[In the following essay, Rutherford examines the troubadours' four-stage theory of love and how it was put into practice.]

The theory of love propounded by the Troubadours was full of fantastic conceits, which their contemporaries doubtless considered “sweetly pretty things.” According to this theory, the lover always dwelt at the sign of the Fair Passion, in the Street of Sacrifice, and in the Parish of Sincerity; while his mistress, the daughter of Cruelty and Tyranny, had her residence at the sign of the Stony Heart, in the Street of Rigour, and in the Parish of Severity. Love was conceived of the imagination, born in the heart, and nursed by the will. It lived on gaiety, drew its strength from the persecutions of the envious, and attained maturity when the falsehoods of the latter were exposed. Then, of course, the lovers became happy, and devoted all their time to singing. The Troubadours had a God of Love who differed in many respects from the classic divinity. Vidal, who in this particular may be considered to speak for the whole fraternity, describes him as a handsome young man, with a swarthy complexion, an aquiline nose, and teeth that shone like “burnished silver”—features which prove to our satisfaction, that their possessor was introduced to the Provencals by their neighbours, the Spanish Moors. This dusky potentate bestrode a palfrey of which one side was black and the other white, one shoulder brown and another grey, one ear yellow and the other dappled, and the mane and head red—a variety of colouring that had a meaning, which, however, we shall not attempt to penetrate. The rider of this variegated palfrey bore the titles of Prince of Constancy, Lieutenant-General of Fidelity, Marquis of Amiability, &c. Beside him, on a jennet caparisoned in white, ambled a light-haired beauty whose name was Mercy. She was hardly less renowned than Love himself, being constantly invoked in the lyrics of the Langue d'Oc and in the early songs of Italy. Behind Dame Mercy trots her lady of honour, Chastity, whose profusion of hair, falling loose to her saddle, conceals her face and covers her arms to the tips of her fingers—a picture which might have suggested, or been suggested, by that of Godiva, though we incline to think the former. Knowing how much the men of the East, North, and West borrowed from the Troubadours, it seems to us quite possible that there was a Provencal legend of Chastity, now lost, of which the legend of Godiva is a monkish adaptation. Beside dame Chastity rode the squire, Loyalty, bearing in one hand a slender wand, in the other an ivory bow, and at his side three arrows, one of which was pointed with gold, another with silver, and the third with lead. Repeated allusions to these arrows occur in mediæval song. Guido Cavalcaniti, the friend of the greatest Italian poet, devotes to them a sonnet whose concluding lines say that they

                                                                                          fan tre ferute:
La prima dà piacere, e desconforta,
E la seconda desìa la virtute
Della gran gioia, che la terza porta.

The passion, Love, was esteemed one of the attributes of aristocracy. Peter of Auvergne says that the knight without love is a husk without a grain. Bertrand von Born places want of love in the same class as ignorance of the mysteries of the chase and cowardice in war—that is, among eminently vulgar characteristics. The same opinion is expressed by Dante when he makes Francesca of Rimini say—

Amor, ch'al cor gentil ratto s'apprende.

Three lines lower the same poet alludes to the indivisibility of Love and Mercy—

Amor, ch' a null' amato amar perdona;

a line which, as Cary has not forgotten to notice, has been imitated by Boccaccio, Pulci, and other successors of the mighty Florentine. Mercy, indeed, was merely the feminine of Love, and, though extending her power over both sexes, was supposed to be especially the quality of the dames. It was an article of faith among the Troubadours that she who remained untouched by the suit of a faithful lover, deserved the severest punishment. A great authority among them, the Countess Die, pronounces cruelty to be a sin equally grievous in the eyes of God and of man. And many of them anticipate Boccaccio and other novelists, in devising suitable punishments for the offence, that given in the “Decameron,” harsh and repulsive as it may appear to us, being quite in harmony with the ideas of the age for which it was written. Vidal closes his description of Love and Mercy by making them sing these lines:—

Let all those dull and soulless wights
          Who will not love the lasses,
Their coursers yield to worthier knights,
          And nought bestride but asses;
And let those dames by whom, for gain,
          A show of love is given,
Each, laden with a sack of grain
          O'er the highways be driven

Vidal, it seems, would have punished the knight who did not love at all, precisely as the German legislators of the same era were accustomed to punish the knight who loved too well. When the latter dared to appear at a tournament, after a mésalliance, he was deprived of his charger, and compelled to ride the stockade that surrounded the course until the close of the sports. It is not unlikely that Vidal intended to sneer at this. The troubadours, especially those of low birth, were the declared foes of all those items in the feudal system which interfered with their amorous or ambitious views, and Vidal was vain, ambitious, and low born. As to the punishment which he devised for the mercenary beauties, it was in conformity with repeated decisions of the Courts of Love, which denounced the offence as infamous. In those days an attempt was generally made to give every punishment an appearance of poetical justice. We read of knights of that era who were found guilty of dishonourable acts being condemned to carry an animal, or the harness of a beast of burden, as a signal species of ignominy. We may conclude, therefore, that the bearing of a sack of grain had a significance which, though plain enough in the twelfth century, can no longer be detected.

