APOCRYPHA.
Here the brief summary of the non-lyrical literature in the Provençal
language comes to a close. In a work mainly devoted to the poetry of
the Troubadours I have not thought it necessary to attempt anything
like completeness of enumeration, my intention being mainly to give
the reader some idea of the general aspect of a literary epoch almost
entirely engrossed by one branch of art, the artistic song. A prevailing
impulse of this kind is of course by no means unexampled in the history
of poetry. The gregariousness of human beings in general is equally
noticeable in the representatives of human thought and feeling. The age
of Homer loved epic breadth, that of Elizabeth dramatic point and action;
in our time the novel seems to rule the literary market. There were, of
course, English romance-writers in the sixteenth century, just as there
are English dramatists and lyrical poets of great power in the latter
half of the nineteenth; but that does not in either case disprove the
fact of a collective national instinct in the direction pointed out.
In the same sense it may be said that narrative poetry in mediæval
Provence occupied a decidedly subordinate position. This is, at least,
what the facts we know and the documents we possess lead us to believe.
But documents and facts are not always satisfactory materials to prop up
a preconceived theory. Certain scholars have in the face of them supplied
the _langue d’oc_ with an extensive and splendid epical literature, the
treasures of which have unfortunately been lost to us, though why this
loss should have fallen on the narrative in preference to the lyrical
branch of poetry is not explained. The chief upholder of this opinion is
the late M. Fauriel, the deservedly celebrated author of the ‘Histoire
de la Littérature Provençale;’ but the foundation on which he rests his
theory must be owned to be of the slenderest kind.
Among the _ensenhamens_, or instructions to particular classes of
society, already mentioned, there are two, by Guiraut de Calençon and
Guiraut de Cabreiras respectively, addressed to joglars, a class of
singers, and professors of other more or less dignified arts, of whose
duties and position in society we shall hear more hereafter. Amongst
other accomplishments they are exhorted to acquire familiar acquaintance
with certain favourite subjects of romance and story, a full enumeration
of which is given in each instance.[5] These two poems, together with
a passage from ‘Flamenca,’ descriptive of a feast enlivened by song,
give us a most welcome insight into the tales of woe and joy most apt
to raise tears or merry laughter amongst the fair ladies of Provence.
Here we meet with the names of many heroes of history and fiction.
King Menelaus and his frail spouse, together with most of the renowned
chieftains of the Greeks and Trojans, represent Homeric myth, Romulus
and Remus prehistoric Roman tradition. Queen Dido, it need hardly be
said, occupies a prominent place, as does also her singer Virgil, whom
mediæval belief has surrounded with the necromancer’s mysterious halo
in addition to his fame as a poet. Charlemagne and his champions—not
forgetting Ganelon the traitor—were equally well known in Provence, while
the influence of Celtic legendary lore, both with regard to poetry and
music, is curiously illustrated by the mention in ‘Flamenca’ of a joglar
who plays on the violin the _lais del cabrefoil_ (lay of the honeysuckle)
popularly ascribed to Tristan, the lover of Iseult. In addition to these
another Instruction may be mentioned, addressed by one Arnaut Guillem de
Marsan to a young gentleman of noble lineage who comes from a distance to
consult him about amorous matters. Here the knowledge of the favourite
subjects of romance is recommended as an accomplishment most adapted to
gain the favour of a lady.
From such passages as these M. Fauriel concludes that of all the
subjects mentioned in them elaborate treatments in the shape of epics
or romances existed in the _langue d’oc_. But this supposition surely
is quite unsupported by the evidence direct or indirect. The myths and
semi-historic facts referred to, such as the deeds of Charlemagne or
King Arthur, were the common stock of European nations in the Middle
Ages, migrating from the Welsh shores of the Atlantic to the eastern
confines of Germany, and back again to Saxo-Norman England. Trouvères,
Troubadours, and Minnesingers were equally well acquainted with these
inexhaustible sources of amusement, and a wayfaring minstrel was
naturally expected to give a more or less original version of the
familiar theme. But none of the passages mentioned above refers to any
existing poem on the subjects it enumerates, or indeed to any written
document at all, which latter, moreover, in nine cases out of ten would
have been of little use to the popular singer. The existence, therefore,
of an extensive epical literature in the Provençal language remains a
mere conjecture in spite of M. Fauriel’s eloquent special pleading.
