PEIRE VIDAL.
Peire Vidal is one of the most versatile and many-sided amongst the
troubadours. His character is a psychological riddle. High gifts and
wildest eccentricities are strangely mixed up in it. But the riddle
cannot be read from a purely individual point of view. Peire Vidal is
also a type. His adventures and poems show as in a kaleidoscope the
romantic and often exaggerated and whimsical ideas which animated his age
and country.
‘Peire Vidal’—the old biography begins—‘was born in Toulouse, the son of
a furrier; he sang better than any other poet in the world, and was one
of the most foolish men who ever lived, for he believed everything to
be just as it pleased him and as he would have it.’ That he grew to his
greatness out of the meanest circumstances was a lot which he shared with
some of the most famous of his brethren, such as Marcabrun and Folquet
of Marseilles, and it accounts to a certain extent for many of his
follies and illusions. The time of his birth it is impossible to state
accurately; it appears, however, from several remarks in his poems, that
it must have been somewhere about the middle of the twelfth century. In
his youth he seems to have been very poor; thus in one of his earlier
_canzos_ he addresses a lady in the following simple and frank words: ‘I
have no castle with walls, and my land is not worth a pair of gloves, but
there never was nor will be a more faithful lover than I am.’ When his
genius had made him the favourite and companion of kings and nobles, he
did not lack wealth. In his songs we never find a request for assistance
from his protectors, such as often occurs in the stanzas of other
troubadours, and he was even in a position to keep many servants and
followers. He soon tired of a quiet life, and left home to find fortune
and renown. First he went to Spain, where he was kindly received at the
court of Alfonso II., King of Aragon, one of the most liberal protectors
of the troubadours; but his restlessness could not endure a long sojourn
in the same place. He went to Italy, and for many years was travelling
about between that country, Spain, and the South of France, always well
received by nobles and princes, and always in love with beautiful women.
It would be impossible to give the names of the different objects of his
admiration. The general character of these futile attachments was that
the poet believed himself quite irresistible, and supposed no interval
to exist between his seeing and conquering. ‘Often,’ he says, ‘I receive
messages with golden rings and black and white ribbons. Hundreds of
ladies would fain keep me with them if they could.’ In another _canzo_
he boasts that all husbands are afraid of him more than of fire and
sword. In point of fact, however, the ladies he admired did not by any
means justify these illusions, and his old biographer goes so far as to
say that they all deceived him ‘totas l’engannavan.’ The best proof of
the harmlessness of the poet’s love affairs seems to be that the husbands
concerned were more amused than offended by his homage to their wives.
One of them, however, took the matter less easily. When Peire Vidal
boasted in his usual way of having received many favours from his wife,
he took his revenge by imprisoning the poet and piercing his tongue
through. This anecdote of the old manuscript is confirmed by different
allusions to the fact in the poems of other troubadours. The Monk of
Montaudon, who mercilessly ridicules Peire Vidal’s follies, says that he
‘stands in need of a silver tongue.’
The first strong and genuine attachment the poet seems to have formed
was for the Viscountess Azalais, of the family of Roca Martina, wife of
Barrai de Baux, Viscount of Marseilles. She was praised for her beauty
and kindness by many of the greatest troubadours, and it was for her that
Folquet of Marseilles, the amorous poet and afterwards ascetic bishop,
sang his tenderest _canzos_. Peire Vidal in his poems always calls her
Vierna, one of the nicknames by which the troubadours (in the same way as
the antique poets their Lesbias and Lalages) addressed for discretion’s
sake the fair objects of their admiration. Peire Vidal’s love in this
case, unlike his former transient passions, was of long duration. Even
the severest treatment, and a long banishment from the lady’s presence,
could not extinguish his affection. Far from her he was unhappy, and sent
her his songs as messengers of love and devotion. At first she was well
pleased with the homage of the celebrated poet who spread the renown of
her beauty over all the country. Moreover, Barral her husband was on
very friendly terms with Peire, and sometimes even had to compose the
little differences which soon arose between the eccentric troubadour
and his beloved one. The poet complained bitterly of her cruelty and
ingratitude towards him who had always been faithful to her, but this
grief of unanswered love was favourable to his poetic genius. To this
period belong his most beautiful _canzos_, full of touching pathos and
marked by great artistic perfection. ‘I was rich and happy,’ he says
in one of these songs, ‘until my lady turned my joy to grief, for she
behaves to me like a cruel and pitiless warrior. And she is wrong in
doing so, for I never gave her occasion to complain of me, and have
always been her most faithful admirer. But this very faithfulness she
will never forgive me. I am like a bird which follows the hunter’s pipe,
although it be to its certain death. So I expose my heart willingly to
the thousands of arrows which she throws at me with her beautiful eyes.’
