LADIES AND LADY TROUBADOURS.
In a poetry so thoroughly imbued with one prevailing passion as is
that of the troubadours, and in the civilisation of which this poetry
is the utterance, woman naturally occupied a most important place. But
to define this place is a matter of some difficulty. The poems of the
troubadours themselves give us but scanty information in this respect.
We there hear a great deal of the incomparable charms of Provençal
ladies; their loving-kindness is extolled, or their cruelty complained
of. But in few cases only are we enabled to realise from generalities
of this kind an individual human being with individual passions or
caprices. It would, indeed, be impossible even to decipher the numerous
_senhals_ or nicknames under which the poets were obliged to hide the
real names of their lady-loves from the watchfulness of evil tongues and
cruel husbands, but for the aid of the Provençal biographies of the old
troubadours, which in most cases offer a welcome clue to the identity of
these pseudonymous flames.
It is by this means that we gain cognisance of the beautiful ladies
of Provence—such as the three sisters, Maenz of Montignac, Elise of
Montfort, and Maria of Ventadour—praised in impassioned song by Bertran
de Born, Gaucelm Faidit, and other troubadours; and of that lovely lady
with an unlovely name, Loba (she-wolf) of Penautier, who turned the
fantastic brain of Peire Vidal, and sent him into the wilderness clad
in a wolf’s skin—a practical pun on the name of his mistress. From such
hints as are found in these biographies and other contemporary sources,
one may form a tangible idea of a Provençal lady of the twelfth or
thirteenth century; of her position in society; and, most of all, of her
decisive influence on the poetry of the troubadours.
What was the type of the lady of Provence of whom so much has been said
in verse and prose? Was she a demure, well-conducted person clad in sober
colours, mending stockings and cutting bread and butter for the children;
a model housewife, in fact, such as might be found in a best-possible
world of Mrs. Lynn Linton’s devising? Or was she, on the other hand, a
progressively minded female, despising the frivolities of society, and
thirsting for medical degrees and the franchise, or whatever may have
been the mediæval equivalents of these much-desired prerogatives? I fear
that even Margarida de Rossilho, ‘the lady most praised of her time for
all that is praiseworthy, and noble, and courteous,’ would have fallen
far short of these divergent ideals of our latter days. Her main purpose
of existence was—shocking though it may sound—altogether not practical,
but ornamental. It was her choice and her duty to wield in a society,
only just emerging from barbarism, the softening influence to which we
owe the phenomenon of a highly finished literature and of an astonishing
degree of social refinement at the very outset of the mediæval epoch.
Whether this result was altogether unworthy of woman’s mission in the
history of civilisation graver judges must decide.
There is extant, dating from about the middle of the thirteenth
century, a curious poem in rhymed couplets entitled ‘L’essenhamen de la
donzela que fe Amanieus des Escas com apela dieu d’amors;’ _Anglicè_:
‘Instruction to a young lady, composed by Sir Amanieu des Escas, called
God of Love.’ In this treatise we are supplied with a minute account of
the accomplishments expected from a well-educated young lady, and of the
bad habits most prejudicial to her character. The poet is supposed to
be addressing a noble damsel living at the court of some great baron,
as a sort of ‘lady-help’ to his wife; this being a not unusual, and
undoubtedly a most efficient, method of polite education in Provence.
The young lady has accosted Amanieu on a lonely walk, asking for his
advice in matters fashionable. This the poet at first refuses to tender,
alleging that ‘you (the damsel) have ten times as much sense as I, and
that is the truth.’ But, after his modest scruples are once overcome,
he launches forth into a flood of good counsel. He systematically
begins with enforcing the good old doctrine of ‘early to rise;’ touches
delicately on the mysteries of the early toilet, such as lacing, washing
of arms, hands, and head, which, he sententiously adds, ought to go
before the first-mentioned process; and, after briefly referring to the
especial care required by teeth and nails, he leaves the dressing-room
for the church, where a quiet, undemonstrative attitude is recommended;
the illicit use of eyes and tongue being mentioned amongst the
temptations peculiarly to be avoided. Directions of similar minuteness
assist the young lady at the dinner table; the cases in which it would be
good taste, and those in which it would be the reverse, to invite persons
to a share of the dishes within her reach are specified; and the rules
as to carving, washing one’s hands before and after dinner, and similar
matters, leave nothing to be desired. ‘Always temper your wine with
water, so that it cannot do you harm,’ is another maxim of undeniable
wisdom.
After dinner follows the time of polite conversation in the _sala_
(drawing-room), the arbour, or on the battlements of the castle; and
now the teachings of Amanieu become more and more animated, and are
enlivened occasionally by practical illustrations of great interest.
