THE UGLY PRINCESS
SHE had a way of dressing, for preference, in dark hues, reds like wine
or the deeper parts of rubies, blues like the ripened bunches between
the vineyard leaves, browns like a Martinmas wood. To-day she wore the
latter hue. Around her head was a golden fillet, but no other tire.
She wore to-day no Eastern veil, nor did her long, dark hair, securely
braided, give shadow to her face. Her shape was good, a slender shape,
endued with nervous strength. But her face showed plain, dark, and
thin, intelligent, but with features irregular beyond the ordinary.
The Court of Roche-de-Frêne, beneath its breath, called her the Ugly
Princess. She sat now beside her step-mother, Alazais, and made a foil
for that lovely dame.
In the past two generations there had come a change in the world. True
it was that to appearance it affected only a small ring—only the top
strata, the capstones of the feudal system; only the world of lords and
knights and poets and “ladies.” As the jongleur had told Garin, it was
not supposed to descend to shepherdesses. Even in the other world by no
means was it always present. Sometimes the lack of it was as shocking
as might be. Sometimes it was there only in very small part, only in
unimportant issues. Sometimes it was mere affectation. Sometimes it was
used as a mask, and behind it went on ill realities. But it had itself
come into the world as a reality. It knew motion and growth, and it
manifested itself, though in degrees. There was much alloy, but at its
purest and best it was a golden thing, a flower of light. It called
itself chivalric love.
Here and there it was pure and in action, but in between and all
around was imitation, a little gold drawn out into much filagree. The
filagree was the fashion; it drew being from the real, but the depth
of its being was slight. But it was the fashion, no doubt of that.
As the jongleur had said, it raged. Where it was received, in court
and castle, hall and bower, sensuality grew sensuousness with sparks
of something higher. But the framework of feudal society imposed all
manner of restrictions. The elaborate gradation of rank, the perpetual
recurrence of “lord” and “vassal,” the swords about women, marriage
that was bargaining for wealth and power—all blocked the torrent’s
natural course. Thrown back upon itself, the feeling inbred artifices
and illusions, extravagances, sometimes monstrosities. It became the
mock-heroic, the pseudo-passionate. It cultivated a bright-hued fungus
garden of sentimentality. It rose from earth, not by its own wings
but by some Icarian apparatus that the first fire scorched away. It
picked up the bright dropped feathers of the true bird of Paradise,
but though it made a mantle of them, its own hue showed beneath. It
did not understand what it was that it admired, but it made a cult of
the admiration.... And yet all the while there was something real, and
Extravagance and Mistake were dimly its seekers. Life was richer and
longer of stride than it had used to be. A host of perceptions had
at last melted into a concept of mutual love such as had not before
been in the earth. Those that the crown fell upon might be silent
or not, but no one else was silent. It was the Discovery—the age’s
Indies—and polite conversation came round to it as the needle to the
pole. Nay, _conversazioni_ were planned to discuss this and this alone.
Troubadours sang in contests songs of love—and once more songs of
love. Now and again they might dispute other matters in a _tenso_, lash
the time’s recognized vices in a _sirvente_. But these were asides.
Their true business was to sing of love and lovers and the service of
love. Some sang with a springtime freshness, force, and simplicity.
Some took all that was strained, far-fetched, and hectic in the time’s
regard of the Discovery and made of it a heady drink.
To-day this garden sat or stood to consider Love—that is, to consider
love of an individual of one sex for an individual of the other. Here
were knights who, when they fought, tied their lady’s sleeve or girdle
about arm or helm. Here were troubadours of note, each of whom flung
far and wide through the land the praise of some especial fair. And
here were women who were thus praised and sung.