But presently he is afraid to offend her even by these modest complaints.
In the _tornada_, he says, ‘O lady Vierna, I will not complain of you,
but I think I deserve a little more recompense for all my waiting and
hoping.’ Notwithstanding all these entreaties the lady had no pity for
her unhappy lover. The slight favours she granted him were overbalanced
by outbreaks of bad temper, and worst of all she began to find something
ridiculous in the rather eccentric proofs of Peire’s unchanged devotion.
At last an inconsiderate outbreak of his passion resulted in his being
for a long time banished from her presence. One day, early in the
morning, Count Barral had risen, and Azalais remained alone in her room.
Of this occasion the enamoured troubadour availed himself to go there
in secret. He knelt down before her couch and kissed the lips of his
slumbering love. At first she believed him to be her husband, and smiled
kindly, but when she fully awoke and saw it was the ‘fool’ Peire Vidal
who had taken this liberty, she grew furious, and began to weep and to
raise a great clamour. Her attendants rushed into the room, and the
importunate intruder had a narrow escape of being severely punished on
the spot. The lady immediately sent for her husband, and begged him to
avenge Peire’s impertinence; but Count Barral, in accordance with the
opinion of his time, did not consider the offence an unpardonable one,
and reproved the lady for having made so much of a fool’s oddities. He
did not, however, succeed in softening her wrath; she made the story
known all over the country, and uttered such terrible threats that the
poet began to fear for his safety, and preferred to wait abroad for a
change in his favour. He went to Genoa, and soon afterwards, according
to some manuscripts, followed King Richard on his crusade to the Holy
Land. Though this latter assertion is, for chronological reasons, not
very probable, yet Peire’s voyage to Palestine cannot be doubted. Here he
composed the little song of love and homesickness which I have attempted
to translate, following the original closely, but the tender grace and
melodious charm of which it would be impossible to reproduce in our
Northern idiom:
CANZO.
Ab l’alen tir vas me l’aire
Qu’eu sen venir de Proensa;
Tot quant es de lai m’agensa,
Si que, quan n’aug ben retraire,
Eu m’o escout en rizen;
En deman per un mot cen:
Tan m’es bel quan n’aug ben dire.
Qu’om no sap tan dous repaire
Cum de Rozer tro qu’a Vensa,
Si cum clau mars e Durensa,
Ni on tan fis jois s’esclaire.
Per qu’entre la franca gen
Ai laissat mon cor jauzen
Ab leis que fals iratz rire.
Qu’om no pot lo jorn maltraire
Qu’aja de leis sovinensa,
Qu’en leis nais jois e comensa.
E qui qu’en sia lauzaire,
De ben qu’en diga noi men,
Quel melher es ses conten
El genser qu’el mon se mire.
E s’eu sai ren dir ni faire,
Ilh n’ajal grat, que sciensa
M’a donat e conoissensa,
Per qu’eu sui gais e chantaire.
E tot quan fauc d’avinen
Ai del seu bel cors plazen,
Neis quan de bon cor consire.
