THE MONK OF MONTAUDON.
Of the life of the Monk of Montaudon the old manuscripts tell us little.
We are ignorant even of his name, and only know that he was descended
from a noble family residing at Castle Vic in Auvergne. Being a younger
son he was, as the biography naïvely puts it, ‘made a monk of,’ and
entered the Abbey of Orlac (Aurillac), in the vicinity of his father’s
castle; some time afterwards he became Prior of Montaudon. Soon, however,
it became apparent that the cowl had not made the monk; he began to
compose gay stanzas and satiric _sirventeses_ on the events of the day.
The knights and barons of the adjacent castles were pleased with the
poet’s gay, genial ways. They asked him to feasts and tournaments, and
rewarded his songs with rich gifts, conscientiously remitted by him to
the treasury of his cloister; a circumstance which goes far to explain
the leniency with which his superiors looked on his infringements of the
monastic rules. At last the monk asked permission of the Abbot of Orlac
to regulate his way of living according to the commands of King Alfonso
of Aragon, known to us as the revenger of Guillem de Cabestanh’s death,
and a great protector and friend of troubadours in general. The granting
of this comprehensive prayer tends to prove at once the lucrativeness of
the monk’s poetic endeavours, and the considerate tolerance of the worthy
prelate. For no sooner was the permission given than Alfonso bade the
monk eat meat, compose gay songs, and court the favour of a lady. ‘Et el
si fes,’ ‘and so he did,’ the manuscript adds significantly.
There were held at that time certain gay assemblies at Puy Sainte Marie,
where the noble ladies and gentlemen of many miles round met for a season
to enjoy courteous pastimes. The knights measured their strength in the
lists, the troubadours sang their sweetest _canzos_ for prizes, made
more valuable by the beautiful hands which distributed them. At this gay
court the Monk of Montaudon was now created master of the revels, and in
this capacity had to hold the celebrated sparrow-hawk, a time-honoured
ceremony, performed by him with portly dignity, we may imagine. At the
beginning of each of these annual feasts the ‘Master of the Court of
Puy’ stood in the midst of the noble guests, took a sparrow-hawk on his
fist, and calmly waited till one of the great barons relieved him of his
burden. The acceptance of the bird involved the obligation of bearing the
not inconsiderable expenses of the whole feast, and was therefore the
exclusive privilege of the richest and most liberal nobles. Perhaps it
was owing to this pretty but frequently ruinous custom that the Court
of Puy itself came to an untimely end. After its expiration the Monk of
Montaudon went to Spain, where his abbot conferred upon him the dignity
of Prior of Villafranca, in acknowledgment, most likely, of his exemplary
life. This monastery, also, the monk enriched with the gifts of his
literary patrons. He lived to an advanced age, and died much esteemed and
loved by his brethren. He flourished about the end of the twelfth century.
From this short sketch of the monk’s life some anticipatory notion of his
poetry may be formed. There is in his works a spirit of freshness and
animal vigour which ought somewhat to atone for a considerable admixture
of grossness in thought and expression. Whatever the poet’s faults may
be, hypocrisy is not amongst them; and, to leave no doubt whatever as
to his tastes, he has dedicated three entire songs of moderate size to
the enumeration of all the things in the world which excite his just
displeasure. A fourth and supplementary poem describes the more agreeable
aspects of life by way of contrast. This _catalogue raisonné_ of lights
and shadows is exceedingly curious, and outspoken beyond the imagination
and endurance of polite minds and ears.
Amongst the most detestable things, the monk ranks quarrelsome and
arrogant people, a halting horse, a young knight without a rent in
his shield, a monk with a long beard, a proud though poor lady, and
finally, an over-affectionate husband. This last point is again highly
characteristic of the Provençal conception of marriage already referred
to. Our poet also abhors a small piece of meat in a large dish; and that
a little wine with a great quantity of water is not to his taste, we
would willingly believe without the testimony of St. Martin, solemnly
invoked. His culinary principles being thus established, the monk
proceeds to take us into his confidence with regard to the tender secrets
of his heart. We conclude, from his confessions, that he has met with
some ill-treatment at the hands of those members of the fair sex who,
although of maturer beauty, have not yet abandoned their claims to
admiration. Only personal experience can account for the poet’s bitter
resentment. Three times he returns to the point, growing more venomous
with every new attack. In one instance he goes so far as to use the
ungallant expression, ‘Vielha caserna’—old barracks.
In this manner he goes on grumbling and complaining of contrary winds
when he wants to start on a voyage, of badly-lined fur caps, false
friends, bad fiddlers, and other miscellaneous evils of this wicked
world. A whole litany of saints is called to witness frequently on such
precarious points, as to remind one of the Italian brigand, who prays to
his Madonna previously to cutting purses or throats, as the case may be.