According to theory there were four stages in love: The first was called Hesitating, and lasted while the lady was making up her mind as to whether she would allow the gentleman to prefer his suit or not. During this period, whose length depended on the character of the arbitress, the gentleman was not allowed to say a single word of love; but he was expected to manifest “the passion that consumed him” by sighs, gestures, and acts as expressive. The last meant that he was to haunt the lady's steps by day and to hover round her dwelling by night. On the whole, what with his night-walking and gibbering—for he was in duty bound to grieve, groan, and turn up his eyes in all companies—a lover in this stage, were he to make his appearance among us, would be set down as a remarkably likely candidate for Bedlam. The second stage was termed Praying, and in this the gentleman was permitted to put his wishes into words and lay them, with due humility, at the feet of his mistress. In the third, which was called Hearing, she began to give some evidence of softening by assigning tasks to the youth, which were quite as well adapted to prove the hardness of his pate as the intensity of his affection. The final stage bore the expressive title Druerie: it began with a parody of the ceremonies observed at the investiture of a vassal by his feudal superior. The gentleman knelt before his lady-love, placed his hands between hers, and acknowledged himself “her man” in set form. She accepted his homage in equally set form, and in token thereof gave him a kiss, whose yearly repetition was to be the highest reward of his fealty—according to theory.

The preliminary stages might, and often did, last for years, and as often had no end. Gaucelm Faydet is said to have served Mary of Ventadour for seven years, and in vain; and Peter Vidal served Adalais of Baux for even a longer period, with the like result. Instances, O O are recorded wherein life was spent in probation. There was always a limited number of high-toned, romantic spirits who rather liked this sort of thing. It was completely to the taste of Guillem of Agoult, who sings somewhat thus:—

True love a thought can never breed
          Virtue would blush to name;
True love ne'er meditates a deed
          Would bring its object shame;
With licence it has no accord;
          It dreams not to deceive;
Its service is its sole reward;
          'Twould rather die than grieve.

In the same mood Guillem of Cabestaing requests permission to kiss his lady's glove, and presumes to no higher favour, and Aymerie of Beauvoir actually kisses a glove that his mistress has dropped—an incident which he commemorates in song:—

Upon my breast that little glove
          With overwhelming force descended,
          And crushed the barrier that defended
My heart 'gainst the besieger Love.

In another lyric this troubadour admits that his mistress neither values, nor is likely to value, his affection. He determines, however, to dangle on, comforting himself the while with a hope which he knows to be vain, and which he thus expresses:—“At least, beautiful lady, whatever torment I endure, it will still be glorious to hope; for a rich and noble hope is better than a worthless gift.” This hoping against hope is an idea often sung by the troubadours, and by none more ingeniously than by Bertrand d'Alamon:—

If you would know the reason why
          But half a song I bring,
I have—alas, I must reply—
          But half a theme to sing!
'Tis I alone that feel the spell;
          'Tis I alone that burn:
The lady that I love so well
          My love will not return.
I'll take the “No” she deigns to give,
          Since she withholds the “Yes;”
Better with her in hope to live
          Than elsewhere to possess!
Since with my fate I cannot cope,
          Shall this my solace prove—
To dream that she, as whispers hope,
          May one day learn to love.

No doubt there was a good deal of affectation in this kind of thing. Many a poet pretended to cherish a hopeless passion merely as an excuse for the exercise of his ability in the production of quaint and novel conceits. Quaint and conceited enough these people managed to make themselves, though they do not always appear quite so novel. It is not uncommon to find a dozen of them harping on precisely the same string, and with but the smallest amount of variation. To our thinking, Petrarch's passion was of this kind—an affair altogether of the head. The great sonnet-builder was as inveterate in his imitation of the fashions—literary and amorous—of the Troubadours as he was unscrupulous in appropriating their ideas—we might add, and their very words. The Troubadours who, like Petrarch, preferred to sing a hopeless passion, usually selected a dame whose rank and repute placed her altogether beyond their reach—a duchess, or a queen, who was not at all likely to countenance such advances. Folquet de Lunel went even farther. Not finding an earthly mistress to his liking, he actually sought for one in heaven, making the Virgin the subject of his amatory lays, and singing her without stint under the name of his “Gerson.” It is a term which commentators are at a loss to explain. We, however, suspect that Folquet of Lunel was just such a jovial spirit as the English Bishop of the last century, who was much given to remarking that orthodoxy was his doxy, and we think the word Gerson neither more nor less than a form of one which is often used by the older French writers, and which is the rather more familiar than respectful feminine of the noun garçon.