_Translation._
With my breath I drink the air
That Provence my country sends me,
For a message ever lends me
Joy, from her most dear and fair.
When they praise her I rejoice,
Ask for more with eager voice,
Listen, listen night and morrow.
For no country ’neath the sun
Beats mine from Rozer to Vensa,
From the sea to the Durensa:
Nowhere equal joy is won.
With my friends, when I did part,
And with her I left my heart
Who dispelled my deepest sorrow.
Nothing harms me all the day
While her sweet eyes stand before me,
And her lips that rapture bore me.
If I praise her, no one may
Call my rapturous word a lie,
For the whole world can descry
Nothing wrought in sweeter fashion.
All the good I do or say
Only to her grace is owing,
For she made me wise and knowing,
For she made me true and gay.
If in glory I abound,
To her praise it must redound
Who inspires my song with passion.
By such repeated proofs of the poet’s unchangeable love the heart
of Azalais, was at last touched. Besides, fool as he was, Peire was
undoubtedly one of the most renowned troubadours, and the proudest beauty
could not be indifferent to the celebration of her charms in _canzos_
as popular as they were exquisite. Barral importuned his wife till she
promised the poet forgiveness of all past offences, and immediately sent
the happy message to Peire. Some of the manuscripts say that Azalais
wrote him a letter in which she promised him all he had been wishing
for so long. Peire Vidal returned to France, and Barral on hearing of
his arrival rode out to meet him, and guided him to Marseilles. Azalais
received him gracefully, and granted him the kiss he had once taken. All
was forgiven and forgotten, and the troubadour commemorated the happy
reconciliation by a song radiant with joy and hope. This state of pure
happiness, however, was not destined to be of long duration. The lady
seems to have been disinclined to fulfil her promises; the complaints in
Peire’s _canzos_ of her cruelty and falseness begin anew, and at last he
very likely grew tired of his unrewarded pains. Certain it is that he
did not stay very long at Marseilles, for he does not make the slightest
mention of Barral’s death, which happened soon after, in 1192. This
silence would have been impossible if he had been living at the time at
his old friend and protector’s court.
While he was yet the professed admirer of Azalais, the poet had admired
more or less fervently several other ladies, from one of whom he now
seems to have sought consolation. This was Loba de Peinautier, who lived
in Carcassonne. Her name Loba (she-wolf) became the motive of one of
Peire Vidal’s most fantastic exploits; he gave himself the designation of
a wolf, and adopted the animal as a badge. Once he put on a wolf’s skin,
and called upon the shepherds to hunt him with their dogs. They readily
accepted the offer, and treated him so badly that he was brought more
dead than alive to the house of his beloved. Here, in addition to his
wounds, he had to suffer the pitiless jests of the lady; who was not at
all pleased by this kind of admiration. But in this case also the husband
was more merciful, and regarded the aberrations of the great troubadour
with indulgence. He took the greatest possible care of him, and had
him tended by the best physicians. It would be difficult to believe a
consummate poet had really been guilty of such absurdities, if he did
not bear witness against himself. ‘I do not mind,’ he says in one of his
poems, ‘if they call me a wolf, and if the peasants hunt me as such I do
not consider it a disgrace.’ The foolishness of the man, however, did
not impair the genius of the poet, and some of his _canzos_ addressed to
Loba are amongst the finest productions of Provençal literature. Whilst
he was engaged in these and other love affairs the poet was also married,
which of course did not interfere with his attachments of this kind more
than the same circumstance did with Dante’s spiritual love for Beatrice
Portinari. I mention the circumstance only because it throws fresh light
on Peire’s wonderful capacity for illusion. On his voyage to the Holy
Land, he became acquainted in Cyprus with a Greek lady, whom he married
and brought home with him. Soon afterwards he was made to believe that
his wife was the niece of the Greek emperor, and had as such a claim to
the imperial crown. This idea was exactly to his taste, and he adapted
himself to it without any difficulty. He had on a previous occasion, if
we are to believe the satirical Monk of Montaudon, conferred knighthood
on himself; now he assumed with equal facility the arms of the Emperor
of Greece. He began collecting money, wherever he could find it, for an