The age greatly lauded virginity in the abstract. But—saving the
saints in heaven and abbesses on earth—precedence in fact was given by
the world of chivalry to the married woman. Public opinion required of
wedded great dames—perhaps in most cases received—essential regard
for their lords’ honour. This granted, for love they were let turn
elsewhere. Theirs chiefly, though not solely, were the knights, the
troubadours, the incense, the poesy. Marriage came so early, marriage
was so plainly the rule, that the unwed in evidence—the throngs of
nuns making another story—were almost always young girls indeed, buds
of flowers, somewhat ill at ease with the opened roses. But largely
they were of the rose kind, and, in the bloomy ring of wedded dames,
sighed to in _canzons_, “fair friends” of knight and poet, but saw
themselves a little further on. Those in the garden were not of the
very youngest, and they were used to courts and not ill at ease. They
were rosebuds very sweet, and they took their share of lauds. From them
all the ugly princess differed subtly.
It was not merely that she differed when faces were compared. What
others might think could not of course appear, but the duke, who had
considered an alliance with Roche-de-Frêne, thought her deficient in
every power to please. It was right enough that, in the presence of her
father and step-dame, before the perhaps oppressive loom of her own
possible good fortune, she should keep silence. But she should look
fair and complying, not be such an one that the world might say, “Our
Duke chose a poor little land, under a gloomy sky!” And when she did
speak she should speak with sense and _à propos_. As it was, she spoke
folly.
For instance. There had been introduced a jongleur, a
Babylonish-looking fellow, who had narrated at length and with
action the history of Dido. He had ended amid acclaim and had been
given largesse. Following the lesser art and performer had come the
major—burst into song the troubadours. They parted between them the
passion of the Carthaginian Queen. One took the May of it, one the
July, one the Winter. They soared to Olympus and pleaded it before
the Court of Love; they came down to Europe and placed it in the eye
of brave knights and sweet ladies. The duke was moved. He began to
lean toward Alazais; then, policy and the beauty of a virtuous action
prevailing, he bent instead toward the only one there who could link
together his dukedom and Roche-de-Frêne. “Fair, sweet princess, what
think you of this great lover, Queen Dido?”
Then had the changeling shown oddness and folly. She lifted eyes that
were _vair_ or changeable, and neither shy nor warm, and spoke in a
voice as dry as a Candlemas reed. “I hold,” she said, “that in that
matter of the bull’s hide, she was wise.”
She said no more and her eyes fell again upon her long, brown hands.
They were as brown as a berry; they looked as though she had been
roving like an Egyptian. The duke had a strong movement of distaste.
She appeared to him as Babylonish as the jongleur.
The court seemed used to her. Naturally, it failed in no observance.
She had her ladies, and a page stood at her call. The troubadours when
they sang bent to her as they bent to the other chairs of state. Lord
and knight made due obeisance. That marvellous Alazais spoke to her
ever and anon, and she answered. But her words were few and short; the
duke saw that she had not the gift of discourse. He saw no gift that
she had. Certainly, she was not trying to please a great duke. It was
not that she showed any discourtesy—that were impossible. But there
was no right sense of his presence. She sat, young and without beauty,
unsmiling, her eyes now upon the watch-tower drawn against the blue,
and now upon the face of the singer. They said that Prince Gaucelm
doated upon her. He was her father—let him doat!
“What shall a knight do for his lady?
He shall love her, love her, pardie!”
sang Gilles de Valence, reprobation of Messire Æneas being now in hand.
“All his nights and all his days
He shall study but her praise.
Her word against all words he weigheth,
Saith she ‘Stay,’ in joy he stayeth.
Saith she ‘Go,’ all meek he goeth.
A heart in chains is all he knoweth,
From other wit release he showeth!
Wit may plead, but Love is nigher,
Jove may call, but Love calls higher!
What shall a knight do for his lady?
He shall love her, love her, pardie!
All his nights and all his days,
He shall study but her praise!”
Applause arose. Raimon de Saint-Rémy took his lute. But the duke noted
how stiff and silent sat the ugly princess.
