SOCIAL POSITION OF PROVENÇAL POETS.
Sufficient has been said in the preceding pages to show the superiority
of lyrical over epic poetry in Provence. This inequality of the two
branches implied a commensurate difference of praise and social esteem
awarded to those who excelled in either of them, and it is perhaps from
this point of view that the two great divisions of poets in the _langue
d’oc_, respectively described as ‘joglars’ and ‘trobadors,’ or, in the
French and generally adopted form of the word, ‘troubadours,’ may be most
distinctly recognised. The two professions were frequently united in the
same person, and the duties belonging to either are in many respects
identical, or at least similar to such a degree as to make strict
separation almost impossible; but it seems sufficiently established that
the verb ‘trobar’ and its derivative noun first and foremost apply to
lyrical poetry. To speak therefore of the Troubadour as the singer of
songs, of cansos and sirventeses and albas and retroensas, is a correct
and tolerably comprehensive definition, borne out moreover by the
historic fact that, with the sole exception of Arnaut Daniel (who, as
was mentioned before, is in his biography called a joglar), none of the
celebrated troubadours is known to have written narrative poems. These
latter, on the other hand, are either, like ‘Flamenca’ and ‘Jaufre,’ by
anonymous authors, or else by such men as Arnaud de Carcasses or Matfre
Ermengau, who have acquired little or no fame as lyrical poets, and
moreover belong to the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, when the
song-tide of the earlier epoch was ebbing fast.
To the Troubadour, the undisputed leader of the poetic profession, we
must turn first. It has been at all times, and is still, an all but
impossible task to define the social position of a literary man, _quâ_
literary man. So much depends upon his success in his profession, his
family, his personal bearing, that a general rule can never comprise
all individual cases. The same applies to the Provençal poets of the
middle ages. It would be absurd to say that differences of rank did
not exist in that primitive republic of letters. The composite nature
of a profession, the humbler associates of which were often fain to
amuse popular audiences at wakes and fairs with rude songs or tricks of
jugglery, entirely precludes the social equality of all its members. But
in the art of poetry a common ground was at least established, where men
of all classes met on equal terms, and where the chance of success was
little if at all furthered by accidental advantages of birth. The maxim
of _carrière ouverte au talent_ was fully carried out, and we find that
the most celebrated troubadours were frequently men of low origin, who
by mere dint of genius conquered fame and gain. Folquet for instance, the
gay troubadour, subsequently Bishop of Toulouse, and zealous persecutor
of the Albigeois heretics, was the son of a simple merchant, and the
great Bernart of Ventadorn seems to have been of still humbler descent—at
least, if we may believe the testimony of an amiable brother poet, who
delights in informing the public that Bernart’s father was a common
serving-man, good at shooting with the bow, and that his mother gathered
brushwood to light the fire. Marcabrun, another celebrated and at the
same time most eccentric troubadour, was, according to one account, a
foundling left at the gate of a rich man, while another biography calls
him the (apparently illegitimate) son of a poor woman of the name of
Bruna, the latter statement being confirmed by the troubadour’s own boast:
Marcabrus lo filhs Na Bruna
Fo ergendratz en tal luna
Qe anc non amet neguna
Ni d’autra non fo amatz.
In English: ‘Marcabrun, the son of Madame Bruna, was begotten under such
a moon that he never loved a woman, and never was loved by one.’
It has been computed that to the middle and lower classes twenty-two
troubadours owe their origin, to which number probably many of those
must be added of whose circumstances no record has been left. The
clergy furnished no less than thirteen poets, some of whom confined
themselves to religious and didactic subjects, and therefore, strictly
speaking, ought not to be called troubadours. Others, however, had no
such conscientious scruples, and one of the most daring and outspoken
satirists in Provençal literature was a monk. Uc de St. Cyr, destined
by his father for the clerical profession, escaped from the university
of Montpellier and became a troubadour, while in other cases gay poets
turned monks and closed a wild career with repentance and holy exercise.
Of Gui d’Uisel, a canon of Brioude and Montferrand, it is told that he
dutifully abandoned the muse by command of the Papal legate.
By far the largest proportion of the troubadours known to us—fifty-seven
in number—belong to the nobility, not to the highest nobility in most
cases, it is true. In several instances poverty is distinctly mentioned
as the cause for adopting the profession of a troubadour. It almost
appears, indeed, as if this profession, like that of the churchman
and sometimes in connection with it (see the Monk of Montaudon), had
been regarded by Provençal families as a convenient means of providing
for their younger sons. Bertran de Born, on the other hand, owed the
successful enforcement of his claims to the heritage he held in common
with his unfortunate brother Constantine as much to his song as to his
sword.
