The St. Aliquis folk delight in music. It is very desirable for a
cavalier to have a rich voice and know how to twang a harp. Aimery,
soon to be Sire Aimery, can sing and play as well as many minstrels.
Adela spent many hours at her viol and at a little portable organ
before family cares took up her time. Five or six of the servitors
hold their places mainly because they can play so excellently at those
impromptu dances which Conon gives on every possible occasion.[33] You
cannot linger long around the castle without hearing the lutes, the
flutes, and the castanets, and in confining weather in winter the music
keeps up almost the whole day long.
[Illustration: SMALL PORTABLE ORGAN OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY
From a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale.]
However, variety is the spice of life. It is a red-letter day when a
new jongleur or, better still, a troupe of jongleurs arrive. They will
teach new music, new songs, new tricks to the regular denizens, and
break up that desperate monotony which sometimes causes the barons to
fret with a pent-up energy and to precipitate new wars merely to get
relief. As for a great fête like the present, obviously a large corps
of entertainers must be mobilized. The mere news through the region
that messire proposed a marriage feast and a tourney has been enough to
start many such itinerant gentry toward St. Aliquis. Sire Eustace was
overwhelmed with offers of assistance and has had to chase away some of
the would-be entertainers almost by force.
[Sidenote: Varieties of Dances]
Jongleurs are versatile people, and each of them has his specialty.
Their name, "jongleur," like "charity," covers a multitude of sins.
Some of them are merely expert players upon the viol, and supply music
for dancers. The dances of noble folk are simple: often enough fair
dames and cavaliers merely take hold of one another's hands and whirl
themselves furiously in a circle, while the music goes faster and
faster until the revelers cease and almost sink of exhaustion. Then
there are variations when the cavaliers decorously drop from the ring
and bow to their ladies; or the "dance of the chaplet," at the end of
which each cavalier ceremoniously kisses his lady on the cheek--kissing
between equals being quite proper if it is not on the lips. It takes
rather more skill, as at present, when young Aimery dances an intricate
galliard with the daughter of the Baron of Bovri. The two performers
stand opposite to each other, advancing, bowing, and retiring, every
step made to music; then at last the cavalier makes his bow to the
lady, takes her by the hand, thanks her, and leads her to her seat.
After that another noble couple dances the _tourdion_, a similar
performance, but faster and with more violent action.
For all this competent musicians are indispensable. But a good jongleur
is far more than a musician. He can dance himself, with intricate
acrobatic figures impossible for the unprofessional; he can sing
love songs, chant or recite romances; and, if he has companions, even
present short farces and comedies. He is probably possessed also of
series of tricks and sleight-of-hand accomplishments, which appeal more
to the groundlings than do high-flown poetic recitals. If he can reach
the summit of his profession he will be received at castles almost as
the equal of the seigneur, and be able to retire rich, after having
been showered with such gifts as palfreys, furs, jewels, mantles of red
cloth, and, of course, with much money. Jongleurs recall with pride
their fellow-minstrel Tallefer, who gallantly led the charge of the
Normans at Hastings, trolling the Song of Roland as he tossed up his
sword and caught it again in the very face of the English, and who fell
in the battle only after making as much havoc among the foe as would a
paladin.
[Illustration: ACROBATS
Reproductions by the English archæologist Strutt, from various
fourteenth-century manuscripts in England.]
[Sidenote: Depraved Mountebanks]
There is a great distance, however, between such pretentious folk and
the run of minstrels. A little while since a mountebank pair called at
St. Aliquis. They called themselves by grotesque names, "Brise-Tête"
and "Tue-Boeuf." When they had disposed of a pork pasty, the
seneschal made it plain they had better pay for their dinner. Thereupon
Tue-Boeuf produced a harp, and Brise-Tête leaped on the table, flung
his arms and legs about, and showed himself a regular acrobat. After
that his companions set the lads and girls to "ah-ing!" by swallowing
knives and by apparently eating red brands right out of the fireplace.
