THE TENSO.
My division hitherto has been made chiefly with regard to form. Such
poetic creations as the _pastoreta_ or the _balada_ are, it is true, to
some extent recognisable by the subject they treat. At the same time
their most important characteristic remains the formal development to
which this subject has given rise. This is different with the _tenso_,
the song of dispute or contention. The fact of its frequently being
written or supposed to be written by several persons implies the form of
the dialogue. But as regards the structure of the line and the stanza,
there is no generic mark to distinguish the _tenso_ from the _canzo_,
the _sirventes_, or any other class of artistic poetry. But in spite of
this the _tenso_ is of infinitely greater importance for the knowledge of
Provençal life and literature than the artificial trifles we have just
been dealing with. Its very existence is significant. Nothing could prove
the enormous popularity of verse and rhyme in Provence more conclusively
than the fact that the discussion of the most varied topics of life and
manners instinctively assumed the form of poetry. Only in this way could
the writers secure readers, the reciting joglars an audience. Moreover,
the mind may picture to itself a circle of noble ladies and gallant
cavaliers listening to the poets arduously discussing subtle points of
love and courtesy. For there is no reason to doubt that many of these
songs of contention owe their origin to actual _viva voce_ debate.
‘The _tenso_,’ the _Leys d’amors_ begins its long-winded definition,
‘is a combat and debate, in which each maintains and reasons some word
or fact,’ and beyond this somewhat vague piece of information there
is little to be got from the old grammarians. They supply us with
plenty of technical names, with a neat definition to each of them; but
how much of this theory is drawn from the inner consciousness of the
learned men, how much from the living practice of the troubadours, is
a difficult question to decide. The safest way for us will be, in this
and in previous instances, to rely chiefly on the remaining specimens
from the best period. For further particulars the curious reader is
referred to Raynouard’s work (‘Choix,’ vol. ii. 197), where he may
learn, for instance, that when a _tenso_ treated of love, which, by the
way, most _tensos_ did, it was for some not very perceptible reason,
called _partimen_, while a song of combat, in which more than two
disputants took part, received the appropriate name of _torneyamen_,
i.e. tournament,—turn and turn about, as we should say. Another name of
the _tenso_, _jocx partitz_, of which the French term _jeu parti_ is a
literal translation, seems to have been less commonly used in Provence.
The principle of ‘turn and turn about’ has at the same time supplied
the form of the _tenso_. It was but fair that to the various combatants
the same advantages should be granted, and hence the number of stanzas
allotted to each is exactly the same. Even the right of a last appeal in
the shape of a _tornada_ is free to all. Some advantage might accrue to
the first speaker from the choice of rhyme and metre, which had to be
repeated exactly by his antagonist or antagonists. The reproduction of
one of Arnaut Daniel’s hard-rhymed stanzas might have been a sore task to
some of the more popular troubadours. But this slight privilege was more
than counterbalanced by a duty. For, as a rule, the _tenso_ begins with
a challenge of one poet to another to choose one side of an argument,
the first spokesman undertaking to defend the opposite view, whichever
it may turn out to be. Impartiality could not well go further.[15] In
case of two antagonists only, the rhymes are frequently changed after a
couple of stanzas, that is after one argument and counter-argument, but
the continuation of the same rhymes throughout the poem is by no means of
rare occurrence.
There is no reason to doubt that in most cases the _tensos_ we find in
the manuscripts are records of actual discussions sustained by different
poets, either with the pen or by word of mouth. In many cases, however,
the antagonists are as undoubtedly fictitious personages brought upon the
scene for the purpose of displaying the author’s versatility of style and
reasoning. Peirol, for instance, in a very pretty _tenso_, introduces
Love himself as his antagonist. The god tries to shake the poet’s
resolution to join the crusaders. ‘The Turks and Arabs,’ he pleads,
‘will never leave the Tower of David for all your invasions. I give you
good and gentle counsel: Love and sing.’ But the poet remains firm. He
cannot break his sacred promise. At the same time there is a ring of
latent melancholy in his words when he admits that ‘many men must part,
and leave their true loves in tears, who, if King Saladin did not exist,
might have stayed at home joyfully.’
