person  Perdigon  was  sufficiently  pun- 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  223 

ished.  His  new  master  tired  of  him  ;  his  apostasy 
to  the  cause  of  the  south  made  him  execrated 
among  his  countrymen ;  he  fell  into  abject  pov- 
ertjr,  and  with  difficulty  found  even  a  monastery 
to  afford  him  an  asylum  in  his  last  days.  With 
these  exceptions,  the  poets  of  Occitania  were 
true  to  the  cause  of  their  country's  independ- 
ence, both  spiritual  and  political,  and  lifted  up 
impassioned  appeals  against  her  subjugation. 

Some  of  their  greatest  names  are  most  asso- 
ciated with  this  unquiet  latter  time.  This  is  true 
of  him  whom  the  ancient  authorities  generally 
agree  in  pronouncing  the  first  of  Provengal 
poets,  Guiraut  de  Bornelh,  or  Borneil.1  "  There 
was  never  a  better  troubadour,"  are  the  words 
of  his  biographer,  "  either  among  those  who 
went  before  or  those  who  came  after  him  ;  and 
the  manner  of  his  life  was  on  this  wise :  all 
winter  he  studied  in  the  school,2  and  all  sum- 

1  Dante,  however,  in  the  "Purgatorio,"  expresses  no  little 
indignation  with  those  who  insist  on  ranking  Guiraut  ahove 
his  own  favorite,  Arnaut  Daniel.  But  Dante's  literary  judg- 
ments were  apt  to  he  biased. 

2  This  confirms  Fauriel's  idea,  that  there  were  institutions 
where  the  troubadour  poetry  was  formally  taught.  Fauriel 
even  thinks  that  there  must  have  been  such  before  the  days  of 
William  of  Poitiers ;  but  of  this  there  does  not  seem  to  be  suf- 
ficient evidence. 


224         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

mer  he  journeyed  from  court  to  court,  accom- 
panied by  two  jongleurs,  who  performed  his 
songs.  He  no  longer  desired  to  many;  but 
whatever  he  gained  he  gave  to  his  poor  rela- 
tives, or  to  the  church  of  the  town  where  he 
was  horn/'  There  is  something  tantalizing  in 
tin.4  brevity  of  this  notice,  more  particularly  be- 
cause it  conveys  the  idea  of  an  unwonted  se- 
riousness  and  nobility  in  the  poet's  character. 
And  it  is  certain  that  Guiraut  de  Bornelh  was  the 
true  maker  and  master  of  the  ffAaft*0n,and  that  his 
love-poems,  though  occasionally  obscure,  have  an 
emotional  depth  and  an  equality  of  power  sur- 
passing those  even  of  Bernard  of  Ventadour. 
When,  in  his  later  years,  he  swept  the  lyre  with 
a  Bterner  hand,  and  bewailed  his  country's  mis- 
fortunes, and  the  decadence  of  her  chivalric 
glories,  there  was  dignity  in  his  grief,  and  even 
grandeur.  The  date  of  his  death  is  disputed; 
but  it  could  not  well  have  occurred  later  than 
1230,  and  even  then  he  must  have  been  very 
old. 

The  first  half  of  the  thirteenth  century  is  also 
the  epoch  of  Peire  Cardenal.  If  Bernard  of 
Ventadour    was    the    sweetest   minstrel  among 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.  225 

the  troubadours,  and  Guiraut  de  Bornelh  their 
loftiest  poet,  Peire  Cardenal  was  indisputably 
the  subtlest  and  most  intellectual  spirit  among 
them  all.  His  day  was  not  an  auspicious  one 
for  the  conceits  and  amenities  of  love ;  but  his 
moral  appeals  and  laments  are  full  of  wrathful 
eloquence,  and  die  searches  the  dark  places  of 
human  destiny,  the  origin  of  evil,  the  mystery 
of  free-will,  with  a  desperate  intrepidity  almost 
equal  to  that  of  Omar  Khayam.  "  Who,"  he 
cries,  in  the  beginning  of  one  of  his  pieces,  "-de- 
sires to  hear  a  sirvente  woven  of  grief,  embroid- 
ered with  anger  ?  I  have  spun  it  already,  and  I 
can  make  its  warp  and  woof."1  And  there  is 
another,  in  which  he  rehearses  the  bold  defence 
which  he  will  make  when  he  finds  himself  ar- 
raigned before  the  judgment-bar  of  God.  This 
does  not  come  properly  within  our  scope ;  and 
we  shall  therefore  return  to  our  first  theme,  and 
close  these  fragmentary  and,  as  many  may  well 
think,  arbitrary  illustrations,  with  three  speci- 
mens of  a  peculiar  order  of  love-song,  the  au- 
bado,  or  morning  counterpart  of  the   serenade. 

1  "  Qui  volra  sirventes  auzir?"     (Raynouard,  "Lexique  Ro- 
man," vol.  i.,  p.  446.) 

15 


226         TROUBADOURS  AXD    TROUVERES. 

Despite  the  superficial  and  apparently  regular 
resemblance  of  sentiment  and  circumstance  be- 
tween the  three,  the}'  are  as  wide  apart  in  time 
as  possible,  and  their  dates  embrace  nearly  the 
whole  illustrious  period  of  Oceitanian  song. 
That  of  the  first,  which  we  incline  to  regard 
as  the  most  perfect  flower  of  Provencal  poesy, 
cannot  be  precisely  fixed;  but  it  is  apparently 
very  early,  and  the  nameless  author  was  un- 
doubtedly a  woman.  The  second  was  written 
by  Guiraut  de  Bornelh  in  his  prime.  The  third 
is  by  the  last  of  the  noteworthy  troubadours, 
Bertrand  of  Alamanon.  The  fanciful  song  of 
Magali,  in  **  Mireio,"  is  also  an  aubado^  thor- 
oughly modem  and  highly  artificial.  If  the 
leader  will  take  the  trouble  to  compare  it  with 
the  " simple  and  sensuous "  lay  which  follows, 
he  will  fully  realize  all  the  likeness  and  the  un- 
likeness  existing  between  the  reproduction  and 
the  reality. 

Under  the  hawthorns  of  an  orchard-lawn,1 
She  laid  her  head  her  lovers  breast  upon, 
Silent,  until  the  guard  should  cry  the  dawn. 
Ah  God!     Ah  God!     AYhy  comes  the  day  so  soon? 

1  "  Dans  nn  vergier  en  fuelha  d'albespi."     (Bartsch,  "  Chrestom- 
athie  Provencale,"  p.  98.) 


SONGS   OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.         227 

T  would  the  night  might  never  have  passed  by ! 
So  wouldst  thou  not  have  left  me,  at  the  cry 
Of  yonder  sentry  to  the  whitening  sky. 
Ah  God!     Ah  God!     Why  comes  the  day  so  soon? 

One  kiss  more,  sweetheart,  ere  the  melodies 

Of  early  birds  from  all  the  fields  arise ! 

One  more,  without  a  thought  of  jealous  eyes! 

Ah  God!     Ah  God!     Why  comes  the  day  so  soon? 

And  yet  one  more  under  the  garden  wall; 

For  now  the  birds  begin  their  festival, 

And  the  day  wakens  at  the  sentry's  call. 

Ah  God!     Ah  God!     Why  comes  the  day  so  soon? 

'T  is  o'er!    He  's  gone.    Oh,  mine  in  life  and  death ! 
But  the  sweet  breeze  that  backward  wandereth, 
I  quaff  it,  as  it  were  my  darling's  breath. 
Ah  God!     Ah  God!     Why  comes  the  day  so  soon? 

Fair  was  the  lady,  and  her  fame  was  wide, 
And  many  knights  for  her  dear  favor  sighed ; 
But  leal  the  heart  out  of  whose  depths  she  cried, 
Ah  God!     Ah  God!     Why  comes  the  day  so  soon? 

Here,  at  least,  there  is  absolute  artlessness, 
a  kind  of  divine  abandonment.  The  next  is  a 
world  away  from  this,  in  its  conscious  and  re- 
strained fervor,  separated  from  it  as  from  a 
childish  Eden,  by  the  flaming  sword  of  per- 
fectly-equipped chivalry. 


223         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROU VERES. 

All-glorious  king,  who  dost  illuminate1 
All  ways  of  men,  upon  thy  grace  I  wait; 
Praying  thy  shelter  for  my  spirit's  queen, 
Whom  all  the  darkling  hours  I  have  not  seen, 
And  now  the  dawn  is  near. 

Sleepest  or  wakest,  lady  of  my  vows? 

Oh,  sleep  qo  more,  but  lift  thy  quiet  brows; 

For  now  the  Orient's  most  lovely  .star 

Grows  Large  and  bright,  welcoming  from  afar 

The  dawn  that  now  is  near. 

Oh,  sleep  do  more,  but  gracious  audience  give, 
What  time  with  the  awakening  birds  1  strive, 
Who  seek  the  day  amid  the  Leafage  dark. 
To  me,  to  me,  not  to  that  other,  hark; 

Tor  now  the  dawn  is  near. 

Undo  aloft,  most  fair,  thy  window-bars, 
And  Look  upon  the  heaven  and  its  stars, 
Ami  to  my  steadfast  watchfulness  incline, 
And  doubt  me  not,  Lest  Long  regret  be  thine; 
Tor  now  the  dawn  is  near. 

Aye  since  we  parted  in  the  eve  agone, 
Slept  have  I  none,  but  kneeled  and  prayed  alone 
Unto  the  Son  of  Mary  in  the  sky, 
To  make  thee  mine  until  we  both  shall  die; 
And  now  the  dawn  is  near. 

1  "  Reis  glorios,  verais  lums  e  clardatz"     (Raynouard,  vol.  iii., 
p.  313.) 


SONGS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS.         229 

From  thy  balcony,  lady,  yesternight, 
Didst  thou  me  to  this  vigil  not  invite? 
And  was  it,  then,  the  suit,  the  song,  to  spurn 
Of  one  who  would  have  died  thy  smile  to  earn? 
And  now  the  dawn  is  near. 

Not  so,  not  so!     O  heart  fulfilled  with  bliss, 
What  care  I  for  the  morns  to  follow  this? 
For  now  the  sweetest  soul  of  mother  born 
Folds  her  arms  round  me  till  I  laugh  to  scorn 
That  other  I  did  fear! 

And  this  is  the  last :  — 

A  brave  and  merry  cavalier 1 
Sang  once  unto  his  lady  dear 
A  song  like  this  which  ye  shall  hear. 
"  Oh  sweet,  my  soul,  what  comes,"  he  said, 
u  When  day  dawns  and  the  night  is  fled? 
Ah  ha! 
I  hear  the  sentry's  call  afar ; 
Up  and  away! 
Behold,  the  day 
Comes  following  the  day-star ! 

"  Oh  sweet,  my  soul,  I  would,"  said  he, 
' '  That  never  dawn  or  day  might  be : 
So  were  we  blest  eternally ! 
At  least  if  thou  wilt  have  it  so, 
I  am  thy  friend  where'er  I  go. 

1  "  Un  cavalier  si  jazia."     (Raynouard,  vol.  v.,  p.  73.) 


230         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

„Ahha! 
I  hear  the  sentry's  call  afar; 
Up  and  away! 
Behold,  the  day 

Comes  following  the  day-star! 