For the most part the unreality of such passions was well understood. There were, however, instances in which, by dint of singing the charms of a celebrated dame, the singer managed to work himself into a real affection. So seems to have done Geoffrey Rudel, who bore the title of Prince of Blaye, though the said principality could not have been any mighty thing, if Nostradamus be correct in his account of the prince. According to the erudite astrologer of the sixteenth century, Geoffrey passed his earlier years in the household of the Lord of Agoult—a great Provençal baron—as a stipendiary poet, which was the lowest grade but one in which a troubadour could appear. Cœur de Leon, who then bore the title of Count of Poitou, happening to pay a visit to the Lord of Agoult, and expressing himself much pleased with the abilities of Rudel, the generous host immediately made his guest a present of the singer. The proceeding seems somewhat odd; still nothing was more common in the good old times than such a transfer. Even so late as the sixteenth century our ancestors considered the gift of a poet, or his equivalent, a fool, as a graceful proof of respect and affection. Rudel remained in the service of Richard, whom he found a generous patron, and from whom it is probable that he received his “principality.” At this period the pilgrims who returned from Palestine were loud in the praises of the beauty, wit, and learning of the Countess of Tripoly—a fact which goes to prove two things: the first being that these gentry were thorough-going scandal-mongers; and the second that, in the good old times, a tinge of blue was considered to enhance the attractions of a lady. There can be no doubt, indeed, concerning the latter; no troubadour ever omitted to credit his mistress with learning, when there was any possibility of persuading the world that she deserved it. Nor was this as seldom as might be thought. Heloise was not at all singular among mediæval maidens, either in her desire for learning; or in the method she took to gratify it by employing a private tutor; or, we are sorry to add, in ultimately learning to prefer the tutor to his lessons. To return to Rudel: “he became beyond measure the lover” of this beauty that he had never seen, sang her praises in innumerable songs, and, finally, determined to make his way to Tripoly in the garb of a pilgrim. Previous to his departure he composed the following canzon:—

I love—a stranger to mine eyes,
          One to mine ears unknown;
Who cannot listen to my sighs,
          Nor breathe to me her own;
Yet do I feel, and would I swear,
That she is lovely, past compare.
Beside my couch each night she seems
          A blessed watch to keep;
Then I admire her in my dreams,
          And love her in my sleep.
The morning comes and she takes flight;
A world divides her from my sight.
That world I'll cross to reach her gate,
          And kneel her chair beside.
The journey must be fortunate
          Since Love will be my guide.
And she shall know that, for her sake,
The pilgrim's staff and gown I take.
Thrice happy if within her hall
          She yield me shelter then!
Yea, I'd content me as a thrall
          Among the Saracen—
To breathe the air that round her spreads,
And tread the blessed ground she treads!
It is resolved; I cross the tide,
          I leave my native place;
Oh God, transport me to her side,
          And let me see her face!
Grant me but life that I may tell
My tale to her I love so well!
There shall the minstrels sing my song,
          And some its sense explain;(1)
A tale of love so strange and strong
          She cannot hear in vain!
Ah, should her heart prove obdurate,
The fairies must have warped my fate!

Sickening on the voyage, Rudel had a narrow escape from being flung into the sea by the sailors, who at one period thought him dead, or in a state so hopeless that there was no chance of his recovery. Thus were pilgrims treated in the olden time by those whose calling it was to “go down to the sea in ships.” He escaped the catastrophe; but when the ship reached Tripoly he lay like one about to breathe his last. The Countess was apprised of his arrival and condition. And she, who was no stranger to his mania, which, indeed, his songs had rendered notorious from Gibraltar to Lebanon, hastened to the vessel. Making her way to where Rudel lay unconscious, she leant over him and, taking him by the hand, welcomed him to Palestine. The Countess had come unannounced; but the grace and sweetness of her address, coupled with the unerring instinct of love, declared to the poet who it was. He raised himself joyously, as if he meant to spring from the grasp of death which was evidently tightening round him. Collecting his fleeting senses, he thanked her in glowing terms for her visit, which he declared had given him new life. “Oh, most illustrious and virtuous Princess,” he continued, “I will not submit to death now that———” “I have seen you,” he would have added, had not the King of Terrors interposed and hushed his voice for ever. The Countess was greatly affected. Nostradamus states that she caused his remains to be placed “in a rich and an honourable tomb of porphery, on which were inscribed some verses in the Arabic tongue,” and that, so greatly did she take the death of Rudel to heart, that she was never more seen to smile. Other authorities assert that she immediately became a nun. Nostradamus, however, uses “the rich and honourable tomb of porphery on which were inscribed some verses”—though not always in the Arabic tongue—suspiciously often: and the story of a bereaved lover taking the vows is as common at the close of a mediæval legend, as is the verse about the growth of sweet briars and roses on the graves of unfortunate sweethearts, and their intertwining, when they reach a certain height, at the end of an old English ballad. There are things, too, in the story of Rudel which can hardly be reconciled with the known facts of history. And, finally, the very same story is told of another person, Andrea of France, who would seem to be identical with the compiler of the code of love. That there was such a person as Rudel, that he loved a Countess of Tripoly in the strange way related, and that he undertook a pilgrimage in search of her, may be true. Doings at least as wild are told of other troubadours. But the pretty conclusion we consider a pure fabrication, though not without a purpose. The Provençal singers set themselves from the beginning to exalt themselves and their craft, and to inculcate what they considered a proper respect for both. To their patrons they were never weary of preaching generosity and courtesy; by which they meant that it was imperative, on all who wished to be considered perfect ladies and gentlemen, to lavish goods and graces without limit on the sons of song.

