Except me, love-sick man;
Love-stricken is my heart,
This drives all joys away.
When life some pleasure gives,
In tears my heart will scan
My face, and tell its smart;
How then can pleasure stay?
Vowed constantly to woo
High love am I; that good
While I pursue, I see
No promise of success.
Pure lady, constant, true,
The crown of womanhood,
Think graciously of me,
Through thy high worthiness.
The knight passed his summer in Steierland under arms, and after
pleasant experiences he sent his messenger again, only to have his suit
repelled with the same coldness and decision as before. The report was
even more discouraging, for the lady, who had been told of his losing a
finger in her service, had now learned that he still had it; nor was she
moved by the assurance that it was almost useless. The desire to keep
the wounded member had led him to large expense of money and time, but
he cared for it no longer. He set about the composition of another long
elegy, which explains how his heart loves her, and weeps for her favor,
as a poor and orphaned child weeps after comfort; so ardently he loves
her, that he gladly sacrifices anything, and as a pledge of his constant
fidelity, he sends her one of his fingers, lost in that service for
which it was born.
After the poem was ready, he directed a goldsmith to make a fine case,
in which he enclosed it. But he put in something more; he had the
convalescent finger amputated, and sent it to the chiding critic as a
proof that he had not lied in saying that he had lost it for her. Yet
even this failed to please so unsympathetic a mistress. She said she
wondered how any one could be so foolish as to cut off his finger: he
would have been able to serve ladies better by keeping it. However, she
would retain the token of his consideration, but a thousand years of his
service would be lost on her. Ulrich was jubilant, for he was confident
that with this memento, she would always think of him.[6]
Now a large idea visits this sanguine gentleman. Gone to Rome on a
pilgrimage, that is what he will pretend; he rigs himself out with a
wallet and staff which he obtains from a priest, and trudges off. But
something more novel and magnificent is haunting his ingenious mind. It
is to Venice that he goes--cautiously, so as not to be observed. Upon
his arrival, he takes lodgings in an out-of-the-way inn, so that no one
may hear of him. There he spends the winter, making a liberal
expenditure for costumes for himself and a retinue. He dresses himself
as Queen Venus, in complete feminine attire, even to the long braids of
hair which figure so prominently in the descriptions of the ladies of
that age.
When spring came, he sent a courier over the route that he intended to
take on his journey homeward, with a circular-letter that contained a
list of thirty places at which Lady Venus would appear, and joust with
all contestants. A ring which makes beautiful and keeps true love, was
offered to whoever might break a spear against her. If she should cast a
knight down, he should become a loyal knight to women everywhere; if he
were to overthrow her, she would give him her horse. But to no one would
she show her face or hand.
Thirty days later he started on his disguised errantry. His retinue
consisted of a marshal, a cook, a banner-bearer, two trumpeters, three
boys to take charge of three sumpters, three squires for the three
war-steeds, four finely dressed squires, each holding three spears, two
maids--good-looking, he tells us,--and two fiddlers.
Who raised my spirits, fiddling loud
A marching tune, which made me proud.
Behind these he rode himself, dressed, like the entire cavalcade,
entirely in white,--cape, hood, shirt, coat reaching to his feet,
embroidered silk gloves, and those hair-braids hanging to his waist. "In
my love-longing heart, I rejoiced thus to serve my lady."
The narrative of this "Venus-journey" is prolonged, detailed, and
tedious, and only two or three episodes need be mentioned. At Treviso, a
crowd of women are gathered about his lodging, when he comes out on his
way to early mass, and he takes comfort in thinking how well-dressed he
is. In the church, a countess suggests kissing him, conformably to the
kiss of peace custom; the attraction is stronger than the desire for
disguise, and he lifts his veil. She sees that Lady Venus is a man, but
she kisses him nevertheless. "That raised my spirits," Ulrich confides
to us, "for a lady's kiss is delightful"; and he goes on to say that
"every one who ever kissed a lady's mouth knows that nothing is so sweet
as the kiss of a noble lady. A high-born true woman who has a red mouth
and a fair body, whenever she kisses a man he can judge of a lady's
kiss, and of it he is ever glad. A lady's kiss is still better than
good, and it fills a heart with joy." No wonder that many ladies
collected at his inn, to bid so sentimental a knight God-speed. From
their prayers he assures us that he gained good fortune, "for God cannot
slight ladies' petitions," an imputation of gallantry to God, for which
we find curious mediaeval parallels.