"  Oli  Bweet,  my  bouI,  whate'ei  they  say, 
There  is  qo  grief  Like  ours  to-day, 
When  friend  from  friend  is  rent  away. 
Alas!  I  know-  too  well,"  said  he, 
11  How  brief  one  happy  night  may  be. 
All  ha! 

I  hear  the  Bentry's  call  afar; 

L'p  and  away! 

Behold,  the  day 
blowing  the  day-star! 

"  Oh  sweet,  my  soul,  yield  me  belief: 
Afar  from  thee  my  course  were  brief; 
Slain  were  I.  by  my  love  and  grief  I 

I  go,  but  I  shall  come  again; 

Life  without  thee  were  void  and  vain. 
Ah  ha! 
I  hear  the  sentry's  call  afar; 
Up  and  away! 
Behold,  the  day 
Comes  following  the  day-star! 

II  Oh  sweet,  my  soul,  my  way  I  take, 
Thine  still,  although  the  morning  break; 
Forget  me  not,  for  God's  dear  sake. 


SOXGS   OF   THE   TROUBAUOURS.         231 

My  heart  of  hearts  goes  not  with  me, 
It  stays  for  ever  more  with  thee. 
Ah  ha! 
I  hear  the  sentry's  call  afar ; 
Up  and  away! 
Behold,  the  day 
Comes  following  the  day-star!  " 

In  point  of  feeling,  these  lines  are  not  to  be 
compared  with  the  others.  In  their  sweet  but 
lagging  rhythm  there  is  a  strange  mingling  of 
languor  and  levity.  They  are,  in  fact,  already 
a  reminiscence,  —  the  tenuous  echo  of  a  music 
passed  by. 


THE   ARTIIURIAD. 

T^ROUBADOURS    and    TrouvSres!      The 

English-speaking  student  of  the  early  Pro- 
vencal poetry  feels  himself  constantly  solicited 
and  allured  by  the  echoes  of  that  antiphonal 
singing  which  men  were  beginning  to  essay 
north  of  the  Loire,  and  which  was  fostered  with 
especial  enthusiasm  at  the  Xorman  court,  and  in 
the  Xorman  halls  of  our  own  ancestral  England. 
While  William  of  Poitiers  boasted  of  the  van- 
quished hearts  that  vied  for  his  choosing,  or 
dolorously  deplored  the  loves  and  luxuries 
which  lie  left  behind  him  when  parting  for 
the  Holy  Land,  Wace  was  chanting  the  vic- 
tories of  Polio  in  Normandy,  the  exploits  of 
Brutus,  and  the  woes  of  Lear  ;  and  Marie  (that 
prototype  of  the  modern  literary  lady,  who  felt 
that  it  would  be  wrong  to  suffer  her  powers  to 
lie  idle)  was  weaving  into  her  "  Lay  of  the 
Honeysuckle  "  an  incident  from  the  amours  of 
Cornish  Tristram   and    Irish  Isolt.     These    are 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  233 

themes  nearer  to  our  Anglo-Norman  hearts,  or  at 
least  our  imaginations,  than  most  others  of  that 
primitive  time  :  and  when  some  of  the  foremost 
singers  of  our  own  generation  apply  themselves  to 
illustrating  the  incomparable  cj^cle  of  romances 
of  which  these  are  but  the  crude  beginnings,  we 
can  no  longer  resist  their  fascination. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  all  true  lovers  of  the 
laureate  will  re-read  the  "  Idyls  of  the  King," 
in  the  edition  of  1875.  Here,  for  the  first  time, 
we  have  these  memorable  poems  —  so  strangely 
named  idyls,  and  so  unfortunate  in  the  long 
intervals  at  which  they  appeared,  and  in  their 
lawless  manner  of  straying  before  the  public  — 
arranged  in  an  order  which  fairly  exhibits  their 
unity  of  purpose,  their  cumulative  interest,  and 
the  matchless  moral  force  and  beauty  of  the  one 
story  of  which  they  are  all  —  the  less  equally 
with  the  greater  —  essential  parts.  We  must 
also  conclude,  whether  willingly  or  not,  that 
the  present  is  their  final  arrangement,  since 
the  author  has  himself  added  an  epilogue  or 
envoi,  in  which  he  formally  presents  to  the 
reigning  queen  of  England  the  complete  series 
of  poems,  of  which  four  of  the  most  famous  had 


234         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TROUVERES. 

been  dedicated,  on  their  first  appearance,  to  the 
memory  of  the  Prince  Consort :  — 

11  Thou  my  Queen, 
Not  for  itself,  but  through  thy  living  love 
For  one  to  whom  I  made  it  o'er  his  grave 
Sacred,  accept  this  old,  imperfect  tale, 
N  w-old,  and  Bhadowing  sense  at  war  with  soul, 
Rather  than  that  gray  king  whose  Dame,  a  ghost, 

ana  like  a  cloud  man-shaped  from  mountain-peak, 
An  !  urn  and  cromlech  still;  or  him 

book  or  him  of  Malleor's." 

The  fresh  touches,  which  the  reader  familiar 
with  the  separate  poems  will   detect  in  many 

parts  of  the   united   work',  are  almost  all  applied 

to  the  centra]  figure  of  Arthur  himself,  —  a 
figure  which,  despite  its  melancholy  grandeur, 

more  than  One  of  the  laureate's  critics  have 
heretofore  pronounced  the  weakest  in  his  hook. 
The  outlines  of  that  figure  are  now  finished  and 
strengthened.     The  lights  of  the  king's  destiny 

are  enhanced,  and  its  shadows  deepened.     The 

grandeur  of  his  dream  and  the  cruelty  of  his 
disappointment  are  set  in  more  distinct  and 
affecting  contrast  than  before;  and  yet  the 
changes  and  additions  are  made  with  so  mas- 
terly a  care  and  restraint,  that  the  result  —  for 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  235 

a  wonder  in  the  emendations  of  this  or  of  any 
poet  —  is  only  and  exceedingly  beautiful.  Some 
reasons  will  by  and  by  be  given  for  the  private 
fancy  that  Mr.  Tennyson's  Arthurian  epic  is  not 
exactly,  in  all  respects,  what  he  once  meant  to 
make  it ;  but  it  is  fully  an  epic,  vindicating  the 
capacity  of  the  age  for  that  high  style  of  com- 
position, made  out  of  the  proper  epical  material, 
that  is  to  say,  the  mythology,  the  pre-literary 
traditions,  and  the  first  literature  of  the  poet's 
own  country,  with  much  the  noblest  of  all 
epic  heroes,  and  a  marvellously  picturesque 
group  of  subordinate  characters.  It  can  but 
enhance  our  admiration  of  his  work,  to  ascer- 
tain just  how  much  of  this  impressive  story  the 
poet  found  ready  to  his  hand  in  the  ancient 
metrical  and  prose  romances  of  England  and 
France,  especially  in  the  two  English  author- 
ities which  he  distinguishes  in  his  final  dedica- 
tion, and  how  much  we  owe  to  his  own  inventive 
genius  and  exquisite  skill  in  composition.  This, 
in  brief,  is  the  argument  of  the  complete  poem. 

Arthur,  believed  of  men  to  be  the  child  of 
King  Uther  Pendragon  and  Ygerne,  or  Igerna, 
the  Queen  of  Cornwall,  was  set  on  the  throne 


236         TROUBADOURS  AND    TROUVERES. 

of  Britain  by  the  might  of  the  great  magician 
Merlin.  For  then  the  Romans  no  longer  ruled 
in  the  island,  but  it  was  rent  by  factions  and 
laid  waste  by  heathen  hordes  from  over  the 
seas.  And  Arthur  was,  in  truth,  not  Uther's 
sou.  but  east  up,  a  babe,  out  of  the  stormy  sea, 
being  sent  by  Heaven  to  appease  the  land  and 
establish  the  faith  of  Christ  therein;  and  he 
was  delivered  to  Merlin  to  be  brought  up.  And 
Merlin  sang  of  him  at  his  coming,  "From  the 
at  deep  to  the  great  deep  he  goes."  Arthur 
founded  a  new  order  of  knighthood,  called  that 
of  the  Round  Table;  and  his  knights  he  made 
swear  to  uphold  the  faith  of  Christ,  and  right 
all  wrongs  of  men  ;  and,  above  all,  themselves 
to  live  chaste  lives,  each  with  the  one  woman  of 
his  sacred  choice.  Of  the  knights  whom  Arthur 
made,  the  first  in  time  was  Sir  Bedivere;  but 
the  first  in  prowess,  and  his  own  dearest  friend 
and  brother-in-arms,  was  the  famed  Sir  Laun- 
celot  of  the  Lake.  Him  Arthur  sent  to  fetch 
his  betrothed  bride,  Guinevere,  out  of  the  land 
of  Cameliard,  for  she  was  a  princess  of  that  prov- 
ince, and  the  fairest  woman  upon  earth.  After 
Sir  Launcelot,  Arthur's  greatest  knights   were 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  237 

Sir  Tristram  of  Lyoness,  Sir  Gawain,  Sir  Gareth, 
and  Sir  Modred,  sons  of  Arthur's  reputed  sister, 
the  Queen  of  Orkney,  and  true  grandsons  of 
Uther  Pendragon ;  Sir  Kay,  his  foster-brother; 
Greraint,  a  tributary  prince  ;  Sir  Pelleas  of  the 
Isles  ;  Sir  Galahad  ;  and  Sir  Pereivale.  All  these 
kept  their  vows  for  a  time,  and  lived  purely ; 
and  the  heathen  were  overthrown  in  twelve 
great  battles,  and  the  land  was  at  peace.  And 
Merlin,  of  his  deep  wisdom,  showed  Arthur 
how  to  rule,  and  made  the  cities  of  the  realm 
beautiful  by  his  magic  arts,  and  built  for  the 
king,  on  a  hill  in  the  ancient  city  of  Camelot, 
the  most  glorious  palace  under  the  sun.  But 
first  the  great  Sir  Launcelot,  who  had  loved 
Queen  Guinevere  from  the  time  when  he 
brought  her  to  her  wedding,  broke  his  vows, 
and  sinned  with  her  ;  and  Arthur  knew  it  not ; 
nor,  being  himself  incorruptible,  so  much  as 
dreamed  of  this  treachery  for  many  years. 
Howbeit,  others  knew,  and  this  sin  became  the 
occasion  and  excuse  for  many  more.  For  then 
Sir  Tristram  of  Lyoness  loved  guiltily  Isolt  the 
Fair,  the  wife  of  King  Mark  of  Cornwall,  and 
she  returned  his  love  ;   and,  in  the  end,  Mark 