At other times the troubadours enter into discussion with antagonists
who, although not absolutely symbolical or fabulous, yet distinctly
bear the mark of a fictitious origin. Such a character, for instance,
is the Genoese lady with whom Rambaut de Vaqueiras—one of the chief
representatives of the _tenso_—holds amorous converse. The amorousness
is, however, wholly one-sided, for the lady, the wife of an honest
merchant, rejects the troubadour’s offers with utter contempt and with an
energy of diction more creditable to her virtue than to her politeness.
The vigour of her language is further increased by the homely dialect of
her city in which she is made to speak, and which contrasts strikingly
with the euphonious phrases of the courtly poet. But her virtue is proof
against the most alluring charms of the _langue d’oc_. Adding insult to
injury, she at last exclaims: ‘Mountebank, I don’t value your Provençal a
Genoese farthing; I don’t understand you any more than I should a German
or a native of Sardinia or Barbary.’ All this, it need hardly be added,
is nothing but a clever skit of the troubadour’s own devising.
To the same category also belongs the poem in which Peire Duran relates,
at some length, the mutual grievances of a husband and wife on a matter
intimately connected with domestic happiness. Another poem of the same
class is remarkable by a deviation from the usual form. For instead of
an entire stanza being allotted to each person, the speech here changes
after every two lines, and at the end of the stanza after one line. The
dialogue in this manner becomes decidedly more lively, but the abruptness
of these incessant changes seems to have deterred other troubadours from
adopting Albert’s innovation. Strictly speaking, the poem in question
hardly comes under the definition of _tenso_ as established by the _Leys
d’amors_; for instead of a discussion we have here nothing but assurances
of mutual love and good will.
Very different from this is the second and larger class of _tensos_,
in which two real troubadours discuss some subject of every-day life
and love. The variety of topics makes this part of the literature an
especially valuable source for the study of Provençal customs and
morals. Sometimes an abstract problem is started, such as the respective
advantages of wealth and wisdom, very seriously discussed by two minor
troubadours. ‘I would sooner possess wisdom,’ says the virtuous Guillem,
‘which must remain with me, than wealth, which in my opinion is of
little avail to those who possess it. For one can easily fall from high
to low estate, but science does not fall, because she is seated firmly.
He who possesses wisdom is rich in his shirt.’ But his antagonist,
nothing daunted, upholds the advantages of the independence and freedom
from care derived from the possession of riches. ‘Even Aristotle,’ he
replies, ‘the foremost among the wise, accepted presents, and so did
Virgil, he who lies buried near the strand at Naples. I prefer giving to
asking.’ The heavy artillery of learning having thus been brought into
action, the troubadours continue for some time to pelt each other with
classical and Biblical names and facts, without, however, producing the
slightest impression on the hostile positions. Finally, both appeal to
the arbitration of a mutual friend, as is their wont in such cases.
Infinitely more interesting, although less edifying, is a _tenso_ in
which two celebrated troubadours, Bernart de Ventadorn and Peirol,
express their opinions as to the mutual relations of personal feeling
and artistic creation. Here we have no longer to deal with a logical
fencing-match, but with the utterance of personal experience. Such a
maxim as ‘Little is worth the song that does not come from the heart,’
expressed by Peirol, reflects the highest credit on the psychological
and poetic insight of that troubadour. On the other hand, it is amusing
to watch the attitude of a light-hearted poet and lover, treating his
muse as he treats his mistress, and winding up with something very like a
boast of secret favours—which Bernart de Ventadorn assumes, and which is
strangely at variance with the gentle sentimental character of his life
and work. Believers in the migration of fables will be pleased to find
here a slightly altered version of the old story of ‘fox and grapes,’
and the poem as a whole may be regarded as an admirable specimen of the
elegant grace of Provençal thought and versification. For these reasons
it may follow here as transcribed by Professor Bartsch:—
BERNARTZ DE VENTADORN E’ N PEIROLS.