Next the twain joined in a witty dialogue presenting a clutching priest
wheedling money out of a miserly burgher; and finally Tue-Boeuf
began telling stories so outrageous that Adela (not more squeamish
than most dames) bade her sister-in-law to retire. So the two kept the
whole hall laughing through a rainy afternoon, and Conon contented his
entertainers each with a denier.[34] They slept on the straw under
the tables and were off early the next morning. Their repertory was
probably exceedingly limited, and they must have spent their lives
wandering from castle to castle, seldom tarrying anywhere more than
a single night. Other jongleurs have appeared with trick dogs and
monkeys, and who could themselves dance through hoops, perform such
feats as tossing up two small apples and catching each simultaneously
on the point of a knife held in each hand, or prove themselves genuine
contortionists, as is declared in the old Latin poem:
He folds himself,
He unfolds himself,
And in unfolding himself,
He folds himself!
It is often a question, indeed, to tell when a jongleur is really
anything more than a roving scoundrel. Certes, they frequently
seem full of thievishness, licentiousness, and lies. With them are
frequently low jongleuresses, women capable of corrupting a whole
monastery. The Church denounces this entire breed, male and female,
as "ministers of the devil." All the vices which other ages impute to
actors are charged against them, and there is an old jesting question,
"Which would you rather be, a jongleur or a robber?" Answer: "A robber."
Nevertheless, God knows that people must be amused, and jongleurs
are almost indispensable. Besides, as we have seen, not all are of
this sinful class. The higher grade of jongleurs sometimes travel in
considerable companies. They bring an orchestra of music--viols,[35]
guitars, and gigues--long, slim, stringed instruments shaped like a
figure eight--and, of course, including flutes, harps, and even little
portable organs on which you work the bellows with one hand and press
the keys with the other, something like an accordion. Horns are not
lacking, nor dulcimers, nor cymbals. The Feudal Ages miss the piano,
but otherwise have plenty of sweet-toned instruments.
[Sidenote: Superior Type of Jongleur]
Each member of such a troupe has his specialty, and some of the
feats are wonderful. There is usually a slim girl who can perform a
"Herodias's daughter's dance" so magnificently that everybody can
understand how the Palestinian princess took in the gullible king by
her acrobatic feats. She can even dance on her hands and kick her feet
in the air, to the great delight of all but the more sanctimonious
guests. Vainly did the holy St. Bernard inveigh against the seigneurs
who receive such troupes in their castles: "A man fond of jongleurs
will soon possess a wife named Poverty. The tricks of jongleurs can
never please God." Certain it is that at the wedding the bishop and his
priests, after a few _pro forma_ coughings, seem laughing as loudly as
do the barons at all the tricks of Conon's entertainers.
[Illustration: DANCER OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY
Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc (Musée de Toulouse).]
A great feast demands enough jongleurs to entertain many different
circles. While one bold fellow is keeping the villeins roaring by
the antics of his tame bear, while three others (including a woman)
are dancing grossly upon a platform before other gaping hundreds, a
superior member of their mystery is attracting again many noble guests
to the banqueting tent. He is no common performer. Messire sent all the
way to Chalons for him, promising ample reward. Maître Edmond boasts
that he is a Christian--meaning he takes his profession as a kind of
lay priesthood. He is on friendly terms with great prelates. He never
recites the scurrilous little _fabliaux_ assailing the clergy. He knows
by heart, however, nearly all the great epics and romances. His rich
bliaut of green silk sets forth his impressive figure. His gestures
are eloquent. He can work upon the imaginations of his audience and
move it to tears, acclamations, or wild excitement. In a later age he
would, in short, be a great actor or an equally great "reader"--causing
all the parts of a drama to speak through one person.
Maître Edmond has consulted Conon as to what romance or epic would
please the best. There is a great collection of stories of heroes,
usually in a kind of sing-song verse, and claiming very largely to
have a Breton origin. One whole category revolves around the doings of
Charlemagne and his peers; another deals with King Artus (Arthur) of
Brittany (really Britain) and his Knights of the Round Table; still
another cycle tells of the Trojan War, and Sire Hector, Sire Achilles,
and Sire Ulysses, making the ancient Ilium into a North French castle
besieged by decidedly feudal methods; while others rehearse the mighty
deeds of Alexander. In all there are at least forty well-recognized
epic _chansons de geste_ (songs of mighty deeds), most of them six
thousand to eight thousand lines in length, besides many shorter
romances. Maître Edmond knows a surprising number of them all. These
bald figures give some idea of the richness of this type of feudal
literature.