238         TROUBADOURS   AND   TROUVERES. 

slew  Tristram,  not  in  open  fight,  but  treacher- 
ously, having  tracked  him  to  his  lady's  bower. 
Next,  Merlin  the  Wise  was  himself  beguiled  by 
a  fair  and  wicked  woman,  —  some  say  a  sprite, — 
who  robbed  him  of  his  mighty  wit,  and  allured 
him  into  some  strange  prison,  so  that  he  was 
lost  to  Arthur,  and  no  man  saw  him  more.  And 
Prince  Gerainl  withdrew  from  Arthur's  court, 
because  he  had  heard  the  scandal  against  Queen 
Guinevere,  and  would  not  that  his  own  true 
wife  should  be  beloved  by  her.  And  Sir  Pelleas 
of  the  Isles,  being  young  and  himself  spotless, 
loved  a  lady  who  deceived  him,  and  was  false 
with  Sir  Gawain,  the  reputed  nephew  of  Arthur, 
which  when  Sir  Pelleas  knew,  he  went  mad  for 
grief  and  shame.  And  Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Per- 
civale,  who  were  also  pure  knights,  grieved  by 
the  growing  baseness  of  the  time,  vowed  them- 
selves to  the  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail,  or  cup  of 
the  Last  Supper;  in  the  hope  that  if  the  sacred 
vessel  were  brought  back  among  men,  their 
hearts  might  become  clean  once  more,  and  the 
work  of  the  Lord  and  of  the  righteous  king  be 
revived.  And  Galahad  found  the  grail,  indeed, 
but  was  himself  immediately  caught  away  to 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  239 

heaven,  and  the  holy  vessel  with  him ;  but  Per- 
civale  went  into  a  monastery,  and  took  vows. 
There  were  man}*  other  knights  also,  who,  fol- 
lowing these,  undertook  the  quest  of  the  Holy 
Grail,  but  idly,  and  from  motives  of  vanity  ; 
and,  not  being  themselves  pure,  they  could 
achieve  nothing :  but  some  perished  on  their 
adventures,  and  many  went  far  astray,  and  re- 
turned no  more  :  so  that  the  might  of  the  Round 
Table  was  broken,  and  the  heathen  were  no  longer 
held  at  bay.  Erelong,  the  treason  of  Launcelot 
was  discovered  to  the  king,  and  the  queen  fled, 
and  found  sanctuary  with  the  nuns  in  the  con- 
vent of  Almesbury  ;  and  Launcelot  himself  with- 
drew to  his  own  realm  over-seas,  whither  Arthur 
pursued,  and  where  he  besieged  him ;  albeit, 
Launcelot  would  not  lift  his  hand  against  the 
king  who  had  made  him  knight.  Finally,  while 
Arthur  was  yet  away,  Modrecl  revolted  and 
seized  the  crown  ;  and  Arthur,  returning,  met 
Modred  and  his  forces  in  Lyoness  ;  and  there 
wras  fought  a  great  battle,  in  which  an  hundred 
thousand  men  were  slain,  and  nearly  all  the 
remnant  of  the  Round  Table  perished.  Last 
of  all,  Arthur  slew  Modred  in  a  single  contest, 


240         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

and  was  himself  wounded  unto  death;  but  certain 
queens  removed  him,  by  ship,  from  the  battle- 
field, promising  to  cure  Ids  wounds  in  the  mystic 
island  of  Avallon.  Howbeit,  lie  returned  no 
more  ;  and  the  prophecy  was  fulfilled,  —  "  From 
the  great  deep  to  the  greal  deep  he  goes." 

Now  it  can  hardly  he  necessary  to  say  that 
for  this  mystical  and  moving  tale  there  is  hardly 
the  faintest  foundation  in  veracious  history. 
We  may  cherish  in  our  secret  hearts,  but  we 
would  blush  to  have  discovered,  tin*  wild  hope 
that  Dr.  Schliemann  may  yet  drain  some  Welsh 
lake  and  lay  bare  Excalibur,  or  unearth  the 
sculptured    gates   of   sacred    Camelot.      What 

students  of  early  mediaeval  literature  do  know 
for  certain,  and  a  gracious  point  of  support  they 
find  it,  is,  that  the  Normans  marched  to  victory 
at  the  battle  of  Hastings  to  the  unimaginable 
tune  of  the  "  Chanson  de  Roland,"  as  chanted  by 
one  Taillefer,  who  fell  gallantly  in  the  forefront 
of  the  invaders,  with  that  rude  strain  upon  his 
lips.  But  once  planted  and  at  peace  in  those 
ill-gotten  new  homes,  —  the  remote  inheritance 
of  which  is  so  particularly  glorious,  —  the  Nor- 
man gentry  must  have  had  but  a  dreary  time  of 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  241 

it ;  and  they  early  learned  to  vary  the  monotony 
of  their' indoor  entertainments  by  inviting  the 
performances  of  the  bards  and  wandering  glee- 
men  of  the  conquered  land.  Brutus,  Lear, 
Merlin,  Arthur,  Tristram,  Gawain,  —  these 
were  the  heroes  whom  those  gleemen  sang,  and 
their  names,  however  barbarous  to  Norman  ears, 
were  new,  or  at  least  had  been  but  rarely  and 
faintly  heard  before  in  the  echoes  of  Armorican 
song,  and  their  exploits  made  an  exhilarating 
variety  after  the  hackneyed  tales  of  the  Moorish 
wars  and  the  monstrous  rhymed  biographies  of 
Grecian  heroes  and  early  saints.  We  conclude, 
at  all  events,  that  this  British  lore  had  come 
fully  into  fashion  eighty  years  after  the  Con- 
quest :  for  then,  in  1147,  the  enterprising  monk 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  himself  a  Norman,  dedi- 
cated to  Robert,  Earl  of  Gloucester,  his  "  Historia 
Britonum,"  triumphantly  announced  as  a  Latin 
translation  out  of  a  "  precious  treasure  "  of  early 
manuscript  written  on  parchment,  in  the  ancient 
British  tongue,  and  brought  to  light  with  exul- 
tation by  Walter,  Archdeacon  of  Oxford,  in  a 
convent  in  Armorica.  If  such  a  manuscript  ever 
existed,  it  was  likely  enough  to  have  been  found 

16 


242         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

in  Armorica,  that  early  civilized  and  Christian- 
ized province,  to  which  so  many  Britons  fled 
for  refuge  during  the  era  of  the  Saxon  invasions 
that  it  came  in  time  itself  to  be  called  Brittany. 
But  whether  or  no  the  Walter  who  discovered 
it  were  Walter  Mapes  the  poet,  alias  Calenius,  a 
famous  enthusiast  in  Celtic  story,  and  himself 
the  reputed  author  of  sundry  French  Arthurian 
romances  of  the  twelfth  century,  must  depend 
unhappily,  on  the  date  of  Calenius'fl  birth,  which 
some  of  the  authorities  place  later  by  a  few 
years  than  the  appearance  of  Geoffrey's  book. 
And  ii  is  certainly  remarkable  that  so  complete 
a  work  in  prose  should  have  been  composed  in 
any  other  tongue  than  monkish  Latin,  before 
the  adoption  by  the  Xormans  of  the  British 
legendary  lore,  and  the  date  of  the  first  prose 
romances.  Moreover,  there  is,  so  to  speak,  an 
absurd  consistency,  an  incredible  richness  and 
roundness  about  Geoffrey's  tale,  which  convince 
us  that  at  least  his  Armorican  material  suffered 
nothing  by  its  passage  through  his  hands.  Cu- 
rious it  is  to  learn  from  his  conscientious  chro- 
nology that  Brutus,  the  grandson  of  JEneas, 
emigrated   to    Britain    at    the    time    when    Eli 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  243 

governed  Israel  and  the  ark  of  the  Lord  was 
taken  by  the  Philistines  ;  that  Lear  divided  his 
kingdom  among  his  ingrate  daughters  in  the 
days  of  Elijah  ;  and  that  Christ  was  born  in 
Bethlehem  during  the  reign  of  Cymbeline.  But 
our  present  concern  is  with  Geoffrey's  Arthur 
only,  —  a  splendid  figure,  the  clearly  defined  and 
obvious  prototype  of  him  who  continued  to 
shine  without  a  peer  in  Norman  song  and  story 
for  more  than  three  hundred  years.  Not  until 
1485  did  Sir  Thomas  Malory  sum  up  the  growth 
of  legend  concerning  the  king  and  his  knights 
in  his  "  Morte  d' Arthur,"  the  latest  and  finest  of 
the  great  chivalric  romances,  whose  artless  and 
beautiful  phraseology  Tennyson  himself  has  not 
always  cared  to  alter. 

The  following  is  the  story  of  Arthur's  birth 
as  it  is  told  by  Geoffrey,  afterwards  with  more 
fulness  of  detail  by  the  French  romancers,  and, 
finally,  with  that  added  grace  of  characteriz- 
ation which  was  far  beyond  Geoffrey's  range, 
by  Malory. 

Kino*  Uther  Pendragon  was  enamoured  of 
Igerna,  the  wife  of  Gorlois,  King  of  Cornwall ; 
on  which  account  Gorlois  shut   her  up  in  the 


244         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

strong  castle  of  Tintagil,  but  himself  withdrew 
to  another  castle,  —  "hight  Terrabil,"  says  Sir 
Thomas  Malory, — where  Utlier  besieged,  con- 
quered, and  slew  him.  The  king,  by  the  assist- 
ance of  the  magician  Merlin,  then  assumed  the 
appearance  of  Gorlois  and  hastened  to  Tintagil, 
where  [gerna  gave  him  a  wife's  welcome.  Im- 
mediately he  dropped  his  disguise,  informed  her 
of  her  husband's  death,  and  compelled  her  to 
wed  him.     Their  child  was  Arthur. 

In  this  narrative  the  only  supernatural  ele- 
ment is  the  transformation  of  Gorlois  by  Merlin  ; 
and  Merlin.  Geoffrey  candidly  allows,  was  not 
canny.  He  was,  by  all  accounts,  the  child  of  a 
mortal  maiden  and  a  spirit  descended  from  one 
of  the  angels  who  fell  with  Lucifer,  and  bearing 
a  general  resemblance  to  the  Da)mon  of  Soc- 
rates ;  not  a  common  mode  of  origin,  certainly, 
but  one  of  which,  the  historian  assures  us, 
divers  instances  were  known.1  The  beautiful 
fancy  of  a  dragon-shaped  vessel,  "bright  with 
a  shining  people  on  its  decks,"  which  appeared 

1  For  a  monstrous  amplification  of  this  bit  of  "  history," 
with  the  addition  of  all  manner  of  unpleasant  details,  see 
abstract  of  the  English  metrical  romance  of  Merlin,  in  Ellis's 
"  Specimens  of  Early  English  Romances." 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  245 

off  Tintagil  on  the  night  of  Uther's  death  with- 
out issue,  and  of  the  naked  babe  "  descending 
in  the  glory  of  the  seas"  to  the  beach  at  Mer- 
lin's feet,  is  Tennyson's  own.  He  made  it,  as 
a  poet  abundantly  maj',  to  correspond  with  the 
really  ancient  and  tenacious  fable  that  Arthur, 
when  his  lifework  was  ruined  and  his  kingdom 
rent,  passed  to  a  sleep  of  ages  in  the  isle  of 
Avallon,  but  did  not  die.  On  the  whole,  it  is 
worth,  for  purposes  of  art,  the  sacrifice  of  the 
rather  touching  scene  in  Malory,  where  Igerna 
is  roughly  accused  of  treasonably  protracting 
the  quarrels  over  the  succession,  by  concealing 
the  circumstances  of  Arthur's  birth :  "  Then 
spake  Igraine  and  said,  '  I  am  a  woman,  and  I 
may  not  fight.  .  .  .  But  Merlin  knoweth  well 
how  King  Uther  came  to  me  in  the  castle  of 
Tintagil,  in  the  likeness  of  my  lord  that  was 
dead  three  hours  tofore.  And  after  Uther 
wedded  me  ;  and,  by  his  commandment,  when 
the  child  was  born  it  was  delivered  to  Merlin 
and  nourished  by  him  ;  and  so  I  saw  the  child 
never  after,  nor  wot  what  is  his  name,  for  I 
knew  him  never  yet.'  And  there  Ulfius  said  to 
the  queen,  '  Merlin  is  more  to  blame  than  ye.' 