‘Peirol, cum avetz tant estat
Que non fezetz vers ni chanso?
Respondetz mi per cal razo,
S’o laissetz per mal o per be,
Per ir’ o per joi o per que?
Que saber en voill la vertat.’
‘Bernart, chantars nom ven a grat
Ni gaires nom platz nim sab bo;
Mas car voletz nostra tenso
N’ai era mon talan forsat.
Pauc val chans que del cor non ve;
E pos jois d’amor laissa me,
Eu ai chant e deport laissat.’
‘Peirol mout i faitz gran foudat
S’o laissatz per tal ocaizo;
S’eu agues avut cor fello,
Mortz fora un an a passat,
Qu’enquer non posc trobar merce:
Ges per tant de chant nom recre
Car doas perdas no m’an at.’
‘Bernart, ben ai mon cor mudat,
Que totz es autres c’anc non fo:
Non chantarai mais en perdo;
Mas de vos voill chantetz jasse
De cellei qu’en grat nous o te,
E que perdatz vostr’ amistat.’
‘Peirol maint bon mot n’ai trobat
De leis, c’anc us no m’en tenc pro;
E s’il serva cor de leo
Nom a ges tot la mon serrat;
Qu’en sai tal una, per ma fe,
Qu’am mais, s’un baisar mi cove
Que de leis sil m’agues donat.’
‘Bernart, bes es acostumat,
Qui mais non pot, c’aissi perdo;
Que la volps al sirier dis o:
Quan l’ac de totas partz cercat,
Las sireisas vic loing de se,
E dis que non valion re:
Atressi m’avetz vos gabat.’
‘Peirol, sireisas sont o be
Mas mal aja eu si ja cre
Que la volps non aja tastat.’
‘Bernart, nom entramet de re
Mas pesam de ma bona fe
Car non i ai ren gazaignat.’
TENSO BETWEEN BERNART DE VENTADORN AND SIR PEIROL.
‘Peirol, how is it that for such a long time you have been
without making verse or canso? Tell me what is the reason that
you have ceased singing. Is it for evil or good, for sorrow or
for joy, or for what? for I will know the truth of it.’
‘Bernart, singing does not come pleasant to me, and I have
lost all taste and liking for it. But as you insist upon
having a tenso with me, I have forced my inclination. Little
worth is the song that does not come from the heart, and as
love has left me, I have left song and dalliance.’
‘Peirol, you commit great folly, if you leave these off for
such a reason; if I had harboured wrath in my heart, I should
have been dead a year ago, for I also can find no love nor
mercy. But for all that I do not abandon singing, for there is
no need of my losing two things.’
‘Bernart, my heart is changed, and wholly different from what
it was: I shall no longer sing in vain. But I wish you may
sing for ever of her who gives you no thanks, and waste your
friendship.’
‘Peirol, many a good word have I said of her, although none has
ever been of any benefit to me. If she wants to keep her lion’s
heart, she cannot lock me out from all the world; and I know
one of whom I would prefer the grant of a kiss to the free gift
of one by her.’
‘Bernart, it is a common thing that he who cannot win
should make light of the loss; just as the fox spoke to the
cherry-tree. For after she had tried everything she still saw
the cherries a long way off, and then she said that they were
worth nothing; and that is exactly how you talk.’
‘Peirol, the cherries are all very well, but evil befal me if I
believe that the fox never had a taste of them.’
‘Bernart, that is not my affair, but I regret my good faith;
for I have gained nothing by it.’