The troubadours were invariably the most respectful and timid of lovers at the outset. They shrank from the expression of their sentiments, being dazzled, bewildered, and awed by the beauty of their dames, until the lips, so fluent in all other circumstances, completely forgot their office. Thus writes Arnaud Daniel:—

To my mistress I tremble to say
          The love pent my bosom within:
Though so eloquent when she's away,
          I forget with her how to begin.

Similarly sings Guy of Uzes:—

To see her face, a smile to gain,
          Or glance that strikes me through—
In turn each pretext do I feign,
          Save love, the one that's true.
Into my heart, if love were weak,
          But little fear would come;
They feel not who unfaltering speak:
          The deepest love is dumb.
Of her to others 'tis my pride
          To breathe the willing song;
But love o'erwhelms me by her side,
          And checks my trembling tongue.

And so also sings Aymerie of Beauvoir:—

How many times over, in secret, your lover
His passion has made up his mind to explain?
But, when you're before him, a feeling comes o'er him,
Half awe and half fear that quite muddles his brain,
And his fine resolution to speak renders vain.

Such sentiments, however, were not peculiar to the troubadours. Moore has penned a few lines so curiously like some of those we have given that we think it right to quote them, the more especially as they appear to be somewhat less known than many other productions of the Irish minstrel:—

I would tell her I love her, did I know but the way;
Could my lips but discover what a lover should say.
Though I swear to adore her every morning I rise,
Yet, when once I'm before her, all my eloquence flies.
Oh, ye gods, did ye ever such a simpleton know?
I'm in love and yet never have the heart to say so!
Having plucked up a spirit one moonshiny night—
Then thought I, “I'll defer it till to-morrow's daylight.”
But, alas! the pale moonbeam could not frighten me more,
For I found by the noonbeam I was dumb as before!
Oh, ye gods, did ye ever such a simpleton know?
I'm in love and yet never have the heart to say so!

Strange to say, this extreme reverence was not generally approved of by the Provençal dames. We find them repeatedly expressing their disgust thereat, and, while remonstrating with their lovers on account of this embarrassing bashfulness, recommending them to adopt a bolder bearing, much after the fashion of a Countess of Provence whose identity we have no wish to determine:—

Since in your face your love I trace
          I would not have you shy.
Ah, were you but to sue for grace
          I hardly could deny!
But pray be quick and get it o'er!
          'Tis folly thus to sigh.
To win a smile and—something more
          Perhaps you've but to try.
Come, summon up your spirits, dear,
          And trip the preface through!
Your timid air, your groundless fear,
          Distresses me, as you.
Your courage wake! The ice do break!
          You'll find it very thin.
You know that etiquette forbids
          A lady to begin.

This being the state of affairs on one side, it is unnecessary to add that eventually the poets contrived to find their tongues. The first use they made of these members was to indulge in extravagant protestations, and in the expression of sentiments too like idolatry. Thus sang Arnaud Daniel:—

My lady is the fairest she
          That dwells beneath the skies.
There's not a joy exists for me
          Like looking in her eyes.
Her to propitiate lamps shall flame
          And priests shall masses say:
Next to my God, unto my dame
          I adoration pay.

It may be observed that profanities like those alluded to in the fifth and sixth lines, with the view of inclining one who was loved to respond to affection, were commonly practised, not only in the middle ages, but at a much later date. We select a few instances in illustration from the multitudes given by ecclesiastical writers. Thomas Bossius relates that, in 1273, a woman made an attempt to regain the lost affection of her husband by a perfectly indescribable use of the host. Thiers, a writer of the last century, and than whom there was none more learned in the history of superstition, states that he once saw at Chartres a capuchin, who not only advised a pair of lovers to communicate together with the view of securing mutual fidelity, but who himself actually administered the sacrament to them to this end, breaking the wafer into two pieces, of which he gave one to the female and the other to the male. Perhaps the grossest instance of such practices was discovered at Rouen, in 1647. The thing had been going on for years, the scene being the convent of St. Louis de Louviers, and the actors the whole of the nuns and their successive confessors, the last of whom was burnt for his part in the horrible farce. The whole story is told in a book drawn up under the dictation of one of the nuns by Desmarets, a respectable clergyman of Rouen. It was published in 1652, under the name of the “Histoire de Madeleine Bavent.”

The extravagancies of the troubadours who had begun to “lisp” their love was seldom confined to words or superstitious observances. There was, indeed, quite a rivalry among them as to which should devise the silliest adventure, and execute it in the silliest manner. One of the strangest of their methods of manifesting devotion grew into a mania which reappeared periodically down to the end of the fourteenth century. Those who submitted to its influence were termed Gallois; and as there is mention made of Galloises, it is clear that the maniacs were not all males. These people made it their glory to become the martyrs of Love, and this was the way in which they secured their desire: They staggered along under a heap of thick woollen garments at midsummer, and thence to the close of autumn. On the first of November they threw off all their superfluous robes, retaining barely what was usual at the season. These they diminished, bit by bit, as the inclemency of the weather increased, until, by midwinter, there was nothing but a single linen garment left to shelter them from the cold. In this guise they delighted to expose themselves to every wind that blew, traversing the frozen plains and climbing the snow-covered hills in all directions. “These practices and these amourettes,” says an ancient writer, “lasted a great while—so long, indeed, that the greater number of the Gallois died, or were disabled by hardship. Every morning the peasants might have been seen carrying some of them from where they had found them, lying in the fields. Some were stark and stiff, and others had to be rubbed and chafed before the fire, while their teeth were forced asunder with knives. The ladies were delighted with this display, and failed not to sneer and gibe at those who went about fully dressed. It is a thing beyond all doubt that the Gallois and Galloises who perished were the martyrs of Love.”