2-46         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

4  Well  I  wot,'  said  the  queen,  c  that  I  bare  a 
child  by  my  lord,  King  Uther  ;  but  I  wot  not 
where  he  is  become.'  Then  Merlin  took  King 
Arthur  by  the  hand,  saying,  c  This  is  your 
mother.'  And  therewith  King  Arthur  took 
his  mother,  Queen  Igraine,  in  his  arms  and 
d  her,  and  either  wept  upon  other." 
The  account  of  Arthur's  progressive  subjuga- 
tion of  native  factions  and  heathen  invaders,  in 
the  twelve:  -i\-at  battles  which  Xennius  had 
enumerated  as  early  as  the  fifth  century,1  is  that 

1  '■  Then  it  was  that  tin-  rnagnanimoui  Arthur,  with  all  the 
kin'js  and  military  force  of  Britain,  fought  against  the  Saxons. 
And  though  there  were  many  more  noble  than  himself,  yet  he 
twelve  times  chosen  their  commander,  and  was  as  often 
conqueror.  The  first  battle  in  which  he  was  engaged  iras  at 
the  mouth  of  the  river  (ileni.  The  second,  third,  fourth,  and 
fifth  were  on  another  river,  by  the  Britons  called  Duglas,  in 
the  region  Limiis  ;  the  sixth,  on  the  river  Bassas.  The  seventh 
in  the  wood  Celidon,  which  the  Britons  call  Cat  (.'(jit  Celidon. 
The  eighth  was  near  Gurnion  Castle,  where  Arthur  bore  the 
image  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  Mother  of  God,  on  his  shoulders,  and 
through  the  power  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  and  the  Holy  Mary- 
put  the  Saxons  to  flight  and  pursued  them  the  whole  day  with 
great  slaughter.  The  ninth  was  at  the  city  of  Legion,  which 
is  called  Cair  Lion.  The  tenth  was  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
Trat  Treuroit.  The  eleventh  was  on  the  mountain  Brenguorn, 
which  we  call  Cat  Bregion.  The  twelfth  was  a  most  severe 
contest,  when  Arthur  penetrated  to  the  Hill  of  Badon.  .  .  . 
For  no  strength  can  avail  against  the  will  of  the  Almighty." 
(Nennius,  "History  of  the  Britons/'  a.  d.  452.) 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  247 

which,  in  Tennyson,  first  fires  our  imagination 
and  enlists  our  sympathy  for  the  king,  In  both 
Geoffrey  and  Malory  this  pacification  of  the 
realm  is  dwarfed  by  comparison  with  the  pom- 
pous details  of  Arthur's  Roman  war,  of  victories 
over  the  Emperor  Lucius  Tiberius,  a  court  held 
at  Paris,  and  a  coronation  at  Rome.  All  such 
chimeras  the  laureate's  fine  sense  of  symmetry 
compelled  him  to  dismiss  in  a  single  passage : 

"  There  at  the  banquet  those  great  lords  from  Eome, 
The  slowly  fading  mistress  of  the  world, 
Strode  in  and  claimed  their  tribute  as  of  yore. 
But  Arthur  spake,  '  Behold,  for  these  have  sworn 
To  wage  my  wars  and  worship  me  their  king, 
The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new; 
And  we  that  fight  for  our  fair  father  Christ, 
Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and  old 
To  drive  the  heathen  from  your  Koman  wall, 
Xo  tribute  will  we  pay : '  so  those  great  lords 
Drew  back  in  wrath,  and  Arthur  strove  with  Rome." 

Indeed,  a  sovereign  so  enamoured  of  foreign 
conquest  as  Geoffrey's  Arthur  could  hardly 
claim  our  sympathy  for  the  ignominious  but 
not  very  unnatural  catastrophe  of  his  reign, 
which  the  monk  records  in  these  few  dry 
words  :  — 


2-18         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TROUVERES. 

"  As  he  was  beginning  to  pass  the  Alps,  he 
had  news  brought  him  that  his  nephew  Mod  red, 
to  whose  care  he  had  entrusted  Britain,  had,  by 
tyrannical  and  treasonable  practices,  set  the 
crown  upon  his  own  head,  and  that  Queen  Guan- 
humara,  in  violation  of  her  first  marriage,  had 
treasonably  married  him"  (!)  This  is  actually 
the  only  time  that  the  gracious  Guinevere  is 
mentioned  by  name  in  Geoffrey's  history,  al- 
though she  is  alluded  to  in  his  thirteenth  chap- 
ter, where  he  gives  a  description  of  the  king's 
COronation-feast,  far  more  stately  than  Malory's 
transcript  from  the  French,  and  a  worthier 
preliminary  to  Tennyson's  noble  picture  of  the 
royal  wedding.  To  this  last  is  added,  in  the 
recent  edition,  a  passage  full  of  splendor  :  — 

11  Far  shone  the  fields  of  May  through  open  door, 
The  Bacred  altar  blossomed  white  with  May, 
The  sun  of  May  descended  on  their  king, 
They  gazed  on  all  earth's  beauty  in  their  queen, 
Rolled  incense,  and  there  passed  along  the  hymns 
A  voice,  as  of  the  waters,  while  the  two 
Sware  at  the  shrine  of  Christ  a  deathless  love: 
And  Arthur  said,  '  Behold,  thy  doom  is  mine: 
Let  chance  what  will,  I  love  thee  to  the  death!  ■ 
To  whom  the  queen  replied  with  drooping  eyes, 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  249 

1  King  and  my  lord,  I  love  thee  to  the  death! ' 
And  holy  Dubric  spread  his  hands  and  spake, 
'  Reign  ye,  and  live  and  love,  and  make  the  world 
Other,  and  may  thy  queen  be  one  with  thee, 
And  all  this  order  of  thy  Table  Round 
Fulfil  the  boundless  purpose  of  their  king! '  " 

Nor  must  we  omit  here  to  notice  —  for  this 
also  is  new  —  the  strange  paean  sung  by  Arthur's 
victorious  knights  as  they  march  in  the  bridal 
procession,  to  the  sound  of  trumpets,  through 
a  city  "  all  on  fire  with  sun  and  cloth  of  gold ;  " 
more  especially  the  refrain,  "  Fall  battle-axe  and 
flash  brand,"  where  the  movement  of  the  verse 
expresses  so  curiously  the  descent  of  the  heavy- 
headed  primitive  weapon. 

In  a  passage  which  is  indirectly  of  unusual 
interest,  as  reflecting  the  Norman  ideal  of  chiv- 
alry in  the  twelfth  century,  Geoffrey  says  that 
in  the  reign  of  Arthur,  "  Britain  had  arrived  at 
such  a  pitch  of  grandeur  that  in  abundance  of 
riches,  luxury  of  ornaments,  and  politeness  of 
inhabitants,  it  far  surpassed  all  other  kingdoms. 
The  knights  in  it,  that  were  famous  for  chivalry, 
wore  their  clothes  and  arms  all  of  the  same  color 
and  fashion  ;  and  the  women  also,  no  less  cele- 


250         TROUBADOURS  AXD   TROUVERES. 

bratecl  for  their  wit,  wore  all  the  same  kind  of 
apparel,  and  counted  none  worth)'  of  their  love 
but  such  as  had  given  proof  of  their  valor  in 
three  successive  battles.  Thus  was  the  valor 
of  the  men  an  encouragement  for  the  women's 
chastity,  and  the  love  of  the  women  a  spur  to 
soldiers'  bravery," 

And  this  is  the  sum  of  what  the  monk  of 
Monmouth  contributes  to  the  epic  of  Arthur,  if 
we  except  the  matter-of-fact  statement  to  the 
effect  that  after  Arthur  was  mortally  wounded 
lie  had  himself  conveyed  to  the  island  of  Aval- 
Ion. —  where,  by  the  way.  was  situated  the 
Castle  Perillous  in  which  Lynette,  or  Linet, 
wrought  so  many  cures,  —  in  the  hope  that  he 
might  there  be  healed. 

There  is  no  allusion  in  Geoffrey's  chronicle  to 
the  mysterious  manner  of  Merlin's  taking-off, 
although  great  stress  is  laid  on  his  weight  in 
Arthur's  councils  ;  and  his  famous  prophecy, 
which  the  monk  had  previously  translated  from 
an  independent  source,  is  incorporated  with  the 
;i  Historia  Britonum  "  entire.  Even  the  compar- 
atively late  English  metrical  romance  of  Merlin, 
although  ten  thousand  lines  long,  is  unfinished, 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  251 

and  breaks  off  in  the  midst  of  the  war  in  which 
Arthur  engaged  on  behalf  of  Leodogran,  the 
father  of  Guinevere.  But  there  is  little  doubt 
that  the  stoiy  of  the  great  magician's  dishonor- 
able death  is  of  French  origin,  as  the  name  of 
his  enchantress,  whether  Vivien  or  Niume,  is 
undoubtedly  French.  In  Malory,  Merlin  is 
made  to  foreshadow  his  own  sombre  end,  at  the 
same  time  that  he  foretells  to  Arthur  the  ruin 
of  the  kingdom  through  his  marriage  with  Guin- 
evere. 

"  c  Ah,'  said  King  Arthur,  '  ye  are  a  marvel- 
lous man,  but  I  marvel  much  at  thy  words  that 
I  must  die  in  battle.'  'Marvel  not,'  said  Merlin, 
fc  for  it  is  God's  will.  .  .  .  But  I  may  well  be 
sorry,'  said  Merlin,  c  for  I  shall  die  a  shameful 
death,  —  to  be  put  in  the  earth  quick,  —  and  ye 
shall  die  a  worshipful  death.'  .  .  .  So  after  these 
quests,  it  fell  so  that  Merlin  fell  in  dotage  on 
one  of  the  damsels  of  the  lake.  But  Merlin 
would  let  her  have  no  rest.  .  .  .  And  ever  she 
made  Merlin  good  cheer  till  she  learned  of  him 
all  manner  thing  that  she  desired,  and  he  was 
asotted  upon  her  that  he  might  not  be  from  her. 
So  on  a  time  Merlin  told  Arthur  that  he  should 


252         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

not  dure  long,  but  for  all  his  crafts  he  should  be 
put  in  the  earth  quick  ;  and  so  he  told  the  king 
many  things  that  should  befall,  but  always  he 
warned  the  king  to  keep  well  his  sword  and  the 
scabbard,  for  he  told  him  how  the  sword  and 
the  scabbard  should  be  stolen  from  him  by  a 
woman  whom  lie  trusted.  Also  he  told  King 
Arthur  that  he  should  miss  him  ;  '  Yet  had  ye 
lever  than  all  your  lands  to  have  me  again.' 
'All,'  said  the  king,  'since  ye  know  of  your 
adventure,  purvey  for  it,  and  put  away  by  your 
crafts  that  misadventure.9  '  Nay,'  said  Merlin, 
1  it  will  not  be.'  So  then  he  departed  from  the 
king.  And  within  a  while  the  damsel  of  the 
lake  departed,  and  Merlin  went  with  her,  ever- 
more, wheresoever  she  went.  And  often  Mer- 
lin would  have  had  her  privily  away  by  his  sub- 
tle crafts.  Then  she  made  him  swear  that  he 
should  never  do  none  enchantment  upon  her, 
if  he  would  have  his  will.  And  so  he  sware. 
So  she  and  Merlin  went  over  the  seas.  .  .  . 
And  always  Merlin  lay  about  the  lady  to  have 
her  love,  and  she  was  ever  passing  weary  of 
him,  and  fain  would  have  been  delivered  of 
him,  for  she  was  afeard  of  him,  because  he  was 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  253 

a  devil's  son  and  she  could  not  put  him  away 
by  no  means.  And  so  it  happed  on  a  time 
that  Merlin  showed  to  her  in  a  rock  which  was 
a  great  wonder,  and  wrought  by  enchantment, 
that  went  under  a  great  stone.  So  by  her 
subtle  working  she  made  Merlin  to  go  under 
that  stone,  to  let  her  wit  of  the  marvels  there ; 
but  she  wrought  so  there  for  him  that  he  came 
never  out  for  all  the  marvels  he  could  do." 