There is, however, no reason to deny that more than one narrative poem
may have fallen a victim to time, and in some instances at least we have
strong circumstantial evidence pointing that way. One of these cases
leads to considerations so interesting in other respects that a short
statement of it may be welcome to the reader. It is well known that the
works of the Troubadours were at an early period read and admired in
the neighbouring country of Italy, and that the poets in the _lingua
volgare_ recognised in them at once their models and allies in the
struggle against the predominance of Latin scholarship. Students of the
‘Divina Commedia’ or of Petrarch’s ‘Trionfi’ are aware of the prominent
position assigned to the Provençal singers amongst the poets of the
world, and they may also remember that of the Troubadours themselves
none is mentioned with higher praise than Arnaut Daniel. Petrarch calls
him _gran maestro d’amore_, the ‘great master of love, whose novel and
beautiful style still (i.e. about the middle of the fourteenth century)
does honour to his country;’ and Dante, in his philological and metrical
treatise ‘De vulgari Eloquio,’ declares himself indebted to Arnaut for
the structure of several of his stanzas. The ‘sestina,’ for instance, a
poem of six verses in which the final words of the first stanza appear
in inverted order in all the others, is an invention of this troubadour
adopted by Dante and Petrarch, and, most likely through the medium of
French models, by Mr. Swinburne, as we shall presently see.
But another far more lasting monument has been erected to Arnaut in the
immortal lines of the ‘Purgatorio,’ where Guido Guinicelli, in answer to
Dante’s enthusiastic praise of his poetry, points to another shade, and
‘O frate, disse, questi ch’io ti scerno
Col dito (ed additò uno spirto innanzi)
Fu miglior fabbro del parlar materno.
Versi d’amor e prose di romanzi
Soverchiò tutti ...
Canto xxvi., verses 115-119.
‘O brother,’ cried he, pointing with his hand,
‘This spirit whom I show far better knew
To weld the language of his native land.
In lays of love and in romances too
He bore the palm.’ ...
(CAYLEY’S translation.)
This artful ‘smith of his mother-tongue’ is our troubadour, who, when
addressed, replies in pure Provençal, a language evidently quite familiar
to Dante. The above-cited lines are generally considered to be the clue
to the apparently excessive admiration lavished on Arnaut by the Italian
poets. There can indeed be no doubt that, in addition to his fame as a
lyrical singer or troubadour proper, his equal excellence as a narrative
poet is here referred to, the word ‘_prose_’ being used not in our modern
sense, but for the rhymed couplets of the epic in contradistinction to
the elaborate stanzas or _versi_ of the love-song.
The further question arises, what were the works on which Arnaut’s
reputation as an epical poet was founded, and for the answer to this
question we again must look in the works of Italian poets. Pulci, the
humorous author of the ‘Morgante Maggiore,’ mentions our troubadour twice
amongst the writers of Carlovingian epics, explaining his statement
by the further indication that he (Arnaut) ‘wrote most diligently and
investigated the deeds of Rinaldo (i.e. Renaut de Montauban, the eldest
of the _quatre fils Aimon_) and the great things he did in Egypt.’ This
seems to prove conclusively that as late as the end of the fifteenth
century, when Pulci wrote, an epic poem on ‘Renaut’ by Arnaut Daniel was
known amongst scholars in Italy.[6]
But a still later and in one sense still more important testimonial to
Arnaut is found in Torquato Tasso, who, it appears, mentions him as
the author of a poem on ‘Lancelot.’ For this enables us to connect our
troubadour with a second and perhaps the divinest passage in Dante’s
divine poem. The reader need scarcely be reminded that the story which
kindles to open and conscious flame the silent passion of Francesca da
Polenta and Paolo Malatesta is a romance of Lancelot—
Di Lancilotto come amor lo strinse;
and nothing is more probable than that Dante should have thought of
Arnaut Daniel’s lost epic when he wrote the inspired lines that are in
everybody’s memory.
Per più fiate gli occhi ci sospinse
Quella lettura, e scollorocci ’l viso;
Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse;
Quando leggemmo il disiato riso
Esser baciato da cotanto amante,
Questi che mai di me non fia diviso
La bocca mi bacciò tutto tremante.
Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse;
Quel giorno più non vi legemmo avante.
More than one time that reading struck our eyes
Together, and discoloured us in face:
But it was only one point conquered us:
Whereas we read about the longed-for smile
How by so great a lover it was kissed,
This one, who from me ne’er shall be disjoined,
Trembling all over, kissed me on the mouth.
A Galahalt[7] was the book, and he that writ:
Further that day we read in it no more.
(W. M. ROSSETTI’S translation.)
Many poets might wish to rest their posthumous fame on such lines rather
than on their own works; but it may be inferred on the other hand that
Arnaut Daniel (if he really be the author referred to) must have been
a mighty mover of the heart to gain such a tribute from the lips of
Francesca da Rimini.