But the monk is not an entire pessimist. His praise is as eloquent as his
vituperation. He likes gaiety and carousals, courteous knights and noble
ladies. A powerful man, he wishes to be friendly to his friends, hostile
to his foes. The same un-Christian sentiment is repeated still more
emphatically in the further course of the poem.
The hated foeman’s death I cherish,
The more, if by my hand he perish.
Milder impulses, however, are not wanting. In two charming, melodious
stanzas the poet depicts the delights of a summer’s day passed with his
love by the side of the murmuring brook, while the air is sweet with the
fragrance of blossoms and the song of the nightingale. Truth compels me
to confess, that in close juxtaposition to this charming idyl, the very
material wish is expressed of having a ‘_grans salmos ad hora nona_’—that
is, a large salmon for supper.
The Monk of Montaudon, as the reader will perceive, was little given to
sentimentality, and the love-songs which he wrote, in compliance with the
custom of the time, show accordingly more cleverness than true feeling.
They are, however, full of happy turns of expression, and particularly
abound with well-chosen similes—a proof that the poet was by no means
wanting in imagination. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that satire
was his true field of action, and we are not surprised at seeing a man
of his keen sense of ridicule turn this weapon against those objects of
superlative romantic adoration—women. The weaknesses of the fair sex are
indeed the theme of two remarkable _sirventeses_ by our troubadour, which
we now must consider a little more closely. They deserve attention, both
by the original boldness of their satire and by the quaint disguise in
which this main purpose is clad. The form adopted by the monk is that
of a vision, familiar to the reader from those two great monuments of
mediæval literature, the ‘Divina Commedia’ and ‘Piers the Ploughman.’
Heaven itself, indeed, is the scene of the troubadour’s poem, but a
heaven how different from the celestial abode to which the inspired
Italian singer was welcomed by Beatrice!
The Monk of Montaudon introduces us into the midst of a legal action, the
cause of which is, I am almost ashamed to say, that immemorial privilege
of the fair sex to counteract the ravages of time by the rosy bloom of
artificial colour. The scene of the action, as has been seen before,
is heaven; the Judge, the Deity itself; the monks act as accusers; the
ladies are defendants. The painted cheeks of the latter are alleged to
outshine the votive pictures in the monasteries. Painting, and the mixing
of colours, the monks assert to be their own inventions, to the use
of which the ladies have no claim or title. This monstrous allegation
the ladies, of course, deny indignantly. Colouring, they say, is their
natural birthright, and has been practised by them long before either
monks or votive pictures were thought of.
At this juncture a compromise is proposed by the bench, to the effect
that ladies on the right side of twenty-five shall be allowed to retain
the bloom of youth by what means they please for a further term of
twenty years. But the vicious monks refuse to grant more than ten years;
and it is only by the intercession of those accomplished diplomats,
SS. Peter and Lawrence, that a medium time of fifteen years is at last
agreed upon by the contending parties. Forty years, then, is the limit up
to which, to judge from this decision, a Provençal lady might, without
incurring ridicule, play youthful parts in life’s comedy. ‘But,’ the monk
adds, ‘I see that the ladies have broken their promise, which is unfair
and wicked; few only have been faithful to their vow.’ He further enters
upon a detailed enumeration of the various ingredients of paint which, by
the way, seems to throw some new light on that interesting question in
the history of mediæval art, the composition of colours previous to the
introduction of the oil-medium. ‘The old monks,’ we hear, ‘are deprived
of their beans, the only thing which they can eat; and they are therefore
left without any food. The price of saffron also, which ought to be used
for the sauces of _ragoûts_, has been driven up by the ladies to such a
degree, that people over the sea begin to complain, as pilgrims tell us.
Let the ladies take the cross, and go themselves to Palestine, to fetch
the saffron of which they stand in such need.’
In the second poem the ladies have been charged with the breach of the
former treaty, and it seems that the monk has been summoned to heaven
for a preparatory consultation. The Supreme Judge is indignant at such
audacity. ‘Monk,’ he says, ‘I hear the ladies have broken their promise;
go down, for the love of me, to tell them that if they again use colour,
I shall take dire revenge.’ But the poet has evidently been under gentle
pressure since the last trial. He now takes the part of the ladies in the
warmest terms. ‘Gently, gently, my lord!’ he interposes; ‘you must have
patience with the ladies, for it is their nature to sweetly adorn their
countenance.’ To this opinion he adheres with obstinacy. In vain it is
alleged against him that the ladies, by trying to perpetuate their youth,
infringe the unalterable laws of Nature. The monk is not to be shaken.
There is only one alternative, he thinks—either to grant unfading beauty
to the ladies, or else to deprive the whole human race of the art of
painting.