It  will  be  seen  that  Malory  has  not  distributed 
the  balance  of  censure,  so  to  speak,  for  the  wiz- 
ard's unhappy  end  precisely  as  Tennyson  does. 
But  the  passage  is  quoted  entire,  because  it 
illustrates  better  and  more  briefly  than  almost 
any  other  the  miraculous  development  which 
Tennyson  sometimes  gives  his  material.  The 
breathless  interest  and  appalling  beauty  of  the 
story  of  "  Merlin  and  Vivien,"  as  we  have  it  in 
the  "  Idyls,"  the  sublime  fitness  of  the  scenery, 
the  subtle  analysis  of  instinct  and  motive,  and, 
above  all,  the  irresistible  force  and  solemnity  of 
the  lesson  conveyed,  —  they  are  all  here  in  em- 
bryo, in  this  dreamy  fragment  of  a  garrulous  old 
tale.  But  the  power  which  can  evolve  the  one 
out  of  the  other  seems,  to  us,  like  the  power 


25-4         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

which  causes  the  seed  to  grow.  "  What  thou 
so  west,  thou  so  west  not  that  body  which  shall 
be,  but  bare  grain  ;  it  may  chance  of  wheat  or 
of  some  other  grain.''  This  is  indeed  the  maker  s 
proper  function  among  men  ;  but  here  we  see  it 
almost  in  its  highest  exercise.  Sir  Thomas 
Malory  himself  must  lane1  possessed  no  small 
share  of  this  vivifying  and  organizing  power, 
or  lie  never  COUld  have  wrought,  as  he  assuredly 

lias,  the  heterogeneous  materials  which  he  col- 
lected from   so   many  sources,  into  a  n<t'iue,  con- 

ent,  and  affecting  whole.  Hut  usually,  except 
in  one  remarkable  instance  to  be  noticed  hereaf- 
ter. Tennyson's  mode  of  treatment  is  as  great  an 
advance   in   art  and   in    refinement  on   Malory's, 

Malory's  is  on  the  crudeness  and  puerility  of 
Wace,  or  the  lusty  coarseness  of  Thomas  the 
Rhymer  of  Ercildoune. 

The  story  of  "  Geraint  and  Enid"  is  more 
purely  episodical  than  any  other  idyl,  and  is 
derived  from  an  entirely  independent  source. 
The  story  of  "  Gareth  and  Lynette,"  as  we 
have  it  in  Tennyson,  belongs  wholly  to  the 
earlier  and  happier  period  of  Arthur's  reign. 
Its  events  bear  a  general  resemblance  to  those 


THE  ART  HUM  AD.  255 

which  are  recounted,  in  this  instance,  very  much 
more  at  length,  in  Malory  ;  and  the  marked 
peculiarities  of  Lynette  — her  rudeness  and  pet- 
ulance, and  entire  lack  of  the  softer  graces  which 
belonged,  as  a  rule,  to  the  lady  of  chivalry  — 
are  fully  indicated  in  the  old  story.  In  fact, 
Lynette,  or  Linet,  is  called  in  Malory,  the  "  dam- 
sel savage;"  although  considerable  stress  is  laid 
on  her  skill  in  the  arts  of  healing,  which  she  prac- 
tised on  many  a  wounded  knight  besides  Gareth, 
in  the  Castle  Perillous  of  her  beautiful  sister, 
Lyonors.  There  is  a  very  life-like  scene  in 
Malory,  where  the  mother  of  Gareth,  Queen 
Belicent,  alarmed  at  his  protracted  absence  on 
his.  first  adventure,  appears  at  Arthur's  court, 
and  reproaches  the  king  for  the  lad's  non-appear- 
ance, with  the  true  unreasoning  fierceness  of 
feminine  anxiety.  There  is  also  a  particularly 
pretty  scene  at  court,  where  Gareth  and  Lyonors 
finally  meet,  and  both  confess  to  Arthur  their 
love  for  one  another. 

"  And  among  all  those  ladies,  she  [Lyonors] 
was  named  the  fairest  and  peerless.  Then,  when 
Sir  Gareth  saw  her,  there  was  manj"  a  goodly 
look  and  goodly  words,  that  all  men  of  worship 


256         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

had  joy  to  behold  them.  Then  came  King  Ar- 
thur and  many  other  kings,  and  Dame  Guinevere 
and  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  and  there  the  king 
asked  Ins  nephew,  Sir  Gareth,  whether  he 
would  have  that  lady  to  his  wife?  '  My  lord, 
wit  you  well  that  I  love  her  above  all  ladies 
living.1  'Now,  fair  lady/  said  King  Arthur, 
4  what  say  ye?'  '  Mosl  noble  king/  said  Dame 
Liones,  *  wit  you  well  that  my  lord,  Sir  Gareth, 
is  to  me  more  lever  to  have  and  hold  as  my  hus- 
band than  any  king  or  prince  :  and  if  I  may  not 
have  him,  I  promise  you  I  will  never  have  none. 
For,  my  Lord  Arthur,  he  is  my  first  love,  and  he 
shall  be  my  last.'  "  Malory,  it  will  he  observed, 
is  that  "  earlier  M  author  who  says,  "  that  Gareth 
married  Lady  Lyonors;"  and  a  stately  wedding 
is  described  ;  while  Arthur  is  represented  as 
taking  rather  an  active  part  in  bringing  about 
the  marriage  of  Lynette  to  Sir  Gaheris,  a  com- 
paratively obscure  brother  of  Gareth,  Modred, 
and  Gawain,  but  still  a  very  suitable  parti  for 
that  spirited  damsel.  Malory's  Gareth  continues 
to  figure  with  distinction  throughout  Arthur's 
reign,  and  is  closely  involved  in  its  catastrophe. 
He   was  slain  by  Launcelot's  own  hand  "  un- 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  257 

wittingly,"  amid  the  bloodshed  which  followed 
the  discovery  by  Modred  of  the  great  knight's 
treason :  thus  causing  Gawain,  who,  up  to  this 
time,  quite  consistently  with  his  character  in 
Malory,  had  been  inclined  to  screen  the  dis- 
tinguished lovers  from  Arthur's  wrath,  to  swear 
an  oath  of  mortal  vengeance  against  Launcelot, 
in  performing  which  he  was  himself  slain. 

Tennyson's  Gawain  is  identical  with  the  Ga- 
wain of  Malory,  and  hardly  more  elaborated :  a 
brave,  unprincipled  man,  adorned  with  all  chival- 
ric  accomplishments,  but  of  a  vindictive  temper, 
as  unlike  as  possible  to  the  proud  and  patient 
magnanimity  of  Arthur,  Launcelot,  and  his  own 
young  brother,  Gareth.  "  For,"  says  Malory, 
"  after  Sir  Gareth  had  espied  Sir  Gawain's  con- 
ditions, he  withdrew  himself  from  his  brother 
Sir  Gawain's  fellowship,  for  he  wras  vengeable, 
and,  where  he  hated,  he  would  be  avenged  with 
murder,  and  that  hated  Sir  Gareth." 

Gawain,  though  a  frequent,  is  seldom  a  prin- 
cipal, actor  in  the  great  scene  of  Arthur's  life, 
and  the  sad  story  of  "  Pelleas  and  Ettarre," 
in  which  he  figures  most  conspicuously,  is  but 
the  briefest  of  episodes  in  Malory;  illustrating, 

17 


258         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

hardly  less  remarkably  than  the  story  of  "  Mer- 
lin and  Vivien,"  Tennyson's  magnificent  power 
of  amplification.  It  is  proper,  however,  to  ob- 
serve, that  the  Gawain  of  all  elder  romance  is 
a  very  different  person  from  Malory's,  —  much 
more  admirable  and  commonplace.  His  chival- 
ric  rank  is  second  only  to  that  of  Launcelot  and 
Tristram.  lie  is  the  hero  of  many  an  honorable 
adventure,  and  is  confidently  identified  with  the 
golden-tongued  Gwalzmai  of  the  Welsh  triads, 
as  Tristram  is  identified  with  Tristan  the  Tu- 
multuous, the  son  of  Tallwyz. 

Let  us  now  consider  briefly  Tennyson's  treat- 
ment of  the  world-renowned  story  of  "Tristram 
and  rsolt/'  The  high  antiquity  of  this  tale, 
its  peculiar  picturesqueness,  and  the  prominent 
place  which  it  occupies  in  the  Arthurian  cycle  of 
romances,  including  Malory's,  of  which  it  con- 
stitutes at  least  a  quarter  part,  would  have  led 
us  to  expect  that  the  laureate  would  give  it 
more  space  than  he  has  done  in  the  dreary 
fragment  of  "  The  Last  Tournament."  That 
singular  poem,  as  it  first  appeared  indepen- 
dently, did  certainly  seem  to  deserve  much  of 
the  severe   criticism  which  it  received  for  ob- 


THE  ART  HUM  AD.  259 

scurity  of  style,  repulsive  details,  and  inconse- 
quent action.  It  can  hardly  be  re-read,  in  its 
proper  connection,  without  receiving  a  tribute 
of  admiration.  The  last  ray  of  sunshine  swal- 
lowed up  in  storm,  the  last  gleam  of  honorable 
courtesy  vanishing  in  a  cynical  and  lazy  liber- 
tinism, the  last  flaming  up  of  passion  quenched 
by  a  stealthy  revenge,  —  these  things,  and  the 
dun,  sallow  tints  of  latest  autumn  in  which 
they  are  all  represented,  give  "  The  Last  Tour- 
nament "  a  marvellous  fitness  for  its  place  in  the 
thick-coming  shadows  of  an  imminent  tragedy. 
And  yet  every  verse  of  the  poem  presupposes, 
on  the  part  of  the  reader,  a  previous  knowledge 
of  the  story  of  "  Tristram  and  Isolt,"  which 
most  readers  doubtless  possess,  but  which  the 
poet  had,  artistically  speaking,  no  right  to  as- 
sume. And  we  cannot  rid  ourselves  of  the  fancy 
that  he  once  meant  to  have  told  it  in  full  in  a 
separate  and  earlier  idyl.  The  epic,  even  in  its 
latest  form,  falls  short  by  two  books  of  the 
canonical  number.  We  infer,  from  the  intro- 
duction to  the  fine  fragment  which  first  appeared 
a  generation  ago,  under  the  title  of  u  Morte 
d' Arthur,"  and  has  since  been  expanded  into  the 


260         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUYERES. 