expedition to realise his claims. Meanwhile, he called himself and his
wife by the title of ‘Imperial Majesty,’ and duly provided himself with
a throne. It is needless to say that his schemes came to nothing; the
only consequence was to expose him to greater ridicule than before. His
brethren in poetry were not slow to avail themselves of this opportunity
of lowering a renowned troubadour in general estimation, and to do him
as much harm as they could. One bitter and contemptuous _sirventes_ will
give an example of the amiable feelings with which rivals in art regarded
each other. Its author is the Italian Marquis Lanza, and it runs thus:
‘We have an emperor without sense or reason or consciousness; a worse
drunkard never sat on a throne; no greater coward wore shield and lance,
no greater scoundrel made verses and _canzos_. I wish a sword would split
his head, and an iron dart go right through his body; his eyes ought to
be torn out of his head with hooks. Then we will give him some wine, and
put on his head an old scarlet hat, and for a lance he may have an old
stick. So he may safely wander from here to France.’ Peire Vidal answered
this friendly address with equal warmth. ‘Marquis Lanza,’ he says,
‘poverty and ignorance have spoilt your manners. You are like a blind
beggar in the street, who has lost all shame or decency.’
It would hardly have been expected that, with all this trouble about his
loves and his empire, the poet could have had time left to take part in
the real political and religious struggles of his age. But his versatile
genius was as much interested in public affairs as in his own private
concerns. As one of the first poets of his time he was in continual
intercourse with princes and nobles, and in consequence had ample means
of knowing the politics of his protectors, and frequent occasion to
use his poetical gift on their behalf. Among his most constant friends
was King Alfonso II. of Aragon, at whose court the chief poets of the
time gathered, and found shelter from poverty and contempt. The King
himself practised the art of poetry; and we possess a _canzo_ by him
which, if not of the first excellence, shows at least that he did not
shrink from competing for the prize in the ‘Gaia Sciensa.’ According
to his liberality so was the praise awarded to him in the songs of the
most renowned troubadours. Bertran de Born, indeed, accuses him of
treason and cowardice, but the passionate character of that poet made
him unscrupulous in his attacks on political and personal enemies.
Peter II., Alfonso’s son, inherited his father’s disposition towards
the troubadours, and it was a great loss to them when he fell in the
battle of Muret (1213) against the Crusaders. Peire Vidal was among the
greatest favourites of both father and son. Alfonso once had suits of
armour of the same kind made for himself and the poet, a striking mark
of friendship in so great a prince. The poet showed his thankfulness
by the only return he had to offer, his songs. Several of his _canzos_
are dedicated to Alfonso, whose side he took in all the Kings wars and
feuds. The very first _sirventes_ we have of Peire’s refers to the war
between Alfonso and Count Raimon of Toulouse, and, notwithstanding the
poet having been born in that city, it is an ardent war-song in favour of
the intruder. The author, however, could not on this occasion withstand
his natural inclination towards self-praise, and by his immoderate
boasting lessened the effect of his song. ‘If I only had a good horse,’
he says, ‘I should trample on all my enemies, for even as it is, when
they hear my name, they are afraid of me more than the quail of the
sparrow-hawk, because I am so strong and wild and ferocious; when I have
put on my double white armour, and girt my sword round my loins, the
ground trembles under me where I step, and there is no enemy of mine so
bold as will not get out of my way as quickly as he can.’ He goes on in
this strain through several stanzas, and promises at last that if the
King returns to attack Toulouse, he, Peire Vidal, will enter the city
alone with the routed enemy and conquer it. The story of Coriolanus may
possibly have been in his mind, but there are not many traces of his
acquaintance with ancient Roman history. As a reward for his prowess
he looks forward to obtaining the much-desired knighthood, for in
the tornada of the same _sirventes_ he promises Lady Vierna that soon
she shall love in him a noble cavalier. This hope, however, was not
fulfilled; he was obliged to be content with the knighthood which he had
conferred on himself, and which of course other people did not recognise.