Of course, the famous "Chanson de Roland" constitutes the most splendid
narrative. Everybody knows the story of how Roland and Olivier, the
favorite peers of Charlemagne, were betrayed to the Paynim in Spain by
the foul traitor Ganelon; how they sold their lives right dearly after
innumerable doughty deeds; how their souls ascended to heaven; and how
later Charlemagne took terrific vengeance both on the Infidels and on
Ganelon. It is an epic which in later days will be rated equal, if not
superior, to its German rival, the "Nibelungenlied." But the "Song of
Roland" is now nearly two centuries old and is very familiar. Besides,
it is too long for one afternoon, and it is hard to pick out episodes.
Maître Edmond proposes some scenes from the stories of Troy, but the
baron thinks they are not sufficiently sentimental for the occasion.
So they agree on the "Story of Tristan and Ysolt." This is fairly
well known by the company, but is not threadbare; it gives plenty of
opportunity for the women to weep, and the jongleur says that he has a
new version not overlengthy.
Maître Edmond, therefore, strides out into the bridal tent, accompanied
by a handsome youth in a saffron mantle, who thrums a harp with silver
frets. The high jongleur begins his story in an easy recitative which
occasionally breaks into melodious arias. It is really a mingling of
verse and prose, although the language never loses a certain meter and
rhythm.
[Illustration: THIRTEENTH-CENTURY HARP
From sculpture in the cathedral of Chartres.]
[Sidenote: Story of Tristan and Ysolt]
The narrative runs along the conventional lines:--King Mark of Cornwall
was a good man and wise prince. The beautiful Ysolt was his wife;
the valiant and poetic Tristan his nephew. These last two, in all
innocency, take a magic potion which compels them to fall in love, and
any sinful deeds which follow are excused by the enchantment. King Mark
suffers for long, trying to forgive, but at last, catching Tristan
playing the lute in the queen's bower, smites him with a poisoned dart.
The unhappy youth, mortally wounded, takes refuge in the house of his
friend Dinas. While he is still alive, King Mark magnanimously says he
is sorry for his act, while poor Ysolt announces that she will not
survive her lover.
So Tristan sends for his uncle and tells Mark that he bears him no
ill will; while the king (realizing his nephew is not morally guilty)
laments: "Alas, alas! Woe to me for having stabbed my nephew, the best
cavalier in the whole world!" After that Mark and Ysolt visit Tristan
and make lamentation over his dying state. He presently causes his
sword to be drawn that he may see it for the last time. "Alas! good
sword, what will become of you henceforth, without your trusty lord. I
now take leave of knighthood, which I have honored. Alas! my friends,
to-day Tristan is vanquished!" Then, with tears, he bequeathes his
sword to his comrade in arms. Next he turns to the queen. "Very dear
lady," he gasps, "what will you do when I die? Will you not die with
me?" "Gentle friend," says Ysolt, "I call God to witness that nothing
would afford me so much joy as to bear you company this day. Assuredly,
if ever a woman could die of anguish or sorrow, I should have died
already." "And would you like, then, to die with me?" asks Tristan.
"God knows," replied the queen, "that never did I desire anything more
sincerely." "Approach me, then," whispers the knight, "for I feel death
coming upon me and I should like to breathe my last in your arms."
Ysolt leans over Tristan, who embraces her and presses her so tightly
that her heart bursts, and he expires with her, thus mingling their
last sighs.
Needless to say, by the time Maître Edmond (after much skillful
prolongation and stirring of the feelings) has finished, all the noble
dames are indulging in sobs, and, indeed, many of the barons blink
hard. It is a delightfully tragic story! Although the minstrel is of
too high a quality to cry "largesse!" when he concludes, like all
the humbler jongleurs, there are many deniers thrown his way (which
the harpist duly gathers), the duke tells him, "Come to my court at
Christmas and recite the love of Launcelot and Guinevere--it shall be
worth your while," and Conon orders that a good Aragonese mule be added
to the money payment originally promised.