"  Passing  of  Arthur,"  that  this,  in  the  poet's 
original  scheme,  was  to  have  been  the  eleventh 
book  of  the  epic.  It  seems  impossible  but  that 
the  earlier  missing  canto  was  to  have  rehearsed 
all  of  the  romantic  story,  except  its  grim  catas- 
trophe, of  those  lovers  who  are  so  constantly 
compared  with  Launcelot  and  Guinevere  in  all 
old  romance,  nay,  even  poetically  styled  the 
only  two  in  the  world  beside  them.  AVhy  was 
this  classic  talc  rejected?  Was  it  because  the 
poet  deemed  it  too  hackneyed,  or  because  of  its 
Titter  impracticability  lor  that  strenuous  moral 
purpose  which  came  so  palpably  to  modify  his 
treatment  of  the  Arthurian  story,  and  which 
must  have  deepened  so  fast  between  the  purely 
aesthetic  days  of  the  "  Morte  d*  Arthur,"  and  those 
of  the  supreme  idyl  of*-  Guinevere  "  ?  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  in  the  fascinating  preface  to  his  edition  of 
Thomas  the  Rhymer's  u  Tristram,"  speaks  of  the 
"  extreme  ingratitude  and  profligacy  of  the 
hero."  In  Malory,  and  apparently  in  the  later 
French  prose-romance  which  he  closely  fol- 
lowed, these  ugly  qualities  are  veiled  by  every 
lesser  chivalric  grace,  by  consummate  skill  in 
music  and  the  arts   of   the    chase,    and  by  an 


TEE  ARTHURIAD.  261 

almost  fantastic  magnanimity  in  combat.  But 
the  character  is  essentially  the  same.  Tristram 
is  the  most  notorious  and  the  most  elegant  of 
libertines ;  and  the  full  knowledge  and  open 
toleration  of  his  intrigues  on  the  part  of  Arthur 
himself,  as  compared  with  his  noble  incredulity 
and  righteous  wrath  when  he  was  himself 
wronged,  constitute  the  most  glaring  inconsist- 
ency in  Malory's  romance,  and  the  greatest 
blemish  on  the  character  of  his  king.  In  Mal- 
ory, indeed,  the  denouement  of  the  story,  which 
is  the  same  as  that  recorded  in  "  The  Last  Tour- 
nament," is  retributive,  and  so  may  be  considered 
in  a  general  way  moral.  There  is  another  and 
much  more  commonly  received  ending,  which 
may  be  called  the  sentimental,  to  distinguish  it 
from  the  other.  In  this,  Tristram,  after  desert- 
ing his  wife,  Isolt  of  the  White  Hands,  and 
dallying  a  while  with  his  former  paramour,  Isolt 
the  wife  of  King  Mark,  returns  again  to  Brit- 
tany, and  receives  in  battle  a  wound  from  a 
poisoned  spear,  which  even  the  skill  of  his  in- 
jured wife  is  powerless  to  cure.  The  sick  man 
takes  a  fancy  that  Isolt  the  queen  could  cure 
him,  and  sends  his  faithful  squire,  Gouvernail, 


262         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

to  beg  her  to  come  and  save  his  life.  His 
weakness  warns  him  that  the  least  delay  will 
be  fatal,  and  accordingly  he  orders  Gouvernail 
on  his  return  to  the  Breton  coast  to  hoist  white 
sails  if  he  shall  have  prevailed  on  the  queen  to 
accompany  him  ;  black,  if  she  shall  have  refused. 
Isolt  the  wife  overhears  the  charge,  and  heart- 
sick awaits  the  return  of  the  vessel:  when  its 
approach  is  announced,  and  Tristram  gasps  out 
a  question  as  to  the  color  of  the  sails,  she  tells 
him  a  lie,  says  black,  and  he  dies.  And  when 
Tsolt  the  queen  arrives,  amid  the  universal 
lamentation  over  Tristram,  she  refuses  to  sur- 
vive him. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know  whether  the 
moral  or  the  sentimental  ending  of  the  story  is 
the  elder.  Sir  Walter  Scott  assumes  the  latter, 
but  does  not  give  his  reasons  for  so  doing;  and 
there  seems  at  least  a  possibility  that  the  moral 
ending  may  also  be  of  great  antiquity.  Thomas 
of  Ercildoune  wrote  his  metrical  romance  of  "  Sir 
Tristram"  somewhere  about  the  middle  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  Sir  Walter,  in  the  preface 
and  notes  to  his  edition  of  this  ancient  English 
poem,  has  illustrated  it  with  all  the  wealth  of 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  263 

his  curious  antiquarian  lore,  and  argues  with 
much  ardor  for  the  Celtic  origin  and  character 
of  the  story.  He  admits,  however,  that  Marie's 
"  Lay  of  the  Honeysuckle,"  which  relates  one  of 
its  incidents,  and  two  French  metrical  fragments 
which  correspond  much  more  closely  with  the 
Rhymer's  version  than  the  later  romances,  are 
earlier  than  his ;  and  the  best  modern  French 
criticism  places  them  nearly  a  century  earlier. 
Now  the  Rhymer's  "Tristram"  is  incomplete. 
Not  only  are  the  illuminations  which  surmounted 
the  original  black-letter  cut  away  from  every 
page,  but  the  last  half  of  the  last  fytte  or  canto 
is  gone  entirely ;  and  it  is  Scott  who  supplies 
the  defect  by  adding  the  usual  sentimental  end- 
ing of  the  story  in  an  exquisite  imitation  of 
Thomas's  own  quaint  verse,  hardly  to  be  distin- 
guished from  it  in  st}<le,  and  much  more  tender 
and  delicate  in  spirit.  But  it  is  singular  that 
in  one  of  the  old  French  metrical  fragments, 
whose  place  is  near  the  end  of  the  story,  there 
is  a  passage  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  himself 
quotes  in  his  preface,  for  its  bearing  on  another 
question,  where  the  author,  after  saying  that 
the  tale  was  even  then  told  in  a  great  many 


264         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

different  ways,  proceeds  to  argue  that  it  is 
absurd  to  suppose  that  Gouvernail  could  ever 
have  gone  to  Cornwall  and  taken  away  Queen 
Isolt.1  How  this  author  eventually  disposed  of 
the  difficulty,  we  shall  probably  never  know  ; 
but  we  may  safely  conclude  that  it  was  not 
exactly  in  the  sentimental  fashion.  Here  is  a 
curious  point  for  future  researches. 

We    have    now   glanced   at    the   originals  of 
nearly   all    the    great    Arthurian    heroes    whom 
Tennyson   lias  restored,   except    the   two   who" 
move  ns  most  deeply, —  Launcelot  the  Peerless, 
and  Galahad    the    Spotless.     To    these   immor- 

*  "  Cist  fust  par  tut  la  part  con<;us 
E  par  tut  le  regne  biub, 
Qui  de  L'amtU  ert  parjurers, 
Kt  enuera  Ysolt  messagers. 

Li  reis  l'en  haiet  mult  torment  ; 
Guaiter  le  feseil  a  m  gent ; 

E  cument  put-il  dune  venir 

Sun  service  a  la  caert  offrir,"  etc. 

"  He  [Gouvernail]  was  known  in  all  those  parts 
And  throughout  the  kingdom 

As  being  privy  to  the  love  of  [Tristram  and  Isolt], 
And  often  sent  with  messages  to  Isolt. 
The  king  hated  him  for  it  profoundly, 
And  had  him  watched  by  his  people  ; 
How,  then,  could  he  come 
To  offer  his  service  at  the  court,"  etc. 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  265 

tal  figures  we  must  allow  a  purely  French 
origin.1  In  Malory,  and  in  the  French  prose 
romances  of"  Launcelot  du  Lac  "  and  the  "  Saint 
Grael,"  they  are  father  and  son.  In  the  refined 
version  of  Tennyson  it  would  hardly  have  been 
possible  to  admit  this  relation,  yet  it  adds  a 
peculiar  interest  and  pathos  to  some  of  the 
scenes  in  that  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail  in  which 
from  motives  so  dissimilar  they  both  engaged. 
For  example,  Malory  tells  us  how  once,  during 
that  fateful  year  of  the  quest,  they  met  on  board 
the  ship  which  was  conveying  to  their  last  rest 

1  Yet  G.  S.  Stuart  Glennie,  in  his  fascinating  "  Essay  on 
the  Arthurian  Localities  "  prefixed  to  the  republication  by  the 
Early  English  Test  Society  of  the  incomplete  "  Romance  of 
Merlin,"  quotes  M.  De  La  Villemarque  as  pleading  for  the  Scot- 
tish origin  of  Launcelot  himself :  —  "  Les  plus  anciens  manuscrits 
portent  souvent  Ancelot.  .  .  .  ancel,  en  langue  romane  signifie 
servant,  et  ancelot  est  son  diminutif.  Si,  par  hasard,  Ancelot 
etait  la  traduction  du  nom  d'un  personnage  gallois,  dont  l'his- 
toire  s'accorderait  en  tout  point  avec  le  roman.  Eh  bien,  c'est 
ce  que  je  crois  avoir  decouvert.  On  trouve,  en  effet,  dans  les 
traditions  celtiques  un  chef  dont  le  nom  Mael  (serviteur)  repond 
exactement  a  celui  d' Ancelot  et  a  qui  les  anciens  bardes,  les 
triades,  les  chroniques,  les  legendes,  et  toutes  les  autorites 
armoricaines,  galloises,  ou  etrangeres  pretent  les  memes  traits, 
le  merae  caractere,  les  memes  moeurs,  les  memes  aventures, 
qu'au  heros  du  roman  francais."  "  And  if,"  adds  Mr.  Stuart 
Glennie,  "  we  accept  this  identification,  then  Launcelot  as 
well  as  Mordred  belongs  to  Scotland." 


266         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

the  remains  of  Percivale's  holy  sister.  It  was 
just  before  Sir  Launcelot  had  the  veiled  vision 
which  taught  him  that  his  own  quest  was  vain, 
in  an  interval  of  his  so-called  madness,  when  he 
was  enjoying  a  great  but  transitory  peace  of 
mind. 

