OTHER POPULAR FORMS.—THE ALBA AND SERENA.
Songs of the morning and evening—_alba_ and _serena_—are amongst the
most characteristic embodiments of Provençal poetry. To us these
words come through the medium of northern French, and their original
meaning has been lost on the way. _Aubade_ and _serenade_ mean amongst
modern nations, from the shores of the Baltic to the shores of the
Mediterranean, the musical entertainments performed or arranged by the
lover under his lady-love’s window at morning or eventide. In music
these words have received a still different technical meaning, founded,
however, on the same peculiar significance of the term. For in their
_serenades_ and _aubades_ the composers of the last century, at least,
employ in preference such instruments as are most adapted for open-air
effects.
In modern poetry ‘Hark, hark, the lark!’ from ‘Cymbeline,’ may be
regarded as the most perfect and typical specimen of the _aubade_. But
the difference between this and the Provençal _alba_ is of a radical
nature. The _aubade_ shows or implies the lovers to be divided; in the
_alba_ they are united; as regards form, the first is an address,
the second a dialogue, or, at least, the successive utterance of two
persons. One of these speakers, and the principal of the two, is in
most and, according to my opinion, in the oldest of these songs, not
either of the lovers, but the faithful watcher or sentinel guarding them
from intrusion. Hence we find that the wonderfully beautiful morning
songs, evidently written in imitation of Provençal models by Wolfram
von Eschenbach, the great mediæval German poet, are actually called
‘Wächterlieder,’ or sentinel songs. Reminiscences of the same kind seem
also to have inspired Brangaene’s warning, mingled with the love-songs of
Tristan and Isolde, in Wagner’s opera.
The purest and earliest form of the _alba_, like that of the Scotch
ballad, was no doubt purely dramatic, the speaker or speakers beginning
their monologue or dialogue without any previous introduction. The
narrative stanza at the beginning, found in most of the existing _albas_,
is evidently an after-thought. It became necessary, owing to the
imagination of the hearers failing to supply the situation at a time,
perhaps, when these hearers became partly readers, and the additional
help of the joglar’s action and vocal flexibility ceased in consequence.
This, however, is mere conjecture from analogy, for the dates of the
Provençal specimens are difficult to determine. In the magnificent _alba_
by Guiraut de Bornelh, a celebrated troubadour of the spring-time of
Provençal literature, the introductory stanza has been dispensed with.
‘Glorious King,’ is the watchman’s song, ‘true light and brightness,
Almighty God and Lord, grant faithful help to my friend, for I have not
seen him since the night came, and soon it will be dawn.’ ‘Sweet friend,
be you awake or asleep, sleep no longer, but gently rise, for in the East
I see growing larger the star which harbingers the morn; for well I know
it. And soon it will be dawn.’ ‘Sweet friend, I call to you in my song;
sleep no longer, for I hear the bird that goes seeking the day through
the grove (_qe vai qeren lo jorn per lo boscatge_), and I fear that the
jealous knight may assail you, and soon it will be dawn.’
‘Sweet true friend,’ the lover replies, in the last stanza, ‘I sojourn in
so glorious a place that I wish dawn and day might never appear; for the
fairest lady ever born by mother I hold in my arm, and little do I heed
the fell jealous knight or the dawn.’
It is strange to note the coincidence of imagery and even of expression
with which the same situation has supplied the troubadour, and
Shakespeare in ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ The simplicity, one might almost say
the obviousness, of all true poetry here finds a striking illustration.
Given the parting of two lovers at early morn, and the ‘earliest cry
of new-awakened birds’ heralding or seeking the day, the morning star,
the dawn, and the defiance of its perils by the lover—all this suggests
itself almost as a matter of necessity. To the same simplicity of motive
we have to ascribe the freshness and beauty of many of the _albas_. In
them the troubadours frequently display an intensity of language, an
originality and picturesqueness of description, which we look for in vain
in their more elaborate poems. What, for instance, can be more impressive
in its striking symbolism than the opening address to the ‘Glorious
King, the true light and brightness,’ or more subtle and poetic than the
conception of the lark seeking or longing for the morn with its anxious
cry? It is another proof of the enormous value of the popular element
in artistic poetry. While in contact with this healthy spirit, the
Troubadours held it unnecessary, perhaps beneath their dignity, to show
the formal capabilities of their craft.
At the same time the _alba_ was by no means without its formal rule or
custom. This also is more or less strictly exemplified by the stanzas
above quoted. The reader will notice the refrain or burden at the end
of each stanza, another proof of the antiquity of the species; he will
also remark the recurrence of the word ‘_alba_.’ This word is always
found in the burden, or, where that feature is wanting, in the last line
of every stanza, of which sometimes it is actually the concluding word.