It remains to refer to no less than twenty-three reigning princes of more
or less importance of whose poetic efforts we have cognisance. With a
few exceptions the contributions to literature of these distinguished
amateurs are but slight. But that does not diminish the significance of
the fact of these powerful men entering into competition with the sons of
tailors and pedlars.
Richard I. of England occupies the foremost place amongst these princely
singers. The beautiful canzo composed in his Austrian prison, and
preserved in both the _langue d’oc_ and _langue d’oïl_, is deservedly
popular. It is perhaps less generally known that Richard occasionally
made his poetry the vehicle of political invective. There is extant by
him a song in which he violently attacks the Dauphin, Robert of Auvergne,
accusing him of venality and breach of faith. The Dauphin, nothing loth,
meets violence with violence, using in his retort the same complicated
metre in which the Prince had attacked him. The same Dauphin appears
again in another poetical encounter of a rather less elevated kind. This
time his antagonist is a homely citizen of the name of Peire Pelissier,
who, combining the useful with the agreeable, had metrically reminded
the Dauphin of a certain sum of money owing to him. The indignation with
which the noble poet rejects the low demand is beautiful to see. But the
very fact of his entering into such a contest with such an antagonist
shows the equalising, not to say levelling, influence which the universal
desire for poetic fame exercised on the minds of men in those days.
By far the most important poet of this class, and one of the most
remarkable, as he was chronologically the first, of all troubadours, is
William IX., sovereign Count of Poitiers, a noble prince, well known in
history. The time of his reign, about the end of the eleventh century,
marks the commencement of Provençal poetry, and this sudden appearance
of an accomplished poet, mastering the most intricate rules of rhyme and
metre ever invented, is unique in the history of literature. It is indeed
in this case also explainable only from the disappearance of previous
stages of poetic development.
William of Poitiers is an interesting character in many respects. He is
the prototype of the Troubadour, the wayfaring singer, wandering through
the beautiful land of Provence in search of praise and amorous adventure,
the latter not always as strictly moral nor yet as sentimental as might
be desired. Even in those gallant days his dangerous gift of captivating
women’s affections seems to have attracted more than ordinary notice.
‘The Count of Poitiers,’ says the Provençal biography, ‘was one of the
most courteous men in the world and a great deceiver of ladies; and he
was a brave knight and had much to do with love-affairs; and he knew
well how to sing and make verses; and for a long time he roamed all
through the land to deceive the ladies.’ The poems of the Count further
illustrate these statements in a manner not always delicate, but always
witty and amusing. It ought to be added that, before his end, William
repented of his evil ways, in witness of which the last of his remaining
songs gives utterance to regretful sorrow and anxiety.
But the chief importance of William’s life and poetry for our present
purpose lies in the light which these throw on the high esteem in which
the poet’s art was held in those days. For it must be remembered that
the man who proudly donned the Troubadour’s garb was the same Duke of
Aquitain and Count of Poitiers whom William of Malmesbury mentions
amongst the great warriors of his time, and who, in the unfortunate
crusade of 1101, appeared at the head of three hundred thousand fighting
men.
Such were the princely amateurs in mediæval Provence. Turning from these
to the Troubadours proper, that is to professional poets who owed their
sustenance to their song, we find that they occupied an important and
honoured position in fashionable circles. There is scarcely a noble
family in the south of France whose name is not by one or more of its
members connected with the history of the Troubadours. His love of
poetry and poets is a redeeming feature in the lion-hearted Richard’s
wild career, but he had inherited this feeling from his mother, the
much-maligned Queen Eleanor, whom we shall meet again as the generous
friend of a celebrated singer. The kingly house of Aragon vied with that
of Anjou in its liberal protection of the gay science. The names of
Alfonso II., Peter II., and Peter III. continually occur in the grateful
acknowledgments of the Troubadours; and to another monarch of Spanish
origin, King Alfonso X. of Castile, belongs the honour of having given
shelter to the remnant of Provençal poets after the fall of their own
country. At his court lived and deplored the decline of poetry the last
of the Troubadours, the noble Guiraut Riquier. Many other protectors
of the Troubadours, no less liberal though less illustrious, will be
incidentally mentioned in these pages.