"  *  Ah,'  said  Sir  Launcelot,  l  are  ye  Gala- 
had ?  '  'Yea,  forsooth,'  said  he.  And  so  he 
kneeled  down  and  asked  him  his  blessing,  and 
after  took  off  his  helm  and  kissed  him.  And 
there  was  great  joy  between  them,  for  there  is 
no  tongue  can  tell  the  joy  that  they  made  either 
of  other,  and  many  a  friendly  word  spoken  be- 
tween as  kind  would,  the  which  is  no  need  here 
to  be  rehearsed.  And  there  every  each  told  other 
of  their  adventures  and  marvels  that  were  be- 
fallen to  them  in  many  journeys  sith  that  they 
departed  from  the  court.  ...  So  dwelled  Laun- 
celot and  Galahad  within  that  ship  half  a  year, 
and  served  God  daily  and  nightly  with  all  their 
power.  .  .  .  Then  came  to  the  ship  a  knight 
armed  all  in  white,  and  saluted  the  two  knights 
on  the  high  Lord's  behalf,  and  said,  '  Galahad, 
sir,  ye  have  been  long  enough  with  your  father ; 
come  out  of  the  ship  and  go  where  the  adven- 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  267 

tures  shall  lead  thee  in  quest  of  the  Sancgreal.' 
Then  he  went  to  his  father  and  kissed  him 
sweetly,  and  said,  '  Fair,  sweet  father,  I  wot 
not  when  I  shall  see  you  more  till  I  see  the 
body  of  Jesu  Christ.'  '  I  pray  you,'  said  Laun- 
celot,  '  pray  ye  to  the  high  Father  that  He  hold 
me  in  his  service.'  And  so  he  took  his  horse, 
and  there  they  heard  a  voice  that  said,  '  Think 
to  do  well,  for  the  one  shall  never  see  the  other 
before  the  dreadful  day  of  doom.'  'Now,  son 
Galahad,'  said  Launcelot,  ;  since  we  shall  de- 
part, and  never  see  other,  I  pray  to  the  high 
Father  to  preserve  both  me  and  you  both.' 
'  Sir,'  said  Galahad, ;  no  prayer  availeth  so  much 
as  )^ours  ! '  " 

Galahad's  death  occurred  shortly  after,  and 
Launcelot  was  never  again  at  ease  in  his  sin. 
The  mighty  struggles  of  this  great  and  tender 
soul  with  the  guilt  that  was  crushing  it  are 
plainly  foreshadowed  in  Malory ;  but  of  course 
they  do  not  receive  any  thing  like  the  searching 
examination  with  which  he  is  made  in  Temry- 
son  to  face  his  own  "  remorseful  pain  "  at  the 
close  of  the  thrilling  episode  of  Elaine  of  Asto- 
lat ;  although  otherwise,  in  this  episode,  Tenny- 


268         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

son  follows  Malory  with  unusual  closeness.  The 
cruel  reaction  of  Launcelot's  divided  loyalties, 
the  deep  ik  dishonor  in  which  his  heart's  honor 
was  really  rooted,"  are  set  in  stronger  light  than 
ever  in  Tennyson's  last  edition  in  two  interpo- 
lated passages  of  suck  unusual  beauty  and  signifi- 
cance that  we  make  room  for  them,  —  our  last 
quotations  from  the  **  Idyls  "  here.  The  first  oc- 
curs  on  the  threshold  of  the  story,  before  Launce- 
lot  had  sought  and  brought  Guinevere  to  be 
Arthur's  wife,  — which,  I)}'  the  way,  in  Malory, 
lie  does  not  do,  —  when  Arthur  had  finally 
broken  the  might  of  the  last  insurgent  army:  — 

lt  Then,  before  a  voice 
As  dreadful  as  the  Bhout  of  one  who  sees 
To  one  who  sins,  and  deems  himself  alone 
And  all  the  world  asleep,  they  swerved  and  brake, 
Flying;  and  Arthur  called  to  stay  the  brands 
That  hacked  among  the  flyers.    '  Ho!  They  yield  !  * 
So,  like  a  painted  battle,  the  war  stood 
Silenced,  the  living  quiet  as  the  dead; 
And  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  joy  was  lord. 
He  laughed  upon  his  warrior  whom  he  loved 
And  honored  most :  '  Thou  dost  not  doubt  me  king, 
So  well  thine  arm  hath  wrought  for  me  to-day.' 
1  Sir  and  my  liege,'  he  cried,  '  the  fire  of  God 
Descends  upon  thee  in  the  battle-field ; 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  269 

I  know  thee  for  my  king! '     Whereat,  the  two 
Sware,  on  the  field  of  death,  a  deathless  love. 
And  Arthur  said,  i  Man's  word  is  God  in  man  ; 
Let  chance  what  will,  I  trust  thee  to  the  death.'  " 

And  the  second  is  after  the  final  parting  of 
the  king  and  Guinevere :  — 

"  On  their  march  to  westward,  Bedivere, 
Who  slowly  paced  among  the  slumbering  host, 
Heard,  in  his  tent,  the  moanings  of  the  king: 
i  I  found  Him  in  the  shining  of  the  stars, 
I  marked  him  in  the  flowering  of  His  fields, 
But  in  His  ways  with  men  I  find  him  not. 
I  waged  His  wars,  and  now  I  pass  and  die. 
Oh,  me !  for  why  is  all  around  us  here 
As  if  some  lesser  god  had  made  the  world, 
But  had  not  force  to  shape  it  as  he  would 
Till  the  High  God  behold  it  from  beyond, 
And  enter  in  and  make  it  beautiful  ? 
Or  else,  as  if  the  world  were  wholly  fair, 
But  that  these  eyes  of  men  are  dense  and  dim, 
And  have  not  power  to  see  it  as  it  is? 
Perchance,  because  we  see  not  to  the  close: 
For  I,  being  simple,  thought  to  work  His  will, 
And  have  but  stricken  with  the  sword  in  vain, 
And  all  whereon  I  leaned,  in  wife  and  friend, 
Is  traitor  to  my  peace ;  and  all  my  realm 
Reels  back  into  the  beast  and  is  no  more. 
""My  God,  Thou  hast  forgotten  me  in  my  death! 
Nay,  God,  my  Christ,  I  pass,  but  shall  not  die.'  " 


270         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROU VERES. 

So  the  king  goes  away  into  the  mist  and 
darkness  of  that  "  last  dim,  weird  battle  in  the 
west," — a  marvellous  picture  in  its  wintry  tints 
of  white  and  monotonous  gray,  indelibly  drawn 
on  the  memory  of  the  present  generation.  And 
this,  with  Tennyson,  is  the  end.  But  here,  at 
last,  we  venture  to  think  that  the  poet's  art  has 
overreached  itself,  and  that  his  finale,  line  and 
imaginative  though  it  be,  is  loss  impressive 
than  that  of  the  simple  old  master.  It  seems 
impossible  to  read  the  "Idyls"  in  their  con- 
nection, and  to  go  directly  from  "  Guinevere  " 
to  the  "  Passing  of  Arthur," — from  the  verity, 
solemnity,  and  intense  humanity  of  the  former, 
and  the  extraordinary  moral  elevatjon  which  it 
induces,  to  the  mists  and  portents  and  fairy  un- 
certainties of  the  latter,  —  without  experiencing 
a  painful  shock  and  chill.  The  two  poems,  both 
so  beautiful,  belong  to  different  spheres.  There 
is  a  life-time,  a  spiritual  revolution,  between 
the  two.  Malory's  story  and  that  of  his  u  French 
book"  by  no  means  end  with  the  battle.  Is  it 
possible  that  the  absent  twelfth  book  of  Ten- 
nyson's epic  was  to  have  related  these  subse- 
quent incidents? 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  271 

At  all  events,  Malory's  ending  is  realistic  and 
credible,  —  sad,  but  satisfying.  On  the  morning 
after  Sir  Bedivere  had  seen,  as  in  a  dream,  the 
king  conveyed  away,  he  came  in  a  maze  of  grief 
and  weariness  to  a  chapel,  where  he  heard  of  a 
hurried  funeral  which  had  taken  place  there  the 
midnight  before.  Certain  weeping  ladies  had 
brought  to  this  humble  hermitage  a  stately 
corpse,  and  prayed  for  its  sepulture.  "Alas," 
cried  Sir  Bedivere,  "  that  was  my  Lord  Arthur, 
and  there  he  lies."  And  Sir  Bedivere  straight- 
way vowed  to  live  always  in  that  hermitage  and 
pray  for  Arthur's  soul.  But  when  the  tidings  of 
Arthur's  death  had  travelled  over  seas,  Launce- 
lot  arose  in  despair,  and,  returning  to  England, 
prayed  for  a  last  interview  with  Guinevere.  It 
was  granted,  and  they  met  in  the  cloister  of  her 
convent,  and  in  the  presence  of  her  nuns. 

"  Then  she  said  to  all  her  ladies, '  Through  this 
man  and  me  hath  all  this  war  been  wrought,  and 
the  death  of  the  most  noblest  knights  of  the 
world  ;  for  through  our  love  that  we  have  loved 
together  is  my  most  noble  lord  slain.  There- 
fore, Sir  Launcelot,  wit  thou  well,  I  am  set  in 
such  a  plight  to  get  my  soul's  health ;  and  yet 


272         TROUBADOURS  AND    TROUVERES. 

I  trust,  through  God's  grace,  that  after  my  death, 
to  have  a  sight  of  the  blessed  face  of  Christ,  and 
at  doomsday  to  sit  on  His  right  side  ;  for  as  sin- 
ful as  ever  I  was  are  saints  in  heaven.  There- 
fore, Sir  Launcelot,  I  require  thee  and  beseech 
thee  heartily,  for  all  the  love  that  ever  was  be- 
twixt us,  that  thou  never  see  me  more  in  the 
visage  :  and  I  command  thee,  on  God's  behalf, 
that  thou  forsake  my  company,  and  to  thy  king- 
dom thou  turn  again,  and  keep  well- thy  realm 
from  war  and  wrack.  For,  ;is  well  as  I  have 
loved  thee,  my  heart  will  not  serve  me  to  see 
thee:  Tor  through  thee  and  me  is  the  ilower 
of  kings  and  knights  destroyed.  Therefore,  Sir 
Launcelot,  go  to  thine  own  realm,  and  there 
take  thee  a  wife,  and  live  with  her  witli  joy  and 
bliss:  and  I  pray  thee  heartily,  pray  for  me  to 
our  Lord  that  I  may  amend  my  misliving.' 
1  Now,  sweet  madam,'  said  Sir  Launcelot,  i  would 
ye  that  I  should  return  again  to  my  country,  and 
there  wed  a  lady  ?  Nay,  madam,  wit  you  well 
that  shall  I  never  do  ;  for  I  shall  never  be  so 
false  to  you  of  that  I  have  promised:  but  the 
same  destiny  that  ye  have  taken  you  to,  I  will 
take  me  unto,  for  to  please  Jesu ;  and  ever  for 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  273 

you  I  cast  me  specially  to  pray.  ...  I  insure 
you  faithfully,  I  will  ever  take  me  to  penance, 
and  pray  while  my  life  lasteth,  if  that  I  may  find 
any  hermit,  either  gray  or  white,  that  will  receive 
me.  Wherefore,  madam,  I  pray  you  kiss  me, 
and  never  no  more.'  'Nay,'  said  the  queen, 
4  that  shall  I  never  do ;  but  abstain  you  from 
such  works.'  And  they  departed.  But  there 
was  never  so  hard  an  hearted  man  but  he  would 
have  wept  to  see  the  dolor  that  they  made." 

In  all  this  there  is  a  grave  and  simple  fitness 
to  the  inalienable  majesty  of  the  guilty  pair. 
They  never  met  again  ;  but  six  years  later,  after 
long  prayer  and  penance,  there  came  to  Laun- 
celot,  one  night,  a  vision,  warning  him  to  seek 
once  more  the  convent  at  Almesbury,  where 
he  would  find  Guinevere  dead ;  and  to  see 
that  she  was  buried  >  beside  her  lord,  King 
Arthur. 