It was customary, and indeed necessary, for any gentleman who undertook an adventure at the command of his mistress, to obtain the approbation of his feudal superior. That granted, he was free, for the period of his task, from all obligations save those imposed by love. To show this, he always assumed a visible token of his condition, after the manner of Sir Walter Manrey and his companions, who carried a patch over one eye in one of the French campaigns of Edward III., until the performance of some gallant feat enabled them to cast it aside. The manner set down in the romance of Petit Jean de Saintre was, however, much more common. There it is told how the Lord of Loiseleuch caused a ring of gold to be fastened round his left arm above the elbow, and a second ring of the same metal above the left knee, the two rings being connected by a chain of gold. It is stated that any gentleman who met a cavalier thus distinguished was bound, as a matter of courtesy, to dismount and salute the token on his knees.

When the troubadour became the accepted servant, friend, or cavalier of a lady, love might be developed by the pair in many ways, one form only being strictly prohibited, and hardly ever attempted, that which led to marriage. That form which is called Platonic had its advocates. These, however, formed but an infinitesimal section; and though they claimed that theirs was the species which originally obtained, it was always to lament the departure of the golden age of morality and the prevalence of quite other principles and practice. “Never,” says William of Agoult, “did I form a wish obnoxious to the purity of any lady; I could glean no gratification from aught likely to wound her delicacy. No, a true lover am I; and the true lover prefers the happiness of his mistress, a thousand times, to his own. In former days it was the glory of gentlemen thus to love, and necessarily, for their mistresses would have disdained any other service.” Then this high-toned troubadour indulges in a Jerimiade to the effect that in his age virtue had fallen altogether into decay, and passion become material. His praises of ancient excellence and his denunciations of current depravity are repeated, with small variation, by many others, of whom we may mention Guy of Uzes and Ugo Brunet. With respect to the eulogies which these poets lavish on the good old times, we have to observe that they are hardly so well founded as the complaints which follow. These “good old times” are like the rainbow—myths which shine very prettily in a troubled atmosphere, but which always evade pursuit. As often as they are chased through history, they flit before the student from one age to another, until they vanish in the obscurity of tradition.

The species of love that really prevailed among the troubadours is fairly illustrated in a canzon by Rambaud of Vaquieras. In this piece the poet urges his suit to a Genoese dame, He uses all the sophistries common among the refined gallants of Provence on these occasions; and he places in the mouth of the lady precisely such homely morality and vulgarly virtuous argument, as might be expected from the unfashionable wife of a mere Genoese trader. As we have elsewhere shown, it was a leading article of the Code of Love that tender feelings could not exist between husband and wife. The principle was confirmed by numerous decisions of the Courts of Love, and universally recognized in aristocratic circles, where conjugal affection was a thing to be derided and contemned—the mark, indeed, of a supremely low-bred creature. In his tenzon, Rambaud satirises all the women of Genoa by making their representative exclaim, “Be off with you, scurvy Provençal! I have a husband much handsomer than thou.” He completes his ridicule of the class to which she belonged, by causing her to declare that she was unacquainted with what good Society considered so essential—the jargon of Love; and that she entertained some respect for the good opinion of her spouse, coupled with a lively apprehension of his wrath in case of infidelity; both these being sentiments which the Provençal dame would have scorned to entertain. As a pendant to our sketch of the tenzon of Rambaud of Vaquieras, we subjoin these lines by Guy of Uzes:—

I value whatever can strengthen esteem,
          And all that disturbs it despise.
On pleasing intent still our mistresses seem,
          While a wife just the other way tries.
Then the lover is honoured who praises his dame;
Who dotes on a wife meets with nothing but shame.”

It must be admitted that there existed a levity of manners among the troubadours hardly to be paralleled in any other age or country. From end to end of the Langue d'Oc shameless intrigue was the rule. In their actions and in their writings the gentlemen—nearly all amateur poets—were so many Sedleys and Rochesters. And in both respects they were fully equalled by the ladies. Perdigon speaks as the representative of society in the following lines addressed to a mistress:—

In Love, I pray, bear you in mind,
          I hate all this chivalrous pother;
Whenever one dame proves unkind
          I'm off to make love to another.
For I'm not the fellow to pine
          Long years for an obdurate gipsy;
Nor be always foregoing my wine,
          When just in the mood to get tipsy.
There's many a prettier girl;
          But that you've no reason for rueing.
For I'm neither prince, duke, nor earl,
          And can't be fastidious in wooing.
You have in sufficiency for me
          A store of good looks, youth, and spirit;
And your very devoted I'll be—
          So long as you happen to merit.