At the courts of these princes and nobles the Troubadour was eagerly
welcomed. Without any distinct charge or office he partook of the
liberality of his protector, half guest, half courtier, but without any
of the irksome duties of the latter, and free to come and go where his
wayward mood attracted him. We hear of frequent and rapid changes of
abode in the lives of many troubadours, mostly in consequence of some
imbroglio with a lady. But Provençal poets were naturally a restless
tribe, ever in search of new lands and new loves.
The gifts with which the Troubadour’s song was rewarded varied in nature
and value according to the wealth and liberality of the donor. Horses
gaily caparisoned, rich vestments, and money are not unfrequently
mentioned. The Monk of Montaudon rails at a brother poet for having
accepted _manh vielh vestimen_ (many an old coat) previously worn to
rags, we may suppose, by its economical owner. But other nobles showed a
more generous appreciation of poetry, and in one case at least we hear
of a liberal host who, enraptured by his poet-guest’s song, presents
him with his own palfrey and dress. This instance at the same time
illustrates the spontaneous nature of most of these gifts. The troubadour
was not like an English poet laureate or the bard of a Welsh prince,
receiving a yearly salary in money or kind, and bound for certain
emoluments to accomplish a certain amount of verse. An engagement of
this kind was as unsuitable to his disposition as it would have been
inconsistent with the terms of equality on which he lived with his
protector. The perfect ease of intercourse existing between poets and
princes of the highest rank is indeed astonishing. Bertran de Born,
a petty baron, called the sons of Henry II. of England by familiar
nicknames, and Raimon de Miraval, a poor knight of Carcassonne, used
the same liberty with the mighty Count Raimon VI. of Toulouse, with
whom he was united by the bonds of tenderest mutual friendship. Even
the powerful Raimon de Rossilho, proud by nature and further excited by
jealous suspicion, has to treat a servant of his own household with the
utmost consideration, merely because this retainer happens to be Guillem
de Cabestanh, the author of some popular love-songs. Only when the
poet’s guilt is established beyond a doubt does Raimon give way to his
revengeful passion.
Another privilege enjoyed by the troubadour, and prized by him much
higher than all those previously mentioned, was the favour of noble
ladies, granted to him as the guerdon of his impassioned song. The
relation between lady and troubadour has been a favourite subject with
writers of history and romance from the early middle ages to the present
time, and it is to be feared that the popularity of Provençal poets rests
quite as much on their love-affairs as on their literary achievements.
From the story of Flamenca previously told and numerous other incidents
to be mentioned in the following pages, the reader may form an idea
of the laxity of morals in those days, especially as regards the
marriage-vow. Considering this moral atmosphere and the free intercourse
of the sexes existing in Provençal society, where the _dueña_ or any
similar institution seems to have been unknown, the frequent occurrence
of a guilty passion between a troubadour and a high-born lady—for
instance, the wife of his protector—is intrinsically but too probable.
But it is nevertheless an undoubted fact, although the old biographers
are by no means prone to acknowledge it, that the homage offered by the
troubadour and accepted by the lady did not necessarily imply guilty
weakness on the part of the latter. This is sufficiently proved by the
attitude of a third and strongly interested party, the husband. In many
instances he thought himself honoured by the eloquent praise lavished
on his wife, and was willing to make allowance for occasional outbursts
of passion mixed with the more conventional terms of distant adoration.
Count Barral de Vaux, the good-natured husband of Azalais, the lady whom
Peire Vidal celebrated under the pseudonym of Vierna, went so far as to
adjust little differences arising between his wife and that eccentric
poet. Count Richard of Poitou also encouraged his sister Mathilda to
accept the homage of Bertran de Born, which seems to establish the
acknowledged possibility of a perfectly innocent relation of the kind
alluded to beyond a doubt. The future King of England would hardly have
exposed a lady of his house to ignominious suspicion for the sake of a
vassal, much as he stood in dread of the dangerous gifts of that vassal.
And this last remark indicates at the same time the clue to the whole
extraordinary phenomenon of the privileged social position of the
Troubadours. These poets were the stern censors of moral and political
depravity as well as the singers of love. They possessed the public ear,
and, conscious of their power, they wielded it, often no doubt to noble
purpose, but no less frequently with a strong admixture of that personal
bias which so few pamphleteers and party writers know how to eschew. The
bitterness and rancour of the Provençal _sirventes_ are equalled by few
satirists of other nations, surpassed by none; and many a noble—and many
a lady too, for that matter—who might be comparatively indifferent to the
Troubadour’s praise were fain to evade his blame by ministering to his
comfort or his vanity.