"  Then  Sir  Launcelot  rose  up  or  day,  and  told 
the  hermit.  4  It  were  well  done,'  said  the  her- 
mit, '  that  ye  made  you  reacty,  and  that  ye  dis- 
obey not  the  vision.'  Then  Sir  Launcelot  took 
seven  followers  with  him ;  and,  on  foot,  they 
went    from    Glastonbury    to    Almesbury,    the 

18 


274         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

which  is  little  more  than  thirty  miles.  And 
thither  they  came  within  two  days,  for  they 
were  weak  and  feehle  to  go.  And  when  Sir 
Launcelot  was  come  to  Almesbury,  within  the 
nunnery,  Queen  Guinevere  died  but  half  an 
hour  before.  And  the  ladies  told  Sir  Launce- 
lot that  Queen  Guinevere  told  them  all,  or  she 
passed,  that  Sir  Launcelot  had  been  priest  near 
a  twelvemonth.  w  And  hither  he  cometh,  as  fast 
as  he  may,  to  fetch  my  corpse;  and  beside  my 
lord,  King  Arthur,  he  shall  bury  me.'  Where- 
fore  the  queen  said,  in  hearing  of  them  all,  'I 
beseech  Almighty  God,  that  I  may  never  have 
power  to  see  Sir  Launcelot  with  my  worldly 
eyes/  'And  thus,'  said  all  the  ladies,  'was 
ever  her  prayer,  these  two  days,  till  she  was 
dead.'  Then  Sir  Launcelot  saw  her  visage, 
but   he   wept   not   greatly,   but   sighed." 

The  "  Idyls"  themselves  contain  no  touch  finer 
than  this  last.  Sir  Launcelot's  own  release  was 
not  long  delayed,  —  "  For  he  did  never  after  eat 
but  little  meat,  nor  drank  ;  and  evermore,  night 
and  day,  he  prayed,  but  sometime  slumbered  a 
broken  sleep  ;  and  ever  he  was  lying  grovelling 
on  the  tomb  of  Arthur  and  Guinevere." 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  275 

His  brethren  remonstrated  with  hirn  for  his 
despair,  but  his  answer  was  simple  :  " 4  When  I 
remember  me  how,  by  my  default,  mine  orgule, 
and  my  pride,  that  they  were  both  laid  full  low, 
that  were  peerless  that  ever  was  living  of  Chris- 
tian people,  wit  you  well,'  said  Sir  Launcelot, 
;  this  remembered  of  their  kindness  and  mine 
unkindness  sank  so  to  my  heart,  that  I  might 
not  sustain  myself.'  So  the  French  book 
maketh   mention." 

In  six  weeks,  he  also  died.  "  Thou,  Sir 
Launcelot,"  cried  his  brother,  Sir  Ector,  as  he 
stood  by  his  wasted  remains,  "  there  thou  liest, 
that  were  never  matched  of  earthly  knight's 
hand  ;  and  thou  wert  the  courtiest  knight  that 
ever  bare  shield ;  and  thou  wert  the  truest  friend 
to  thy  lover  that  ever  bestrode  horse  ;  and  thou 
wert  the  truest  lover  of  a  sinful  man  that  ever 
loved  woman;  and  thou  wert  the  kindest  man 
that  ever  strake  with  sword ;  and  thou  wert  the 
goodliest  person  that  ever  came  among  press  of 
knights;  and  thou  wast  the  meekest  man,  and 
the  gentlest?  that  ever  ate  in  hall  among  ladies  ; 
and  thou  wert  the  sternest  knight  to  thy  mortal 
foe  that  ever  put  spear  in  the  rest." 


276         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVfiRES. 

It  is  evident,  that  both  Malory  and  the  author 
of  the  "  French  book  "  believed  far  too  sincerely  in 
the  reality  of  their  characters,  seriously  to  doubt 
that  Arthur's  mysterious  evanishment  was  indeed 
death.  However,  Malory  observes,  that  "some 
men  yet  say,  in  many  parts  of  England,  that 
Arthur  is  not  dead,  but  had  by  the  will  of  our 
Lord  Jesu  in  another  place.  And  men  say  that 
he  shall  come  again,  and  lie  shall  win  the  holy 
cross.  I  will  not  say  it  shall  be  so,  but,  rather, 
I  will  say,  lure  in  this  world  he  changed  his  life. 
I > 1 1 1  many  men  say  that  there  is  written  upon 
his  tomb  this  verse:  i  Hie  jacet  Arthur  us,  Hex 
quondam^   Rexque  futurusJ1 " 

May  not  the  laureate  have  closed  his  tale 
with  Arthur's  mystic  removal  to  A vallon,  rather 
than  with  these  last  affecting  incidents,  —  which 
undoubtedly  confirm  our  human  sympathy  with 
the  creatures  from  whom  we  are  now  loath  to 
part,  —  by  way  of  additional  tribute  to  the  char- 
acter of  the  Prince  Consort,  who  seemed  to  him 
"  scarce  other  than  his  own  ideal  knight,"  as  an 
unspoken  professional  intimation,  that  in  him 
the  fancy  of  the  early  ages  had  actually  found 
its  fulfilment  ? 


THE  ARTRTJBIAD.  277 

So  much  for  the  material  out  of  which  the 
great  Victorian  poet  has  constructed  the  frame 
of  his  most  durable  work.  How  entirely  we 
owe  to  himself  the  spiritual  unity  and  symmetry 
of  it  is  too  obvious  for  further  remark.  Yet,  we 
are  far  from  agreeing  with  those  who  think  that 
he  has  defaced  the  naivete  of  ancient  story,  by 
infusing  into  it  a  too  modern  scrupulousness. 
It  is  a  question  whether  morality  is  ever  modi- 
fied by  time  so  much  as  by  those  other  influ- 
ences,—  clime  and  race.  The  endeavor  to  cast 
off  the  conscience  which  we  know,  and  to  sub- 
stitute for  it  the  supposed  conscience  which 
regulated  a  by-gone  state  of  society,  almost 
always  fails  deplorably,  sometimes  disgustingly. 
Thus,  the  "  Defence  of  Guinevere, "  and  the 
other  Arthurian  poems  of  William  Morris,  with 
all  their  melody  and  passion,  barely  escape  repul- 
siveness ;  and,  for  a  similar  reason,  the  studies 
of  Matthew  Arnold,  in  the  "  Story  of  Tristram," 
though  pretty,  are,  in  their  fancied  reality,  ex- 
quisitely unreal.  It  is  the  mistake  of  painting 
things  preposterously,  because  they  "seem  so," 
which  is  the  favorite  foible  of  our  generation,  in 
more    than    one  branch   of  art.     Chivalry,   the 


278         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

motif  of  all  mediaeval  romance,  was  the  youngest 
dream  concerning  social  relations  of  the  modern 
world  after  its  conversion  to  Christianity,  —  a 
part  of  the  general  ecstasy  of  its  recent  regen- 
eration. It  was  the  bright,  audacious  ideal  of  a 
love  between  mortal  man  and  woman  as  wholly 
Bupersensual  as  the  fabled  love  of  the  Redeemer 
for  his  bride,  the  church.  The  knight  assumed, 
under  the  formal  sanction  of  the  church,  a  triple 
vow,  which  constituted  his   practical  religion, — 

to  serve  his  master  Christ,  to  succor  the  defence- 
less, to  love  one  woman,  and  her  supremely.    It 

seems  not  naturally  to  have  occurred  to  the 
Latinized  mind  of  Southern  Europe  to  inquire, 
what  woman?  If,  as  indeed  usually  happened, 
she  chanced  to  be  the  wife  of  another  man,  it 
was  equal.  The  love  of  chivalry  was  a  something 
which  transcended  all  accidental  relations  and 
prudential  arrangements.  And  the  love  which 
is  so  melodiously  celebrated  by  the  more  refined 
of  the  southern  troubadours  is,  in  very  truth, 
just  such  a  sublimated  sentiment.  It  is  incapa- 
ble of  coarse  offence.  Natural  jealousy  cannot 
attain  unto  it.  We  may  listen  for  hours  to  the 
echoes  of  those  rapturous  lyrics,  and  find  them 


THE  ARTHURIAD.  279 

always  the  same,  —  sweet,  ardent,  innocent  be- 
cause unmoral,  —  breathing  an  air  of  sunny  li- 
cense, awakening  not  the  faintest  vibration  of 
the  sense  of  right  and  wrong. 

But  the  Trouveres  and  the  minstrels  were,  for 
the  most  part,  the  descendants,  or,  at  least,  the 
near  kindred,  of  those  quaint  barbarians  of  whom 
Tacitus  wrote  with  languid  wonder  and  approba- 
tion, "  Quanquam  severa  illic  malrimonia  nee 
ullam  morum  partem  magis  laudaveris"  The 
theoretic  lady-love  of  the  Norman  or  Scandina- 
vian knight  could  hardly  be  other  than  his  wife, 
present  or  future.  Behold  an  earnest  restriction ! 
The  path  of  honor  at  once  becomes  narrow,  strait, 
and  difficult.  All  deviations  from  it  are  recog- 
nized as  transgressions,  all  tragic  results  of  such 
deviations  as  punishment.  Where,  as  in  the 
story  of  "  Launcelot  and  Guinevere,"  there  are 
struggles,  remorse,  and  a  piteous  expiation,  our 
keenest  sympathies  are,  no  doubt,  demanded, 
and  not  vainly,  for  those  who  love  and  sin. 
But  where,  as  in  the  story  of  "  Tristram  and 
Isolt,"  the  constitutional  instinct  of  chastity  is 
unblushingly  defied,  the  effect  is  one  of  extreme 
coarseness.     Here  is  precisely  the  spirit  of  con- 


280         TROUBADOURS  AND   TROUVERES. 

scious  and  blasphemous  brutality  which  M.  Taine 
is  always  encountering  amid  his  researches 
through  our  earl}-  literature,  and  which  partly 
fascinates  and  partly  horrifies,  but  always 
amazes,  him.  He  barely  recognizes  the  appar- 
ently irresistible  truth,  that  the  veiy  impudence 
and  desperation  of  the  spirit  in  question  argue 
the  presence  of  a  more  tyrannous  conscience 
than  can  be  inferred  from  the  milder  and  more 
graceful  licentiousness  of  softer  climes. 

If  there  ever  could  have  been  a  knightly 
Arthur,  and  he  could  ever  have  founded  an 
ideal  code  and  state,  they  may  well  have  been 
essentially  the  code  and  state  whose  brief  glory 
Tennyson  has  so  splendidly  portrayed.  It  was 
a  sublime  but  very  premature  dream,  the  disap- 
pointment of  which  appeared  inevitable,  even  in 
the  days  of  Malory.  Let  us  derive  what  con- 
solation we  may  from  the  fact  that  it  appears 
no  more  than  probable  in  the  days  of  Tennyson. 


Cambridge  :   Press  of  John  Wilson  &  Son. 


&7  § 


LIBRARY  OF  CONCRESS 

run  \  \  i ii i 


Nil  Mil  Mi] 


0  003  209  645  1    A 


*