Gaucelm Faudet struck the same chords, but with even a bolder hand, in his address to the high-born and beautiful Mary of Ventadour:—

Your rigour, dame, has driven me mad;
          But if you further strain
This heart with waiting, then, by God!
          You'll quickly drive me sane.
If you relent, myself am bent
          To yield you love most fervent.
But if you don't, why then I won't,
          And you will lose a servant.
Yes, you may sniff and take a tiff,
          And show yourself a curst thing;
I'll go to find a dame more kind,
          And sing you with my worst string.

The last line involved a threat which was often used by the troubadours, and always with great effect. Their satire was as terrible to the ladies of Provence as was that of Archilocus to the Greeks of his era. We cannot, indeed, give any instance wherein the subject was driven to suicide, but we shall shortly have occasion to mention a remarkable case wherein bitter serventes all but ended thus. If, however, Provençal satire failed to direct the hand of the self-murderer, hardly a day passed in which it did not produce very serious results. Many fled from it to the shelter of the convent, and at least as many were intimidated by it into actions for which they had no liking. And though Mary of Ventadour escaped being victimised by Faudet, it was only by the employment of a ruse which rendered her tormentor a laughing-stock, and thus paralyzed his satire so far as she was concerned.

The cynicism expressed by Perdigon and Faudet is surpassed by that vented by Rambaud of Orange—a man of the highest rank—in a few lines, wherein he sums up some of the leading maxims in love current among his contemporaries:—

My boy, if you wish to make constant your Venus,
          Attend to the plan I disclose:—
Her first naughty word you must with a menace;
          Her next—drop your fist on her nose!(2)
                    When she's bad, be you worse!
                    When she scolds, do you curse!
When she scratches, just treat her to blows!
Defame and lampoon her, be rude and uncivil;
          Thus you'll vanquish the haughtiest dame.
Be proud and presumptuous, deceive like the devil;
          And aught that you wish you may claim.
                    All the beautiful slight;
                    To the plain be polite;
That's the way the false huzzies to tame!

In conformity with these principles, the chivalrous Von Born actually maligned, in the grossest way, his beautiful mistress Maenz, with no other purpose than simply to deter other gallants from approaching her. We may remark that this was the system propounded in the last century by the infamous de Sades. It was practised, however, with remarkable success, a hundred years earlier, by the celebrated Duke of Lauzan and his nephew, the lover of the beautiful daughter of the Regent Orleans. It does not astonish us to find that Rambaud of Orange was sighed for and sung by half the rhyming dames of Provence, of whom one at least was quite as cynical as himself. The Countess Die, whom Raynouard terms the Sappho of the Troubadours, and whose lyrics he shows himself inclined to prefer to those of the poetess of Lesbos, addressed a poem to Rambaud, in which this sentence occurs:—“Let him come in the evening to take the place of my husband, and my caresses shall be the gage of his fidelity.” Identical terms were used by another high-born dame, the Viscountess Albisso, to the Count de la March, and by the haughty sister of the Dauphin of Auvergne to Uc Marshal, one of her knightly admirers. The ladies, however, who descended to the use of these unpleasant phrases, could love such gross libertines as Rambaud of Orange with much tenderness, and lament their infidelities in touching songs. Thus Azalais of Porcairagues bewailed Rambaud's desertion of her:—

Hail to the winter's weeping clouds!
          Hail to its wailing winds!
The dreariness my heart that shrouds
          The scene congenial finds.
My Prince doth to another sue,
          And woeful is my fate;
How wretched are those ladies who
          Attach them to the great!
Their love becomes a jest, a stain,
          A mock, a thing to hate.
“Nought,” says the proverb, “do they gain
          Who listen to the great.”
Had I obeyed the warning tone,
          And loved an humbler wight,
I had not thus lamented lone
          This dismal winter night.

Azalais, however, did not long lament in loneliness. Soon afterwards we find her announcing a new liason in the following joyous canticle, of which the last two lines contain an idea, a little varied, already expressed by Perdigon:—

The frankest lover living!
          Oh, heart! rejoice to tell—
To him thy fondness giving,
          Thou hast bestowed it well!
I swear it by my beauty!—
          For ever true to prove—
While he conforms to duty,
          And the laws of faithful love!

This was the usual course of Provençal gallantry. The attachment was vivid, sensual, and short; and just sufficient interval was left for the production of a few doleful ditties before a new connection was entered on. There were exceptions, of course; the lady or gentleman was not always so fickle or so easily comforted; and the final parting did not invariably take place without some attempt at reconciliation. With this view the Lady of Castelozza addressed this remonstrance to a lover whose name has not been preserved:—

How closely to you would I cling;
          How quickly your falsehood forget;
And praises alone of you sing,
          Could you be sincere even yet!
To coquetry did I resort
          They say 'twould your constancy win;
But that were just censure to court,
          And give you excuse for your sin.
From a heart that refuses to melt
          Those who bid me my feelings conceal,
A passion like mine never felt;
          A passion like mine cannot feel.
To censure my passionate sighs,
          I'm sure that there would be but few,
If you they could see with mine eyes,
          Or dwell on your lips as I do.
Never out of my thoughts is that night
          When you said you'd be mine ne'er to part.
On that promise I dwell with delight;
          'Tis the dream—the fond dream of my heart!
No envoy I send, but declare
          In person, I hope not in vain,
No shelter have I from despair
          If you will persist in disdain.
As you wish to be honoured below;
          As you hope to find favour above;
On your suppliant mercy bestow,
          Nor let her die martyred of Love!