[Sidenote: A Literary Baron]
Maître Edmond, has, however, another line of business. His opportunity
opens this way. Among Conon's guests is a baron of Harvengt. This rich
seigneur has spent much time in the south country. He has learned
the gay science of the troubadours. Superior minstrels are always
welcome at his castle; in fact, he is something of a minstrel himself.
Indeed, it is claimed he is too much interested in matters which are
primarily only for villeins or at best for the women, and neglects
his hawks, tourneys, and even his proper feuds with his neighbors.
Nevertheless, Orri de Harvengt is an extremely "gentle" man. He
possesses a considerable number of books in Latin--Virgil, Ovid, Lucan,
and others--although a visiting monk has grumbled that nearly all the
volumes are by questionable pagans, and that this baron has almost no
parchments of saints' lives and Church fathers. However, Orri spends
little time over the Latin. He holds that the classical language is
best for religious matters, but that for telling of brave deeds and
affairs of the heart nothing surpasses romance--the tongue of North
France.
A friend of Orri's was Geoffroi de Villehardouin, who has written
in French an excellent history of the Fourth Crusade, in which he
participated; and although the churchmen complain that "his abandonment
of Latin means the ruin of all learning," the use of the vulgar tongue
for all kinds of books is undoubtedly increasing.
For the less formal kind of writings there is already a considerable
French literature. Conon himself has a book of philosophers' proverbs,
a collection of wise saws and maxims that are often attributed to such
ancient worthies as Homer, Æsop, Moses, and Solomon, but which have
a flavor extremely French. Here you can find many a saying that will
long survive the thirteenth century, although it is doubtless much
more ancient. "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush"; "All is
not gold that glitters"; "God helps those who help themselves"; "A
friend in need is a friend indeed"; "Still waters run deep"--all are
threadbare wisdom around St. Aliquis, as well as such maxims as do not
transmit so well, such as, "Among the blind, the one-eyed man is king";
and, "Famine drives the wolf out of the woods."
But the bulk of this "vulgar" literature is in poetry. The epics
(_chansons_) have been growing ever since a certain Turould is said
to have composed the "Song of Roland" not very long after A.D. 1000.
We have just seen what a wealth of romances Maître Edmond has at his
disposal. The earlier of these tales are mere recitals of war and
adventure; but in the later, though they continue in the North French
dialect, the South French (troubadour) influence appears. We have
stories turning about lawful or illicit love rather than about lance
thrusts. The troubadours of the Langeudoc language find now compeers in
the _trouvères_ of the northern Languedoil. Baron Orri is a _trouvère_
himself. He has tried his hand at making a _chanson_ on the adventures
of the hero Renaud of Montauban; while composers of less exalted rank
prepare the shorter _fabliaux_, _contes_, and _dits_ which abound with
comedy and sarcasm, striking at all the vices and follies of society.
[Sidenote: North French Epics and Romances]
Baron Orri, however (who is not an original genius), is perhaps to be
classed really as an _assembleur_--that is, he adapts old romances and
puts them in a new setting. He changes over stories from the Languedoc
or from the Breton to his North French dialect. To-day, at a quiet
interval, Maître Edmond takes him aside. "Fair baron, you know that
we master jongleurs seldom wish to set written copies of the poems we
chant before strangers, but how can I deny anything to so liberal a
seigneur as you? I have with me transcripts of a new song concerning
Charlemagne's paladin, William of Orange, and another prepared by the
great _trouvère_, Robert of Borron, concerning the finding of the Holy
Grail by King Artus's knight, Sire Perceval. Would you have sight of
them?"
Baron Orri is only too pleased. Before he quits St. Aliquis he will
have possessed himself of the precious parchments, and Maître Edmond
becomes the richer by several Paris livres. A fine copy of a great
_chanson_ is worth its weight in silver. The monks complain that the
capital letters are as carefully elaborated in gold, and the miniature
illustrations are as delicately executed, as those in a copy of the
Gospel; and that the bindings of embossed leather make the books so
heavy that they require reading stands, before which the ladies,
nevertheless (neglecting holier things), seem willing to stand all day
long.