‘And if at this season,’ he says, ‘a gentleman takes you aside, and
wishes to talk of courtship to you, do not show a strange or sullen
behaviour, but defend yourself with pleasant and pretty repartees. And
if his talk annoys you, and makes you uneasy, I advise you to ask him
questions, for instance: “Which ladies do you think are more handsome,
those of Gascony or England; and which are more courteous, and faithful,
and good?” And if he says those of Gascony, answer without hesitation:
“Sir, by your leave, English ladies are more courteous than those of
any other country.” But if he prefers those of England, tell him Gascon
ladies are much better behaved; and thus carry on the discussion, and
call your companions to you to decide the questions.’ I defy any modern
professor of deportment to indicate a more graceful and appropriate way
of giving a harmless turn to a conversation, or cutting short an awkward
_tête-à-tête_.
And the same sense of tact and social ease pervades the remainder of the
poem, which consists chiefly of valuable hints how to accept and how to
refuse an offer of marriage without giving more encouragement or more
offence than necessary. Upon the whole, it must be admitted that ‘Amanieu
des Escas, called God of Love,’ although undoubtedly a pedant, is the
least objectionable and tedious pedant that ever preached ‘the graces’
from the days of Thomasin of Zerclaere to those of Lord Chesterfield. But
the important point for us is the enormous weight attached to these rules
of etiquette in the education of the Provençal lady. Again and again the
advantages of _cortesia_, _avinensa_, and whatever the numerous other
terms for a graceful, courteous behaviour may be, are emphasised: ‘even
the enemy of all your friends ought to find you civil-spoken,’ the poet
exclaims in a fit of polite enthusiasm. However exaggerated and one-sided
this point of view may appear to the reader, he ought to remember that
in primitive societies the code of ethics can be enforced alone by the
power of custom; the derivation, indeed, of our word morality from the
Latin _mores_ is by no means a mere etymological coincidence.
Prepared by an education such as I have tried to sketch, the lady
generally contracted a marriage at an early age, the choice of a husband
being in most cases determined by her parents or her feudal overlord. In
the higher classes of society—and these alone concern us here—her own
inclination was taken into little account. Her position at the head of
a great baron’s family was by no means an easy one. She had to soften
the coarse habits and words of the warlike nobles; and, on the other
hand, to curb the amorous boldness of the gay troubadours who thronged
the courts of the great barons. The difficulties and temptations of such
a situation were great, and further increased by the perfect liberty
which, in ancient as in modern France, married ladies seem to have
enjoyed. Indirect, but none the less conclusive, evidence establishes
this point beyond doubt. We hear, for instance, of ladies travelling
about the country without attendance; like the pretty wives of Sir Guari
and Sir Bernart, whom Count William of Poitiers deceived by acting a
deaf-and-dumb pilgrim. Even the dueña, as a regular institution at least,
seems to have been unknown in Provence. There certainly were jealous
husbands who tried to protect their wives from gallant intrusion by
watchfulness and strict confinement. The husband of the lovely Flamenca
is an example of such fruitless care. But his fate could not invite
imitation; and the universal horror expressed by all gallant knights and
ladies at this fictitious and at some real instances of similar cruelty,
sufficiently proves the high degree of personal freedom enjoyed by the
ladies of Southern France.
That this freedom was frequently abused is, unfortunately, no matter
of doubt. France is not, and never has been, a prosperous climate for
the growth of wedded happiness. The heroines of all the love-stories
connected with the history of the troubadours are, indeed, with not
a single exception that I am aware of, married ladies. This fact is
certainly of deep significance, but its importance ought not to be
overrated. We must remember that the troubadours and their biographers
were by nature and profession inclined to magnify the force and
extension of the great passion. Frequently they may, and in some cases
we positively know that they did, mistake gracious condescension for
responsive love; and to accept all their statements _au pied de la
lettre_ would be about as advisable as to judge the institution of
marriage in modern France solely by the works of Flaubert and Ernest
Feydeau. In many cases, however, the perfect innocence of the relations
between the troubadour and the lady he celebrates is fully acknowledged
by all parties. It was the privilege of high-born and high-minded women
to protect and favour poetry, and to receive in return the troubadours’
homage. It is in this beautiful character as admirer and patroness of
the literature of her country, that I wish first to consider the lady of
Provence. In the choice of an individual instance of the relation alluded
to, I have been guided by a feeling of historic, not to say poetic,
justice.