It is now necessary to mention one of the most celebrated and most
characteristic _tensos_ in Provençal literature—a kind of battle-royal in
which each of the three contending poets tries to outshine the others by
brilliancy of wit and subtlety of argument. The subject, it need hardly
be added, is love. But thereby hangs a tale which it will be best to
relate in the words of the old manuscripts. ‘Savaric de Mauleon,’ says
the biographer of that well-known troubadour, ‘went to Benaujatz to see
the Viscountess Lady Guillelma, and he turned his mind towards her. And
he took with him Sir Elias Rudel, lord of Bergerac, and Jaufre Rudel of
Blaia. All three wooed her love, and each of them had been her cavalier
aforetime; but none knew it of the other. All three were seated with her,
one on one side, the other on the other, and the third in front of her.
Each of them gazed at her lovingly, and she, who was the boldest lady
ever seen, began to look at Sir Jaufre Rudel lovingly, for he was sitting
in front, and she took the hand of Sir Elias Rudel de Bergerac and
pressed it very amorously, and she put her foot on that of Sir Savaric
with a smile and a sigh. None knew of the favour the others had received,
till they had left the castle, when Sir Jaufre Rudel told Sir Savaric
how the lady had looked at him, and Sir Elias related that about the
hand. And Savaric, when he heard that each of them had found such favour,
became very sad; but he said nothing of what had happened to himself,
but he called Gaucelm Faidit and Uc de la Bacalaria, and asked them in a
stanza who had received the highest favour and love at her hands.’ This
stanza is the opening one of the _tenso_ in question. It runs thus:—
Gaucelm Faidit, and good Sir Hugh,
Three amorous questions I will ask:
Choose ye what side seems good to you,
The third to hold must be my task:—
One lady’s charms three knights inspire;
She, sore beset by their desire,
Would fain each lover’s wish abet,
When all the three with her are met.
At one she looks with loving eye:
The other’s hand takes tenderly;
Gladdens the third with footstep sly.
To tell me now I ask of ye,
Who was most favoured of the three.
Fortunately the two troubadours prefer the ogle and the shake by the
hand respectively, and permit poor Savaric at least to defend his own
cause, which he does with more spirit than might be expected under the
circumstances. Into the arguments of the amorous poets it would lead
us too far to enter. Suffice it to say that each firmly stands to his
opinion, and that the cause is ultimately submitted to the arbitration of
three ladies. The decision of these fair and no doubt highly competent
judges the manuscripts have unfortunately not preserved.
Perhaps the reader would care to know a little more of the curious
love-affair between Savaric and the Lady Guillelma, and as a second
incident of it also became the origin of a _tenso_, it may find a place
here. Savaric, we are told, had been faithfully attached to the lady for
years, but she paid him back with false promises, and never would grant
him a favour. Many a time he came to her, at her demand, from Poitou to
Gascony, by land and by sea, only to find himself disappointed again on
his arrival. But he, the manuscript adds, was so enamoured that he never
discovered her falsehood. His friends, however, did, and thought of means
to release him from such thraldom. For that purpose they introduced
him to a beautiful and noble lady of Gascony, who was but too willing
to accept the service of so celebrated a troubadour, and appointed a
day for a rendezvous. News of this affair was brought to Guillelma, and
jealousy now effected what true love had attempted in vain. No sooner
had she ascertained the time of the appointment, than she sent a message
to Savaric, summoning him to her presence for the very same day, and
promising him at last the fulfilment of his wishes. The messenger was Uc
de San Cyr the troubadour, and biographer of Savaric, to whose friendship
he was introduced on this occasion. He relates how he came to the court
of Savaric, who, by the way, was a rich and powerful baron, and delivered
his message. One of the guests of Savaric was the provost of Limoges, and
to him the perplexed poet submitted the case, proposing to discuss the
claims of the two ladies in a _tenso_. This _tenso_ is in existence. The
provost is decidedly in favour of the new love. He points out to Savaric
that Guillelma’s favour is the result of jealousy, while the kindness of
the other lady would be ill rewarded by the poet’s disappointing her. But
the warmth with which poor Savaric pleads for his old attachment, and
even speaks with some contempt of a love too easily granted, shows but
too plainly that the cure of his infatuation was anything but perfect. In
this case also the decision of the question is referred to three ladies,
but again there is no record of their verdict. Of another _tenso_ still
more intimately connected with a real and most melancholy love-affair we
shall have to speak further on.