The entertainment of that forenoon over, they went to dinner—a
considerable concourse, so considerable that when all were seated the
great hall appeared to blossom like the garden. At the table of state
sat the prince and Alazais and the Princess Audiart, the duke, Bishop
Ugo, and three or four others whom Gaucelm would honour. Musicians
played in a gallery. Waiting men in long procession brought the
viands—venison and peacocks, pasties of all kinds, mutton, spitted
small birds, wheaten bread—a multitude of matters. Afterwards came
cakes and tarts, with many fruits. Always there was wine served in
rich cups. The oddity to a later taste would have been the excess of
seasoning,—the pepper, saffron, ginger, cloves, the heat and pungency
of the solid meats,—and then the honey dropped in wine. At the
prince’s table a knight carved, at the others the noblest esquires. The
apparel of the tables was rich; there were gold and silver vessels of
many sorts, dishes, bowls, fine knives and spoons,—but, high and low,
no fork.
The hall was very large, and so the talk of many people, subdued in
tone as, of late years, good manners had learnt to demand, created no
more than a pleasant deep humming. For the most part the talk ran upon
love, arms, and policy, the latest, most resounding public events, and
the achievements and abilities, personal adventures and misadventures,
of various members of the company. At the raised table it was high
politics and what was occurring in the world of rulers, for that was
what the duke liked to talk about and the prince bent the conversation
to suit his guest. Bishop Ugo liked it, too. Ugo’s mind ran at times
from realm to realm, but there was a main land in which he was most
at home. In that he passioned, schemed, and strove for Holy Church’s
temporal no less than spiritual ascendancy. The Hohenstauffen and Pope
Alexander—Guelph and Ghibelline—Church and Empire—the new, young
French King Philip, suzerain of Roche-de-Frêne—Henry the Second of
England and his sons, specifically his son Richard, not so far from
here, in Aquitaine—so ran the talk. The visiting duke spoke much, in
the tone of peer to them of whom he spoke. Ugo listened close-lipped;
now and then he entered eloquently, and always in the Papal service.
The prince said little. It was not easy to discover where he stood. The
barons at the table took judicious part. The dazzling Alazais displayed
a flattering interest, and the duke, noting that, gave his destrier
further rein, shook a more determined lance. He spoke of that same
Richard, Duke of Aquitaine, a man much talked of by his time, and he
related instances that showed that Richard’s strength and weakness.
He bore hard upon a fantastic generosity which, appealed to, could at
times make Richard change and forsake his dearest plans.
The Princess Audiart sipped her wine. She heard the duke as in a
dream. Atop of all the voices in the hall her mind was off in a forest
glade.... She looked across at the prince her father. She had not told
him of that adventure—of how she had desperately tired of Our Lady
in Egypt and of her aunt the Abbess and of most of her own women, and
would spend one day a-shepherdessing, and had done so. She was going to
tell him—even though she reckoned on some anger. She had for Gaucelm a
depth of devotion.... A forest glade, and an evil knight and a squire
in brown and green—and now what were they talking of?
That afternoon half the court rode out a-hawking. The prince did not
go; he was heavy now for the saddle. But the duke rode, and the two
princesses. The day was good, the sport was fair; the great thing,
air and exercise, all obtained without thinking of it. There was much
mirthful sound, laughter, men’s voices and women’s voices. Alazais
dazzled; so fair was she on her white palfrey that had its mane tied
with little silver bells. The duke rode constantly by her side. The
Princess Audiart had for escort Stephen the Marshal, a goodly baron
and knight. The duke was well and correct where he was, Alazais
being Gaucelm’s princess, and his hostess. Manners demanded toward
the younger princess a decorum of restraint and distance. Only this
restraint should have been managed with an exquisite semblance of
repressed ardour, with a fineness of “Truly a fair and precious link
between Houses!” This it was that was missing, and noted as missing by
every knight and lady that went a-hawking.
The return to the castle was made in the sunset-glow. Supper followed,
and after supper a short interval of repose. Then all met again in the
cleared hall and the musicians began to play. Gaucelm in red samite sat
upon the dais, and by him the duke in purple. Alazais, in white, with a
jewelled zone and a mantle hued like flame, looked Venus come to earth.
Beside her sat the ugly princess in dark blue over a silver robe.