However, before the wedding guests end their happy day, another
entertainer than Maître Edmond is asked to perform. It is Baron Orri
himself. He has lived so long in the south country that he has caught
the troubadour gallantries. Stories run that he has left three lady
loves in three different castles; that he has had a most romantic duel
with a jealous husband, which ended however, in a reconciliation on
proof that the friendship had been only platonic; and that he is a past
master in all the thirty-four different methods of rhyming and the
seventy-four different kinds of stanzas with which the expert bards
of southern France serve up their sentimental ditties. At a suitable
moment just before the noble guests are gathering for the supper Adela
addresses him:
"We know, kind Sire Orri, that you are a practitioner of all the 'gay
science' of the South. You can sing _chansons_, songs of love; _vers_,
the poems of slower movement; _sirventes_, poems of praise or satire;
and also are master of the _tenso_, the debate on some tender subject,
carried on in courtly verse. Honor us with your skill; for our northern
poetry is rude and uncourtly beside that of the Languedoc."
Barron Orri makes an elegant bow: "Ah, gracious lady," he says, "I
wish I could convince you that a good refusal were worth more than
a poor gift, but doubtless you would think me rude; therefore, I
will obey. Though many of you, I fear, do not speak the beautiful
Languedoc tongue, yet in so noble a company I am sure most of you will
at least understand me. What shall it be, a _tenso_ by Bernart de
Ventadorn discussing most wittily, 'How does a lady show the greater
affection--by enjoining her friend to win renown, or by urging him
simply to love her?' or shall I attempt a short _chanson_ by that other
high troubadour, Arnaut de Maruelh?"
"The _chanson_--the love song!" cry the company.
"Ah! very well, my gentle mistresses and lords," answers the
minstrel--"you have chosen. And now I pray Queen Venus to inspire me.
Here, boy, my harp!" He takes a small lute and touches the strings. His
blue mantle floats back in statuesque folds as with clear, deep voice
he sings:
[Sidenote: South French Troubadour Songs]
"Fair to me is April bearing
Winds that o'er me softly blow;
Nightingales their music airing
While the stars serenely glow.
All the birds as they have power
While the dews of morning wait,
Sing of joy in sky and bower,
Each consorting with his mate.
And as all the world is wearing
New delights while new leaves grow,
'Twould be vain to try forswearing
_Love_ which makes my joys o'erflow....
Helen were not worth comparing,
Gardens no such beauty show,
Teeth of pearl, the truth declaring,
Blooming cheeks, a neck of snow,
Tresses like a golden shower,
Courtly charms, for baseness hate.
God, who bade her thus o'ertower
All the rest, her way made straight!"[36]
And so through many similar stanzas. The Baron Orri's eyes are fixed
mischievously on a certain countess with whom he had talked intimately
all the afternoon. Her husband looks somewhat awkward, but at the end
he joins in the warm applause. So the entertainment at the wedding
feast ends; and the great secular literature, which is to be the
priceless heritage of later civilization, is (despite much crudeness
and false sentimentality) being born.
Hitherto we have seen the life of St. Aliquis at peace; now we must
gradually turn toward its grimmer aspects and the direct preparations
for war.
FOOTNOTES:
[33] If St. Aliquis had been a slightly larger fief, its lord would
probably have allowed himself the luxury of a professional minstrel in
residence--half musician and half jester.
[34] It was not unknown for jongleurs of this inferior grade to stop
at an exciting part of the story they were narrating and say (as in
the poem "Gui of Burgundy"): "Whoever wants to hear more of this
recital must haste to open his purse; for now it is high time to give
me something." The company would thus be straightway held up. Or the
entertainer would announce, "It was too near vespers," or "He was
too weary to finish that day," the result being that he could claim
hospitality at the castle of his hosts another twenty-four hours until
he could satisfy the general curiosity.
[35] The viol was practically like a violin, although more round and
more clumsy. It was played with a bow.
[36] Translated by Justin H. Smith. Reprinted by kind permission of G.
P. Putnam's Sons.