Wherever the knight goes, numerous contestants are awaiting him, in this
idle age when no one had anything to do. Some of these, also, assume
disguises, one as a monk, another in female costume, his shield and
spear aesthetic with flowers. But the travelling combatant is always the
winner. At one point during the journey he steals off for a couple of
days to a place which he has never mentioned previously: namely, to his
home. The love-stricken lady-servant speaks with the most unaffected
simplicity of the joy with which he rode away to see his wife:
"Who was just as dear to me as she could be.... The good
woman received me just as a lady should receive her very dear
husband. I had made her happy by my visit. My arrival had
taken away her sadness. She was glad to see me, and I was
glad to see her; with kisses the good woman received me. The
true woman was glad to see me, and joyously I took my ease
and pleasure there two days."
This appears tautological, but it also seems sincere.
But a wound was in store for his sensibility. One day he had gone to a
retired place for a bath, and his attendant had gone to bring a suit.
While thus left quite alone and unprotected, a lady sent by her servant
a suit of female garments, a piece of tapestry, a coat, a girdle, a
fine buckle, a garland, a ring with a ruby red as a lady's sweet mouth,
and a letter. To receive such a gift from a lady not one's love was
treason. He bade the page take the things away, but he would not; nay,
he presently returned with two others, carrying fresh beautiful roses,
which they strewed all about Ulrich in the bath, while he raged and
fumed to think of the insult offered to his unprotected condition. To
think of receiving a gift from any but his own lady! And, of all gifts,
a ring!
The next present that came was received very differently. After all
these years of neglect, the mistress of his life sent Ulrich an
affectionate message, and a ring which her white hand had worn for ten
years, as a token that she took part in the honors which he was gaining,
and rejoiced in his worthiness. Possibly the knight's name was gaining
currency as genuinely valorous. But fancy his ecstasy! "This little ring
shall ever lift up my heart. Well for me that I was born, and that I
found a lady so true, sweet, blissful, lady of all my joys, brightness
of my heart's joys," and so forth. He was informed that many knights
were waiting to contest with him at Vienna. "What harm can happen to me,
since my lady is gracious? If for every knight there were three, I could
master them all."
Outside of amorous and knightly themes, Ulrich's mind is not active, but
he occasionally shows a philosophical observation on social topics, as
in the present context, where he comments on female vanity in dress:
"Woman's nature, young and old, likes many clothes. Even if
she does not wear them all, she is pleased to have them, so
that she can say, 'an if I liked, I could be better dressed
than other people.' Good clothes are becoming to beautiful
women, and my foolish masculine opinion is that a man should
take pleasure in dressing them well, since he should hold his
wife as his own body."
Certainly Ulrich took pleasure in dressing himself well.
The Venus-journey ended, and Ulrich counted up the results. Two hundred
and seventy-one of his spears had been broken, and he had broken three
hundred and seven; he had brought honor upon his lady by his loyalty and
valor; and had shown her constant devotion, even though he had
momentarily fallen in love with a bewitching woman at one of his
stopping-places, and taken advantage of his disguise to kiss various
fair ones at mass. Is it possible that the anonymous heroine heard of
such trivial infidelities? At any rate, the next visit of the messenger
brought a bitter dismissal, with cruel charges of inconstancy. She would
always hate him, and never hold him dear; she was angry with herself for
giving him a ring; she bade him return it at once. Alas, poor Ulrich!
Never had he entertained a false thought; if he had ever been guilty of
one, he would in no wise have survived it. "I sat weeping like a child;
from weeping I was almost blind. I wrung my hands pitilessly; in my
distress my limbs cracked as one snaps dry wood." Well may the poet
declare that exhibition of grief no child's play. As the lover and his
bosom friend sat weeping together, Ulrich's brother-in-law admonished
him that such behavior disgraced the name of knight; moreover, there was
no reason for melancholy now, when the champion ought to be happy in the
fine reputation just made. "If women hear how you are behaving, they
will always hate you for this weak mood." Ulrich tried to tell about his
grief for the lady whom he had served so long, but the strain was too
great: "The blood in truth burst out from my mouth and my nose, so that
I was all blood." It was perhaps natural for his friend to thank God
that "before his death he had been permitted to see one man who truly
loves." Yet he bade him be courageous. "Nothing helps so much with
ladies as good courage. Melancholy doesn't succeed with them at all.