Nevertheless, he remained invariably attached to Alfonso till the King’s
death. This loss he felt very deeply, and the words in which he gives
utterance to his grief show that his friendship was genuine. ‘In great
affliction,’ he sings, ‘must live he who loses his good master, as I have
lost the best whom death ever killed. Certainly, I should not live if
suicide were not a sin.’ This song is dedicated to Peter II. of Aragon,
the son of Alfonso, who is called ‘corn of a good ear.’ It was sent to
him from the court of King Aimeric of Hungary, his brother-in-law, to
which Peire had retired after the death of his protector, and where he
appears to have seen something more of the Germans, whom he had always
thoroughly disliked. In the same _sirventes_ he apostrophises them in the
following words: ‘Germans, you mean, bad, and false people, nobody who
ever served you has had any pleasure of it.’ On a former occasion he had
expressed his feelings on the same subject even more energetically. ‘The
Germans,’ he says in another _sirventes_, ‘are coarse and vulgar, and if
one of them tries to be courteous he becomes quite intolerable; their
language is like the barking of dogs. Therefore, I should not care to be
Duke of Friesland, where I should always have to listen to the barking of
these tiresome people.’ These terms applied to the language of Wolfram
von Eschenbach and Walter von der Vogelweide must of course be taken _cum
grano salis_, and are certainly more characteristic of the critic than of
those criticised by him.
In the Crusades, Peire Vidal took the deepest interest. We have already
seen that he himself went to Palestine, but he worked for the cause by
his songs more usefully than by his actual presence. I cannot refrain
from quoting a few stanzas of one of his _sirventeses_ in the original
_langue d’oc_, which may serve as an example of the poet’s energy in
admonishing and reproaching those who were idle in the service of God:
Baros Jesus qu’en crotz fo mes,
Per salvar crestiana gen,
Nos manda totz comunalmen,
Qu’anem cobrar lo saint paes,
On venc per nostr’amor morir.
E si nol volem obezir,
Lai on feniran tuit li plag,
N’auzirem maint esquiu retrag.
Reis aunitz val meins que pages,
Quan viu a lei de recrezen,
E plorals bes qu’autre despen,
E pert so quel pair’ a conques.
Aitals reis fari’ad aucir,
Et en lag loc a sebelir,
Quis defen a lei de contrag,
E no pren ni dona gamag.
The ‘infamous King’ thus denounced is Philip Augustus of France, whom the
troubadours hated and despised almost as unanimously as they extolled
Alfonso of Aragon.
This poem, apart from its political allusions, is remarkable as a
specimen of Peire Vidal’s peculiar manner of mixing the two different
forms of _canzo_ and _sirventes_ together (compare p. 141). Immediately
after the passage about the French King just quoted the poet broaches his
favourite theme of love, and explains how the unseasonable passion of
mature ladies is sure to destroy the whole courteous world. This sudden
change occurs in a similar manner in another _sirventes_ where, after
having reproached the same Philip Augustus as a coward and miser, the
poet continues with great _naïveté_, ‘But now I must turn my song to my
lady, whom I love more than my own eyes or teeth.’
Peire Vidal’s faults and errors were in great measure the result of the
exaggerated sentiments of the time, and do not detract from his high
poetical genius. The best of his contemporaries estimated him correctly,
and forgave the great poet the extravagance of his character. ‘The
greatest fool,’ says Bartolomeo Zorgi, another celebrated poet of the
time, ‘is he who calls Peire Vidal a fool; for without sense it would be
impossible to make poems like his.’
The exact date of Peire’s death we cannot tell. Most likely it took place
about 1210.