Poetical remonstrance with fickle lovers was not the rule among the Provençal ladies, for the simple reason that when matters amatorial came to the worst, and it became a question of jilting or being jilted, the fair sex preferred to deal the first stroke, and usually contrived to do so. This leads us to the consideration of another peculiarity of Troubadours' Love. It was an age in which Revenge was esteemed a virtue, and no offence was more certain to call down vengeance on the head of the offender than one against affection. Our sketch of Raimond of Miravals contains some specimens of such vindictive action on the part of gentlemen; but the legends that remain of the females of the same period furnish many more striking. Of these the story of Guilhem of St. Legier is a fair sample. He was a wealthy baron of Viana, famed for his amiable qualities and knightly accomplishments. The chosen gallant of the Viscountess Polonhac, he had a brother-in arms, Uc Marshal, who was in the confidence of himself and his lady-love. The greatest familiarity existed between the three. According to a custom of the age, they assumed one name in common, and were known far and wide as the three Bertrands. “For a long time there was much joy and comfort between all three,” says the old story-teller; “but the end proved a thing full of sorrow for Guilhem. The other two Bertrands did him a great wrong and a vile felony, as you shall hear if you give me your attention. There came to Viana a beautiful lady, the Countess of Castel Rousillon, whom everybody sang. Guilhem berhymed her among the rest, and as he sang well, and was a ‘very gentle perfect knight,’ the Countess found much pleasure in his songs. Now Uc had long wished to supplant his brother-in-arms in the affections of the Viscountess, so he contrived to have it told to the latter by other lips, that Guilhem was guilty of infidelity. At the same time Uc himself pretended to know nothing of the scandal. The Viscountess believed as she had been informed, that the Knight of St. Legier and the Countess were lovers even to the last degree, and she was very wroth at the wrong that she conceived had been done her, and determined to inflict due vengence on the main offender. Sending for Uc, she addressed him bluntly, saying, ‘En (sir) Uc, I desire to have you for my cavalier. I am well acquainted with your character, and no gentleman suits me better. Above all, I know of none whom Guilhem would more dislike to see preferred by myself. I mean to avenge myself of him by your means. To that end I command that you accompany me on a pilgrimage that I am about to make to Viana. We will go to St. Legier, to Guilhem's house’—‘jazer en sa cambra, et el sac lieg vuelh que vas jaguotz ab me.’ Uc pretended to be astonished at the proposal, and made a feeble show of resistance, remonstrating that the lady really was going somewhat too far, and that her commands were not altogether just. She, however, quickly overruled his objections, and he agreed to aid her in her vengeance. Arraying herself ‘gent and fine,’ she took the road with Uc, her damsels, and her squires, to make her pilgrimage to the shrine of the good St. Anthony of Viana. Reaching St. Legier in due time, she dismounted, and Guilhem, not being at home, she did just as she pleased at his house, executing her vengeance according to her plan. The thing was soon noised abroad; for, indeed, it would not have been vengeance at all wanting notoriety. Guilhem was soon apprised thereof, and he was greatly grieved. But he did his best to conceal his feelings—especially from the Viscountess—and thenceforth he devoted himself to the Lady of Castel Rousillon.” It would appear that the villain of the story did not escape with impunity. Nostradamus relates that the lady, in no long time, discovered his treachery, and that she sent him to collect her rents on certain estates, where he was slain by the tenantry under circumstances that were never explained, and that certainly need no explanation to show that the Viscountess was an unscrupulous termagant. It may be added that the course adopted by the Viscountess as a means of inflicting vengeance, was not unusual with the dames of the period, who seemed to think that it afforded them the best means of exhibiting supreme contempt for a disagreeable wooer. Just in the same way acted the lady of Albisso, when pestered by the unwelcome attentions of Gaucelm Faudet, using the house of the latter as the scene of an assignation with a more favoured lover, the Count de la March.