History and fiction have vied with each other in painting the picture
of Eleanor, wife of Henry II. of England, in the darkest colours. The
former convicts her of faithlessness to two husbands, and of conspiracy
with her own sons against their father; the latter charges her with the
murder of Rosamond Clifford. Any redeeming feature in such a character
ought to be welcome to the believer in human nature. Her connection with
Bernart de Ventadorn, one of the sweetest and purest of troubadours, is
such a feature. The poet came to her court in sorrow. The lady he loved
had been torn from him, and it was by her own desire that he left her and
the country where she dwelt. He now turned to Eleanor for comfort and
sympathy, and his hope was not disappointed. The old Provençal biography
of Bernart is provokingly laconic with regard to the subject. ‘He went to
the Duchess of Normandy,’ it says, ‘who was young and of great worth, and
knew how to appreciate worth and honour, and he said much in her praise.
And she admired the _canzos_ and verses of Bernart. And she received
him very well, and bade him welcome. And he stayed at her court a long
time, and became enamoured of her, and she of him, and he composed many
beautiful songs of her. And while he was with her King Henry of England
made her his wife, and took her away from Normandy with him. And from
that time Bernart remained sad and woful.’
This statement is incorrect in more than one respect, and may be cited
as another instance of the desire on the part of the ancient biographers
to give a dramatic, and at the same time an erotic, turn to the stories
of their heroes. The allegation of the poet’s prolonged courtship of
the Duchess of Normandy having been interrupted by the lady’s marriage
with Henry is self-contradictory, for the simple reason that she became
Duchess of Normandy and took up her residence in that country in
consequence of this identical marriage, which took place in the same year
with her separation from Louis VII. of France. Moreover, all the songs
known to us as having been addressed by the poet to Eleanor are written
after Henry’s accession to the English throne. One of these songs, in
which Bernart calls himself ‘a Norman or Englishman for the king’s sake,’
was most likely composed in England, whither Bernart had followed the
court of his supposed rival.
The same songs tend also to throw grave doubts on another statement
of the old manuscript—that with regard to the mutual passion between
lady and troubadour. It is true that his devotion frequently adopts the
language of love; but there is no evidence to show that this love was
returned by anything but friendship and kindness. He never boasts of
favours granted, as troubadours were but too prone to do, and the joyful
expectation expressed in one of his poems is evidently and confessedly
a hope against hope. One somewhat obscure remark of the poet seems to
indicate that King Henry did not regard the matter in an altogether
innocent light. The line reads thus in the original Provençal: ‘Per vos
me sui del rei partiz;’ which means, ‘For your sake I have parted from
the king,’ and seems to indicate some sort of disagreement between the
poet and the lady’s husband. But, supposing even that Henry’s jealousy
were proved by this vague hint, we are not for that reason obliged
to adopt his suspicions. Internal evidence points strongly towards a
different relation—a relation much more common between the ladies and
poets of Provence than is generally believed, and which is marked by
fervent admiration on the one side, and by helpful and gentle, but
irreproachable, kindness on the other.
Frequently, however, the case was different. Not all ladies were
inexorable: not all troubadours contented with a purely ideal worship.
Ardent wooings led to passionate attachments, and lovers’ bliss was
frequently followed by lovers’ quarrels. Such quarrels—or, it might be,
differences of opinion on abstract points of love and gallantry—were,
as we know, discussed in a poetic form: the ‘_tenso_,’ or ‘song of
contention,’ being especially reserved for that purpose. It was mostly
on occasions of this kind that ladies took up the lute and mingled their
voices with the chorus of Provençal singers. The names of fourteen
gifted women have in this manner been transmitted to us—a very modest
figure, seeing that the entire number of the troubadours is close upon
four hundred. But even of these fourteen lady-troubadours few, if any,
seem to have been professional or even amateur poets. The works of most
of them are exceedingly few in number, consisting, in several cases, of
a single song or part of a _tenso_. This reticence on the part of the
ladies cannot be praised too highly; it explains to us at the same time
their position in the literary movement of their time. Literature in the
twelfth and thirteenth centuries was a lucrative and honourable calling,
followed by many members of the poorer nobility and of the lower classes.
Professional singers of this kind naturally depended on their productions
for a livelihood. Hence the number, and hence also the occasional
coldness and formality, of their songs.
But this was different with women. With them poetry was not an
employment, but an inward necessity. They poured forth their mirth
or their grief, and after that relapsed into silence. Even Clara of
Anduse, the brilliant and beautiful lady who conquered the obstinate
indifference of Uc de St. Cyr, the celebrated troubadour, and who is
described as ambitious of literary fame, does not seem to have sinned by
over-production. Only one of her songs remains to us, and there is no
reason to believe that time has been more than usually destructive to her
works.