Joyousness always has served well with women."
Water is stable compared with Ulrich's temperament. Close upon the
anguish of this renewed rejection he goes home for a ten-days' visit
with his wife,--"my dear wife, who could not be dearer to me even though
I had another woman for the lady of my life." Within eight lines this
mercurial poet speaks of his comfort with his wife, and of the suffering
of his love-languishing heart.
Another message from his dream brought a renewed expression of coldness.
She felt kindly to him, but she never would grant favor to any one. But
another song and messenger secure at last the promise of an interview.
Yet notice the conditions. Evidently this lady was a humorist, to whom
her former page was amusing when her less complaisant mood did not find
him tiresome. And perhaps she thought that he could not accept her
terms. She says she will see him if he will come the next Sunday morning
before breakfast, dressed in poor clothes, and in company with a squad
of lepers who have a camp near her castle. But even then he is to
indulge in no hope of her love. The distance is so great that he thinks
he will be unable to cover it in time; but he is told that he must, for
"women are very strange; they wish men constantly to carry out their
desires, and to any one who fails to do so they are not well disposed."
On Saturday he rode thirty-six miles, lost two horses by the forced
journey, very likely over rough country, and was wearied by the exertion
of so hard an effort. But he succeeded, and as soon as they reach the
neighborhood of the castle, he and his two companions put on poor
clothes--the shabbiest they could procure,--and with leper cups and long
knives for their safety among such outcasts of society, they go to the
spot where thirty lepers are huddled together. Mediaeval charity and
religion are illustrated by this incident; the miserable beggars explain
that a lady of the castle is ill, and therefore they often receive food
and money in recompense for their prayers for her recovery. Beating his
clapper like one of them, he goes toward the castle gate, and meets an
envoy maid who bids him beware of failing to obey every command
literally, and adds that her mistress will not see him yet awhile. That
personal vanity which always marked him had submitted to stains of herbs
to disguise his face, as well as to miserable and ragged dress, and off
he went, in the servitude of love, and sat among the lepers, ate and
drank among them--nay, even went about begging for scraps, which,
however, he threw under a bush. The foul odors and the filthiness of the
wretches about him made the day almost insufferable, but at last night
came, and he hid himself in a field of grain, getting well stung by
insects and drenched in a cold storm. But he told himself that "whoever
has in his troubles sweet anticipation, he can endure them." In the
morning he went to the castle again, and was encouraged to believe that
he would be received that evening. So he returned and ate with the
beggars; then he escaped to a wood, and with true old German
nature-sentiment, he sat down where the sun fell through the trees and
listened to the birds--many were singing--and forgot the cold.
Toward evening he secured another interview with the maid, and received
directions for the night. He and his companion hid in the ditch before
the castle, skulking from the observation of the patrol, until well
after dark; then when the signal light appeared at a certain window he
went beneath it, and found a rope made of clothes hanging down. In this
he fastened himself, and hands above began to raise him, but when he was
half way up they could raise him no farther, and he was let down to the
ground. This happened three times; and yet, guileless Ulrich, you had no
glimmering that perhaps it was a joke? The companion was lighter than
his lord, and it occurred to the two that they had better change places.
So they did, and the substitute was lifted into the window by the
waiting ladies above, and then Ulrich himself arrived there. He was
given a coat (an accident below had compelled him to leave his on the
ground), and, blissful moment, he was ushered into the presence of the
woman whom he had so long served without even a glimpse. It was a
brilliant social scene which broke upon those enamoured eyes, indeed too
brilliant and too social to correspond with a lover's sentiment for
"dual solitude." His soul's desire, richly dressed, sat upon a couch,
surrounded by a bevy of ladies. Her husband, it is true, was not
present, but with an absence of tact (as it must have seemed to Ulrich)
she fell to talking about him and her complete happiness in his love.