To this quaint and evidently very primitive device the name of these
poems is owing. The only exception to this rule known to me is found in
an anonymous _alba_ which in other important respects differs from and
is inferior to the genuine poems of the class. For here, instead of an
outpouring of feeling, we have a narration as of a past event suddenly
interrupted by a violent diatribe against the sentinel for ‘hurrying
on the day,’ and concluded as abruptly by an address of the lady to her
‘friend Sir Stephen,’ probably the poet himself, warning him of his
danger in tarrying with her.
This arrangement is quite whimsical. But even within the limits of the
regular _alba_, several variations are possible. Instead of the sentinel
the lover or even the lady may be the speaker, the short reply at the
end of the poem being in that case allotted to the faithful friend. To
this, the second important division of the morning song, belongs an
anonymous poem, which, as regards beauty of diction and sentiment, marks
perhaps the acme of the power of the troubadours in this direction, and
for that reason may be quoted in full. Here we find perfect euphony
of language combined with a truth of feeling which, especially in the
refrain—changelessly reiterated from the first stanza to the last—reaches
a climax of passion. The subjoined translation will enable the reader
to follow the original line for line. A few remarks as to form may
be deemed necessary. The poem opens with the short narrative stanza
already referred to. Then follow the words of the lady, partly spoken in
soliloquy, partly addressed to her lover. In the last verse we suddenly
come to a short laudation of the lady’s own merits, which is no doubt
intended as a monologue of the watcher. From a purely poetic point of
view these lines may appear an anticlimax, but they give a quaint archaic
tinge to the whole conception.
ALBA SES TITOL.
En un vergier sotz fuelha d’albespi
Tenc la domna son amic costa si
Tro la gaita crida qe l’alba vi.
Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.
‘Plagues a dieu ja la nueitz non falhis
Nil mieus amicx lonh de mi no s partis
Ni la gaita jorn ni alba no vis,
Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.
Bels dous amicx, baizem nos, ieu e vos
Aval els pratz on chantols auzellos
Tot o fassam en despieg del gilos.
Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.
Bels dous amicx, fassam un joc novel
Ins el jardin on chanton li auzel
Tro la gaita toque son caramel;
Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.
Per la douss’ aura q’es venguda lai
Del mieu amic bel e cortes e gai
Del sieu alen ai begut un dous rai.
Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.’
‘La domna es agradans e plazens
Per sa beautat la gardon mantas gens,
Et a son cor en amar lejalmens.
Oy dieus, oy dieus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.’
ALBA
BY AN ANONYMOUS POET.
Beneath a hawthorn on a blooming lawn
A lady to her side her friend had drawn,
Until the watcher saw the early dawn.
Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.
‘Oh that the sheltering night would never flee,
Oh that my friend would never part from me,
And never might the watch the dawning see!
Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.
‘Now, sweetest friend, to me with kisses cling,
Down in the meadow where the ousels sing;
No harm shall hate and jealous envy bring.
Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.
‘There let with new delight our love abound
—The sweet-voiced birds are carolling around—
Until the watcher’s warning note resound.
Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.
‘I drink the air that softly blows my way,
From my true friend, so blithe, so fair, so gay,
And with his fragrant breath my thirst allay.
Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.’
‘The lady is of fair and gentle kind,
And many a heart her beauty has entwined,
But to one friend is aye her heart inclined.
Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.’
In the course of time, as the _alba_ became more and more an established
form of art, the old popular features were gradually abandoned. Instead
of introducing fictitious _dramatis personæ_ with fictitious dialogue,
the poets begin to speak in their own proper persons, and the _alba_
lapses into the ordinary rank and file of subjective lyrical forms. Only
the external signs of the refrain and the recurrence of the word _alba_
remain to account for the title, and even this rule has been abandoned
in the curious little poem by ‘Sir Stephen’ above referred to. Of the
variations arising from this process only one may be mentioned here, on
account of its originality of conception. Guiraut Riquier is the author.
Here the motive of the _alba_ appears entirely reversed. For here we
meet with a lover tossing sleepless on his lonely couch and thinking of
his love. To him night is full of gloom and terror, and ‘_e dezir vezer
l’alba_’ (I long to see the dawn) is the burden of his song.
To the same versatile poet we owe the representative specimen of the
_serena_ or even-song. Formally it resembles the morning song, with which
it shares the refrain, and in it the recurrence of the verbal key-note,
which in this case is _ser_, or evening. As regards its relation to the
_alba_, it may be said that the same sentiment appears here in converse
significance. For the _serena_ is sung by a lover to whom a meeting has
been promised, and who deprecates the day and its brightness that sever
him from his heart’s desire. Although by no means wanting in truth and
poetical suggestiveness, the situation is somewhat too subtle for the
imagination of the people, and there is little evidence of a popular
source of the _serena_, which appears to be little more than an outgrowth
and modification of the _alba_ in its more artificial development.