This is, in brief outline, the argument of two of the quaintest
productions mediæval literature can show. The bold cynicism with which
the delicate secrets of the dressing-room are revealed justly surprises
us in a troubadour of noble family and liberal education; but much more
are we astonished at the familiarity with which the Deity itself is mixed
up with these worldly matters. It is true that, in the old Mysteries
and Miracle-plays, tolerated and even countenanced by the Church,
sacred topics are treated with a naïve simplicity strange to modern
religious feeling. But the experienced eye can almost always discern the
under-current of sacred awe at the bottom of the wildest outburst of
popular imagination. Even the ‘Wanton Wife of Bath,’ whose tongue is a
match for all the saints in heaven, ‘trembles at his sight,’ when the
Saviour himself appears in his glory. This sacred tremor is entirely
unknown to the Monk of Montaudon, who, moreover, as an artistic poet
addressing a refined audience, is without the excuse of popular rudeness
and ignorance. Yet I think we should be unjust in ascribing to him any
conscious intention of blasphemy, or even irreverence. Supposing even he
had been a sceptic, he was at the same time too much attached to life and
its pleasures to parade his heresies at the risk of his neck. The only
way of solving the psychological puzzle is to follow the ancient example
of the monk’s superiors, and to make ample allowance for the reckless
buoyancy of a poet’s fancy, difficult to check at a certain point when
once let loose. To give an idea of the ease with which he moves in the
celestial regions, I will quote the opening stanza of another poem, the
tone of which reminds one somewhat of the ‘Prelude in Heaven’ of Goethe’s
‘Faust.’ It seems to have been written at a time when, after a prolonged
stay at his monastery, the author was fain to set out on another
expedition.
Up to heaven I found my way
Lately: you may trust my word,
Welcome sweet bade me the Lord,
He whose all-command obey
Land and sea, and hill and dell.’
‘Monk, why do you seek my throne?
Tell me how fares Montaudon,
Where thy pious brethren dwell?
The drift of the poem is easily discernible. Some of his monastic
brethren had evidently remarked upon the poet’s worldly ways; and to
silence these, the very highest authority is now brought to bear on the
subject. This is the reassuring answer the monk receives to his pretended
conscientious scruples: ‘I like you to laugh and sing, for the world
grows merrier, and Montaudon gains through it.’ By such an argument,
coming from such a quarter, the sourest of ascetics was reduced to
acquiescence.
A troubadour who, as we have seen, wholly disregarded the rules of
courteous gallantry could not be expected to use much consideration where
his own sex and his rivals in art were concerned. Accordingly, we find
that one of the most venomous literary satires of that libel-loving age
owes its existence to our author. It ought, however, to be mentioned, in
justice to him, that another troubadour had set the example of wholesale
abuse. The Monk of Montaudon’s _sirventes_ is, indeed, avowedly founded
on a similar production by Peire of Alvernhe, in which that distinguished
poet gives vent to his affectionate feelings towards no less than twelve
contemporary troubadours, some of them celebrated poets, others entirely
unknown to us, but evidently men of considerable reputation at the time.
One of his victims, the sweet singer of love, Bernart of Ventadorn, has
been mentioned before. Of another no less renowned troubadour, Guiraut
de Bornelh, it is said that ‘he resembles a dry blanket in the sun, with
his thin, miserable voice, which sounds like that of an old woman crying
out water in the street. If he saw himself in a mirror [meaning, “as
others see him”], he would not think himself worth a roseberry.’ In this
manner Peire of Alvernhe goes on through twelve stanzas, battering down
reputations in order to erect on their ruins the column of his own glory.
‘Peire of Alvernhe,’ he winds up, ‘has a fine voice, and can sing high
and low, filling the air with sweetest sound. His would be the highest
praise, but for the obscurity of his words, which hardly any one can
understand.’ The candid reader who would see in this last qualification a
remnant of modesty would be vastly mistaken; for a dark, involved style
was considered by connoisseurs as the sign of highest genius, and it was
chiefly to his _motz oscurs_ (dark words) and _rims cars_ (rare rhymes)
that Arnaut Daniel owed that place of honour awarded to him in Petrarch’s
beautiful lines—
Fra tutti il primo Arnaldo Daniello
Gran maestro d’amor; ch’ alla sua terra
Ancor fa onor col suo dir nuovo e bello.[25]
It is satisfactory to notice that in Peire of Alvernhe’s case exceeding
pride has met with due castigation. For in some of the manuscripts the
opening lines of the self-laudatory stanza have been travestied by a
witty copyist into a very differing meaning. ‘Peire of Alvernhe,’ this
altered version reads, ‘sings like a frog in a pond, although he praises
himself above all the world.’ The remainder of the stanza, however, has
been left unaltered, for Peire’s high literary position was an undeniable
fact. The manuscripts call him ‘the best troubadour in the world till
Guiraut de Bornelh (his “dry blanket”) came,’ and Nostradamus relates
that Peire found such favour with the ladies as to enjoy the privilege of
kissing the fairest amongst his audience after each _canzo_ he had sung.