Their mutual confidence is so strong that he is quite willing to have
her receive any visitors whom she pleases, and she added that her true
mind served him better than any safeguard which he could put upon her.
Awkward as such a line of conversation made it, Ulrich began to tell the
story of his heart, and entreats her to respond to his devotion. She
assured him that she had no thought of ever loving him; she had
consented to this interview only to assure him of her kindly feeling,
and satisfy him from her own lips that he must cherish no romantic hope.
If he continued to ask her to love him, he should lose her favor. "I was
horrified," he declares, "and started up at the threat."
At this point in the interview he withdraws to talk to his cousin, who
was with other ladies in an adjoining apartment, and who advised him to
return and plead again. But an abrupt dismissal sends him into a moody
reflection, which culminates in a desperate resolve. Now or never; he
sends her word of his determination, and then rushes in and tells her
that if she will not say she loves him, he will kill himself then and
there. The lady sees that such a suicide would be compromising, and
tries to persuade him that perhaps she may some time. Ah, no such
coyness; she must confess her love to-night. Finally, as a last
resource, she thinks of employing the usual right of a courted
woman--putting her lover to a test of his devotion. He has already given
her so many that a trifling, a merely formal one will serve now. Let him
just get into the clothes-rope again and be lowered part way down, and
pulled back; then she will say she loves him. A glimmer of suspicion
flits over his mind, but she gives him her hand as a pledge, and he gets
into the rope. Now he is hanging outside the window, still holding the
dear hand, and such sweet things as she whispers, as she leans out--no
knight was ever so dear to her; now comes his contentment, all his
troubles are past now! She even coddles his chin with her disengaged
hand, and bids him kiss her. Kiss her! In his joy he lets go the hand he
was holding, to throw both arms about her neck, when suddenly he is
dropped to the ground so swiftly "that he ran great peril of his
life."[7]
In the rooms above a score of voices ringing with laughter, on the
ground a too credulous child of Mars and Venus, cursing his day. Ulrich
spies a deep pool and is about to drown himself, when his companion
arrives with a little present sent by the lady. She promises--(the
gentleman afterward confesses that this is a falsehood of his own to
preserve Ulrich from despair)--that if he will return in three weeks,
she will assure him of her real affection. But now it is near day, and
they must hasten off; providentially there is a tournament awaiting
them, which will distract his attention. But he sends his friend back to
have a talk with the lady, who is in a rather humorous mood, and says
that Ulrich made so much noise when he fell that one of the guard
thought it was the Devil. But though she laughs, she evidently has had
enough of such fun, for she tells the messenger that if his lord wishes
her favor he must make the journey over-sea. Ulrich agrees to go, but he
is warned against the almost hopeless dangers of that most formidable of
pilgrimages; he is reminded that no one ever took such a perilous
journey except for God, and that he would surely sacrifice his soul, if
he lost his life thus for a woman.
But one grows tired of the story, which runs on with ups and downs, over
the long thirteen years through which Ulrich served this lady. Toward
the end of the period he was plainly growing impatient. He wrote more
lyrics, which suggest here and there that devotion without love in
return is foolish, and that he is contemplating a change. Finally he
conceived himself treated shamefully (we are not told what the
discourtesy was which he could not idealize), and he made a final break
with his old worship. But now the time passed wearily, and he felt that
he must still have a lady to serve. "How joyfully once the days went by;
alas, no longer have I any service to render. How happy ladies' service
makes one." But the knight has learned the lesson of his trials, and
this time he arranges for a judicious passion. He runs over all his
female acquaintance, to see which of them he had best select. Finally he
fixes upon one who, of course, is beautiful and good, and wholly free
from change; who has finished manners and gentle ways, chastity and
force of character, and to her he offers his service, which she accepts.
From this point in Ulrich's memoirs we have an increasing number of
lyrics; he likes them all, but complains that one or two were not
appreciated by the public, though whoever was clever enough to
understand his poetry, he tells us, did appreciate it. Perhaps we are
not clever enough to understand it all; but some of the songs, as he
himself says, "are good for dancing and very cheerful; the martial ones
were gladly sung when in the jousts fire sprung from helmets," and more
than one of his poems is a contribution to the graceful though minor
work of the later minnesingers. For example:
Summer-hued,
Is the wood,
Heath and field; debonair
Now is seen
White, brown, green,
Blue, red, yellow, everywhere.