Before them, on the floor of the hall, knights and ladies trod an
intricate measure. Great candles burned, viols and harps, the jongleurs
played their best, varlets stationed by the walls scattered Eastern
perfumes. The duke, with a word to the prince his host, rose and
bending to Alazais offered his hand. All watched this couple—the
measure over, all acclaimed. The duke led Alazais again to the dais,
then did what others must expect of him and he of himself. “Fair,
sweet lady,” he said to Gaucelm’s daughter. “Will you grace me with
this measure?”
The ugly princess gave him her finger-tips. He led her upon the floor
and they danced. As the measure, formal and stately, dictated, now
they took attitudes before each other, now they came together, palms
and fingers touching, now again parted. They were watched with strong
interest by the length and breadth of the hall, by both the Court of
Roche-de-Frêne and the duke’s following. A marriage such as this—say,
what men began to doubt, that it came to pass—by no means concerned
only the two who married. Thousands of folk were concerned, their
children and their children’s children.
Gaucelm the Fortunate watched from his dais and his great chair, where
he sat with bent elbow and his chin resting upon his hand. Sitting so,
he opened his other hand and looked again at a small piece of cotton
paper that had been slipped within it. Upon the paper appeared, in
the up-and-down, architectural writing of the period, these words:
“Messire, my father; do not, of your good pity, make me wed this lord!
I will be unhappy. You will be unhappy. He will be unhappy. I do think
that our lands and his lands will be unhappy. Messire my father, I do
not wish to wed.” Prince Gaucelm closed his hand and watched again.
The duke was dancing stiffly, with a bad grace masked as well as he
could mask anything that he truly felt. He wished to be prudent, and
certainly it were not prudent to give to Roche-de-Frêne either open or
secret offence. Not yet, even, had he determined.—He yet might, and he
might not.—But he was an arrogant man and a vain, and to his own mind
it was important that the world should not think he was fooled. Lasting
love between lord and lady, duke and duchess, mattered, forsooth,
little enough! It was not in the bond. When it came to beauty, he had
seen great queens without beauty of face or form. But the duke, though
he had it not himself, demanded that beauty in any woman immediately
about him, and with it complaisance, bent head, and burning of incense.
And he wished men to envy him, in some sort, all his goods, including
the woman whom he would make duchess. That was where Gaucelm was
fortunate. What living man, thought the duke, but would like to take
from him golden Alazais?
He danced as starkly as though he were in hauberk and helmet, and
his hand might have been mailed, so stiffly did it touch Audiart’s
hand. Who would envy him this Egyptian? He never noted if she danced
well or ill, if she had some grace of body or no; he looked for no
expression in her face that he might admire. She was outlandish—ugly.
There was—as would have become such a changeling—no awe of him, no
tremulous fear lest she should not please. He had an injured, hot
heart within him. Report had been too careless, bringing him only news
that here was a marriageable princess. He blamed his councillors,
determined to withdraw his favour from one who had been called his
bosom friend, but who had advocated this match. He blamed Gaucelm, who,
to his elaborate letter, had answered only with an invitation to visit
Roche-de-Frêne. He should have said: “Fair lord, you do my daughter too
much honour, who, you must know—” But chiefly the duke blamed that
princess herself.
The measure was over. The duke and the princess returned to the dais.
The jongleurs played loudly. The candles burned, the flung perfumes
floated through the hall. The music hid the whispers. Gaucelm the
Fortunate sat with a slight smile, his chin upon his hand. For an
interlude there was brought upon the floor the jongleur who had made
part of the forenoon’s entertainment. Elias of Montaudon he called
himself, and he was skilful beyond the ordinary with balls of coloured
glass and Eastern platters and daggers.
The ugly princess wished the taste of that dance taken from her lips.
She watched the jongleur, and because he was all in brown and yellow
like an autumn leaf and was as light as one and as quick as a woodland
creature, he brought the country to her mind and made her see forests
and streams. Her mother had been a mountain lady, and she herself would
have liked to rove the earth. She sat still, her gaze straight before
her, seeing the coloured balls, but beyond them imagined lands and
wanderings.
The duke spoke across to the prince her father, and the words came
clean and clear to her hearing, and to that of Stephen the Marshal and
others standing near. “I have had letters, sir,” said the duke, “which
make me to think that I am required at home.”