It may seem strange that the Provençal biography is completely silent
with regard to Arnaut’s epical achievements. But, in the best times
at least, the professional story-teller was strictly divided from
the Troubadour, and the biographer may have thought it wiser to say
nothing on the subject. With reference to the same matter it is perhaps
significant that Arnaut is described as a ‘joglar’ in the Provençal
notice of his life. In Italy this point of etiquette was, of course, of
no importance; and hence most likely the indirect channel through which
Arnaut’s fame as a writer of romance has reached posterity.
It must be confessed, however, that the Troubadour’s lyrical efforts
would hardly lead one to credit him with lucid exposition or narrative
grace. Arnaut Daniel is the Browning of Provençal literature. He delights
in ‘motz oscurs’ (dark words) and ‘rims cars’ (dear or scarce rhymes)
and equally far-fetched similes. One of these latter, a symbol of
unrequited love, became almost proverbially attached to his name. ‘I am
Arnaut,’ it ran, ‘who loves the air, who hunts a hare with an ox, and
swims against the stream.’ His intentional obscurity and his mannerism
were largely imitated, but no less frequently attacked and travestied
by contemporary poets and satirists. Petrarch’s allusions to ‘his novel
speech,’ and Dante’s expression, ‘smith of his mother-tongue,’ evidently
allude to Arnaut’s peculiarities of style. We can also quite understand
how the great Florentine could admire a dark shade of melancholy, a
bold originality of thought, and a hankering after scholastic depth,
but too nearly akin to his own mental attitude; but how far these
qualities would have fitted into the frame of a narrative, or whether
the poet succeeded in dropping them for a season, must remain an open
question. It is curious that one of the brightest and most amusing bits
of literary gossip which Provençal biography can show is attached to the
sombre figure of this troubadour. As there will be no occasion in the
following pages to return to the biography of Arnaut, the clever little
anecdote may follow here. It will serve at the same time as a specimen of
Provençal prose. A literal translation is subjoined:
‘E fo aventura qu’el fo en la cort del rei Richart d’Englaterra: et estan
en la cort us autres joglars escomes lo com el trobava en pus caras rimas
qe el. Arnautz tenc so ad escarn e feron messios cascus de son palafre
qe no fera, en poder del rei. E’l reis enclaus cascun en una cambra.
E’N Arnautz de fastic quen ac non ac poder qe lasses un mot ab autre.
Lo joglars fes son cantar leu e tost. Et els non avian mas de X jorns
d’espazi; e devia s jutjar per lo rei a cap de cinq jorns. Lo joglars
demandet a’N Arnaut si avia fag; e’N Arnautz respos; “qe oc, passat a
tres jorns.” E non avia pensat. E’l joglars cantava tota nueg sa canso
per so qe be la saubes; e’N Arnautz pesset col traisset ad escarn, tan qe
venc una nueg e’l joglars la cantava e’N Arnautz la va tota retener e’l
so. E can foron denan lo rei, N’Arnautz dis qe volia retraire sa canso; e
comenset mot be la canso qe’l joglars avia facha. E’l joglars can l’auzic
gardet lo en la cara e dis q’el l’avia facha. E’l reis dis co s podia
far? E’l joglars preguet al rei q’el ne saubes lo ver. E’l reis demandet
a’N Arnaut com era stat. E’N Arnautz comtet li com era stat. E’l reis ac
ne gran gaug e tenc so a gran escarn. E foron acquistat los gatges, et a
cascun fes donar bels dos.’
‘And it happened that he (Arnaut Daniel) was at the court of King Richard
of England; and there being also at the court another joglar the latter
boasted that he could invent rhymes as scarce as could Arnaut. Arnaut
thought this good fun, and each gave his horse as a pledge to the king,
in case he could not do it (viz. gain the bet). And the king locked them
up each in a room. And Sir Arnaut, being tired of the matter, was not
able to string one word to another; the joglar made his song with ease
and speedily. And they had no more than a space of ten days allowed to
them. And the king was to judge at the end of five days. The joglar then
asked Sir Arnaut if he had done. “Oh yes,” said Sir Arnaut, “three days
ago.” But he had not thought of it. And the joglar sang his song every
night so as to know it well. And Arnaut thought how he could draw him
into ridicule; so one night, while the joglar was singing, Arnaut took
care to remember the whole song and the tune. And when they were before
the king, Arnaut declared that he wished to sing his song, and began
to sing in excellent style the song that the joglar had made. And the
joglar, when he heard this, stared him in the face, and declared that
he himself had made the song. And the king asked how this was possible,
but the joglar implored him to look into the truth of it. The king then
asked Sir Arnaut how this had happened, and Sir Arnaut told him how it
had happened. And the king had great joy at this, and thought it most
excellent fun. And the pledges were returned, and to each he gave fine
presents.’