Everything
You see spring
Joyously, in full delight;
He whose pains
Dear love deigns
With her favor to requite--
Ah, happy wight.
Whosoe'er
Knows love's care,
Free from care well may be;
Year by year
Brightness clear
Of the May shall he see.
Blithe and gay
All the play
Of glad love shall he fulfil;
Joyous living
Is in the giving
Of high love to whom she will,
Rich in joys still.
He's a churl
Whom a girl
Lovingly shall embrace,
Who'll not cry
"Blest am I"--
Let none such show his face.
This will cure you
(I assure you)
Of all sorrows, all alarms;
What alloy
In his joy
On whom white and pretty arms
Bestow their charms?
And again:
Sweet, in whom all things behooving,
Virtue, brightness, beauty, meet,
Little troubles thee this loving,
Thou art safe above it, sweet.
My love-trials couldst thou feel
From thy dainty lips should steal
Sighs like mine, as deep and real.
Sir, what is love? Prithee, answer;
Is it maid or is it man?
And explain, too, if you can, sir,
How it looks; though I began
Long ago, I ask in vain;
Everything you know explain,
That I may avoid its pain.
Sweet, love is so strong and mighty
That all countries own her sway;
Who can speak her power rightly?
Yet I'll tell thee what I may.
She is good and she is bad;
Makes us happy, makes us sad;
Such moods love always had.
Sir, can love from care beguile us
And our sorrowing distress?
With fair living reconcile us,
Gaiety and worthiness?
If her power hath controlled
Everything as I've just told,
Sure her grace is manifold.
Sweet, of love there's more to tell thee;
Service she with rapture pays;
With her joys and honors dwell; we
Learn from her dear virtue's ways.
Mirth of heart and bliss of eye
Whom she loves shall satisfy;
Nor will she higher good deny.
Sir, I fain would win her wages,
Her approval I would seek;
Yet distress my mind presages;
Ah, for that I am too weak.
Pain I never can sustain.
How may I her favors gain?
Sir, the way you must explain.
Sweet, I love thee; be not cruel;
Thou to love again must try.
Make a unit of our dual,
That we both become an "I."
Be thou mine and I'll be thine.
"Sir, not so; the hope resign.
Be your own, and I'll be mine."
The latter part of this prolix autobiography is occupied by a detailed
account of a long tourneying trip, which he contrived as a parallel to
his Venus-journey, this time under the disguise of King Arthur. But the
narration of that ends at last, and Ulrich becomes reflective upon the
seasons and his lady. "Whoever sorrows at winter, and is made glad by
summer, lives like the bird which rejoices in sunny May. How distressing
is bad weather! Yet whatever the weather, her goodness gives me joy
which storms cannot disturb." Presently he tells us his feelings about
the life around him, for the social critics of mediaevalism felt the
inequalities of fortune and happiness quite as strongly as do the
social critics of to-day. Some time earlier Ulrich, in criticising a
number of knights whom he met, showed a noteworthily refined feeling for
generous qualities, and resistance against hardness and selfish aims. In
spite of this love-singer's belief in cheerfulness ("no one does well to
be sad except about sins," he wrote), the roughness of the age troubled
him, as it had troubled earlier and greater authors of his nation.
"Instead of being good, the rich work one another harm; the only
profession is that of plundering, the service of ladies is forsaken. The
young men are spendthrifts, and with pillaging consume their youth."
Indeed, the golden hour of chivalry had struck when Ulrich wrote, in his
later life, just past the middle of the thirteenth century. But this
sentimental absurdity, whose fanciful devotion and melodramatic moonings
we find so preposterous, kept a strain of the higher manhood. He was
good-hearted; he believed in the refined side of life, so far as he knew
it; in a rough time and place he loved gentleness; though born with a
large streak of the fool, he had also a pleasant element of the
simple-minded gentleman; and as he grew old amid fading ideals, over
which he had hung with effeminately romantic faith, the brutal and
joyless hardness of men perplexed and saddened him. Yet his simplicity
was his trouble's best physician; nature, the beauty and goodness of
true womanhood, his sense of inner virtue as opposed to worldly
estimates, and his poetry--in these he found comfort.