There was still another use to which the _tenso_ was occasionally put.
When two troubadours owed each other a grudge, instead of fighting it
out with the sword, they frequently challenged each other to a song of
combat. Like most polemical poems in the _langue d’oc_ these personal
_tensos_, for so they may conveniently be called, are full of the
grossest slander. The wonder is that, with all this spite and rage, the
poet always preserves sufficient equanimity to adhere to the strictest
rules of the art, and even to reproduce the exact metre and rhyme chosen
by his adversary as the medium for his abuse. Uc de St. Cyr, of whom we
have just heard, appears amongst the chief representatives of this branch
of literature, in a manner more creditable to his eloquence than to his
personal character. He was the younger son of an impoverished family, and
depended for his maintenance on the liberality of his protectors. His
lasting friendship with Savaric de Mauleon has been already mentioned,
but unfortunately, in other cases, relations of a similar kind seem to
have ended in unkindness and open enmity. How far the responsibility may
have lain with the poet, it is impossible to say, but the fact of his
appearing twice as the declared antagonist of a former benefactor throws
grave doubts on his gratitude. The first instance alluded to is a quarrel
with the Viscount of Turenne, in whose service the poet seems to have
been for some time.
‘Viscount,’ he exclaims, ‘how can I endure the hardships you impose upon
me? Night and day you make me ride from one place to another without
rest or sleep. Truly, in the company of Martin d’Algai,[16] I could not
be worse off; even my food appears scanty.’
‘You know, Uc de St. Cyr,’ is the Viscount’s answer, ‘if you do not want
to tell a lie, that I did not send for you from Quercy to show you my
lands; on the contrary, I was much annoyed when I saw you coming. May God
punish me if I do not wish, with all my heart, that you had gone to Spain
instead!’
In another _tenso_, of the same kind, Uc’s position is still more
precarious from a moral point of view—at least if we believe the charge
implied in his antagonist’s answer. From this it would appear that the
poet was capable of taunting with poverty a man to whose bounty he owed
his own wealth.
‘Count,’ he says, ‘you need not be afraid or anxious on my account. I
have not come to ask or demand anything from you; for I have all I want.
But I perceive that money is a scarce article with you; therefore I have
not the heart to ask you anything; on the contrary, it would be a great
mercy if I made you a present.’
‘Uc de St. Cyr,’ Count Rodez replies, ‘I am sorry for having dismissed
wealthy you, who came to me poor, naked, and miserable. You have cost me
more than two bowmen or horsemen; truly, if I had offered you a horse you
would not have refused it.’
In a second _tenso_ by the same poets, grievous bodily harm is threatened
on one and boldly defied on the other side.
A little more smoothly, although by no means amicably, do matters
proceed between Rambaut de Vaqueiras and Count Albert di Malaspina, an
unruly Italian nobleman. The cause of their quarrel is a certain lady
of Tortona, who, after having flirted with the troubadour, jilted him
for the count. The latter, adding insult to injury, taunts Rambaut with
his loss in the opening stanza. The troubadour retorts with a charge of
highway-robbery, which the nobleman frankly admits, explaining, however,
that ‘many a time, I can assure you, I have taken goods from a wish to
make presents, and not in order to enrich myself or heap up treasures.’
In the further course of the poem, the nobleman ridicules the poverty
of the poet and his ambition in having aspired to knighthood, to which
neither his courage nor his position entitled him. The troubadour, in
return, accuses Albert of every crime under the sun, including perjury
and treachery in love and politics. As to cowardice he says: ‘If I am
not exactly an Oliver in the use of arms, it appears to me that you
are no Roland either.’ In this manner the quarrel continues for some
time, without much apparent superiority on either side, a fact which
redounds greatly to the credit of the Italian count. For Rambaut was an
experienced poet and a renowned champion in the literary warfare of those
days.