Such is the model the Monk of Montaudon has chosen, and it must be owned
that the disciple is worthy of the master. The monk’s acquaintance with
the most intimate details of his rivals’ biographies would do credit to
a modern interviewer. ‘As Peire of Alvernhe,’ he begins, ‘has sung about
the troubadours of past days, I am going to do the same for those that
have come since, and I hope they won’t be angry with me for exposing
their evil doings.’ And then he sallies forth on his crusade of abuse,
devoting with laudible equality the space of six verses to each victim,
‘a character dead at every stanza,’ as Sir Peter Teazle would say. The
reader will be glad to hear that no mercy is shown to Peire of Alvernhe.
‘He wears his coat these thirty years,’ we are told. ‘He is as lean
as firewood, and his singing is getting worse and worse. Since he has
joined company with a lewd woman at Clermont, he has not made a single
good song.’ ‘Arnaut Daniel (Petrarch’s “great master of love”) has never
in his life written anything tolerable, but only composed stuff which
nobody can understand.’ Folquet of Marseilles, whose conversion from a
gay troubadour to a religious zealot has been briefly mentioned before,
is reminded that his father was a pedlar. ‘He swore a foolish oath when
he said he would write no more songs, and it has been said that he
consciously perjured himself.’
But the most piercing darts of his quiver the monk reserves for a
troubadour whose immeasurable vanity, almost bordering on madness, was
indeed a tempting mark for the satirist. I am speaking of Peire Vidal, of
whose life and works and follies the reader has had a full account. Only
a few leading points need here be recapitulated.
He was the son of a furrier, but had forgotten and made others forget
his low origin. He believed himself to be an irresistible breaker of
hearts, and had to pay dearly for his vain boasting of favours never
granted. For a jealous husband, whose wife the Peire counted amongst his
victims, had the poet’s tongue pierced, which, however, did not prevent
the incorrigible braggart from continuing to call himself the dread of
husbands, ‘who fear me worse than fire or pointed iron, God be thanked.’
At one time he took part in a crusade, and married a Greek lady at
Cyprus, with whom he returned home. For some reason or other he imagined
his wife to be the niece of the Greek Emperor, and, as her husband,
claimed a right to the imperial throne. In the meantime he adopted the
style and title of an Emperor, and even thought of equipping a fleet to
enforce his right to the throne. His follies naturally excited universal
merriment, and we need not wonder at finding the Monk amongst the
foremost of the scoffers. ‘Peire Vidal,’ he exclaims, ‘is one of the very
last of poets. He has not got all his limbs, and a tongue of silver would
be desirable for him. Once he was a miserable furrier, but since he has
dubbed himself a knight he has lost his last remnant of wits.’
In this strain the monk continues through fifteen stanzas, scattering
abuse broadcast, and if his wit sometimes seems to desert him, it must,
at least, be owned that his spite is genuine and unflagging. But in his
case also the manuscripts contain an additional stanza of retributive
justice, most likely by a later copyist. ‘With the sixteenth stanza,’ it
says, ‘the false Monk of Montaudon will be satisfied, he who quarrels and
fights with every one. He has deserted God for a flitch of bacon, and for
his ever attempting to write _canzos_ and verses he ought to be hung up
in the wind.’
Such was literary criticism amongst the troubadours—a not very edifying
spectacle, upon which, the reader perhaps may think, too many words
have been wasted already. So we will drop the curtain on the Monk of
Montaudon, not without a good-natured smile at his weaknesses, nor
without wonderment at an age which burnt and quartered thousands of
virtuous Albigeois, and tolerated, or even approved of, such doings and
such utterances in a monk.
But, before leaving the subject finally, I must warn the reader not to
judge the general tone of the Provençal _sirventes_ by the few examples
of personal satire here specified. The troubadours grow, as Schiller
says, with their greater purpose. In reproving the moral evils of their
time, the decay of piety, the avarice of the great, the outrages of
clerical pride, they frequently attain to an almost Dantesque power
of conception and imagery. I know of few grander ideas in poetry than
Marcabrun’s picture of the enormous tree, whose branches mingle with the
clouds, whose roots spread down to mid-earth. To it are tied innumerable
multitudes of all classes, from king to beggar. For the tree is the
eternal evil of the world, and avarice and covetousness are the bonds
which fetter mankind.
But such objective depth of idea must not be expected from the Monk of
Montaudon. He is a broadly humorous figure, and although characteristic
in many ways of his time and country, he must not blind us to the serious
currents of thought moving the age in which he lived, and the literature
of which he represents one feature. We must look at him as one of those
burlesque types by which the terrible seriousness of man’s life and
thoughts is fortunately relieved at intervals—a product of nature’s
creative humour in one of her most whimsical moods.