It was an axiom of the troubadours that love was never so sweet as after a right good quarrel. They were, therefore, in the habit of getting up “scenes” pretty frequently, with the sole purpose of enjoying what Gavaudan terms “the exquisite delight of reunion.” The most approved method of getting up a quarrel—one, by the way, which was solemnly approved of by several decisions of the Courts of Love—was by engaging in a hearty flirtation. The experiment was dangerous withal. Not a few of those who attempted its practice failed grievously. The parties against whom it was played off were often roused beyond the pitch designed, and took revenge after the manner of the Viscountess Polonhae. Even when the worst did not occur, the reconciliation was not always to be attained without excruciatingly anxious delays and certain painful sacrifices. One rash gentleman had to propitiate his mistress by playing the hermit in the depths of a forest for many months. Another was only restored to favour when he succeeded in inducing a hundred ladies and as many gallants—all being devoted lovers—to kneel before his mistress and intercede for him. More curious was the penalty imposed in the following instance. Piere of Barjeac, and his friend Guillems, of Balaone, were inseparable. Both were gentlemen of Montpellier, and “good and dextrous troubadours.” The one loved Guillena, wife of the lord of Jauviac, and the other loved Iverna, the wife of a little valvassour, who held of the same lord. “These gentlemen loved their ladies exceedingly, serving them and singing of them; and their ladies loved them as much in return, as it was possible to love.” Piere, quarrelling unintentionally with his mistress, Iverna, Guillems interposed and effected a reconciliation between them. Thereafter, hearing Piere boast that the sweets of love were infinitely sweeter after a quarrel than before it, Guillems was tempted to try, in his own person, if this were indeed the truth. The first step was to get up a quarrel. When next he met Guillena he was about as insolent as he could be, in consistence with his knightly character. The lady was very forbearing, and attempted to win him into a good temper, but in vain; he quitted her, apparently in a towering rage. She sent messengers after him, whom Guillems refused to hear, and treated with much unnecessary rudeness. The lady then sought an interview, “and, throwing herself on her knees before him, besought him to pardon her, if she had ever done him any wrong.” Guillems proving inflexible, the lady lost all patience, and returned home indignant. Guillems saw that he had succeeded in getting up the desired quarrel; but he was hardly satisfied with his success. Fearing that he might have carried the thing a little too far, he spent no very pleasant night. Next morning he hastened to the castle of Jauviac, expecting to achieve the reconciliation with no very great difficulty, and feeling himself just in the mood to appreciate its lauded sweets.—He met with a reception differing somewhat from that for which he looked. The lady refused to see him, which was bad, and had him expelled with ignominy, which was worse, seeing that the said ignominy consisted of any quantity of hooting, half-a-dozen stout cudgels, and several big dogs—being, in fact, little, if at all, more tolerable than “tarring and feathering,” even when the luxury of “riding a rail” happens to be superadded. Guillems returned to Balaone with what may be termed inexpressible suffering; for not only did his heart and his shoulders ache, but his nether garments were sadly rent. Safe at home, he changed his damaged robes, applied balsam to his outward bruises, and put on all the airs and graces of an utterly disconsolate lover. His neighbours were soon acquainted with his predicament, and thronged in to give him consolation. Among the rest came the Baron of Anduse, who, if not a troubadour himself, was at least the spouse of one celebrated poetess and the father of another, and could, therefore, appreciate the feelings of his friend. This gentleman undertook to effect the desired reconciliation, and after a wearisome negociation, in which many hitches and not a few threatening crises took place, succeeded. The lady consented to receive Guillems on the old footing, on condition that he made her a new song, deploring his faults, and extolling her charms, and that with this song, he presented her with the nail of the middle finger of his right hand. The nail she insisted on having, because “Guillems was a most brave strummer of cat-gut, and made much use of this particular nail in his strumming.” Guillems was delighted to comply. He made the song in a twinkling, and, hurrying off to the nearest surgeon, bore the removal of the nail without making one wry face. The lady of Jauviac received both presents graciously—so graciously, indeed, that, in his turn, Guillems was enabled to proclaim the surpassing sweets of reconciliation in love.

The Code of Love declared that affection was not to be placed where it would be a shame to wed. This meant that gallant connections were only to be formed between persons of equal rank. It would appear that the rule was enforced to a certain extent. Arnaud de Marveil, a troubadour of low birth, laments that he dares not reveal his love for the Countess of Beziers, even by his looks. Peyre Rogier, who sighed for Ermengard of Narbonne, and Folquet of Marseilles, who dangled in the train of the wife of one of the Viscounts of that city, use similar expressions. Many a lady, too, addressed a presumptous cavalier as Beatrice of Montferrat addressed Rambaud of Vaquieras, ordering him to convey his love to “dames who were made for him.” Not all the troubadours, nor even the majority of them, submitted to this restriction. Many of them did their utmost to reason, or ridicule it away. Bertrand of Marseilles says that love is not swayed by riches or honours, but rather by the qualities of the mind and body; Guy of Cavaillon considers that deeds equalise all ranks; and Guy of Uzes boldly maintains that the lady who refuses to look upon a devoted lover as her equal, is guilty of a crime. Nor were these assertions of the dignity of intellect without much success, as we intend to show when we come to discuss that portion of our subject which relates to the Cavaliér Serventé.

In spite of its gallant customs, Provence was not exempt from marital jealousy. Thus we find that excellent singer, Bernard of Ventadour, flying for his life from the wrath of the Viscount Ebles of Ventadour, whose dame had bestowed a kiss on the troubadour. And thus we find William of Cabestang falling under the vengeful sword of the Lord of Castel Rousillon, the story of whose vengeance adds such a striking chapter to the history of the Southern bards. It was necessary then for gallants to resort to artifice on occasion, and some very clever ones have been recorded. Among these, one adopted at the outset of their loves by a pair whose parting we have already related, deserves some notice. It seems that at some time or other, the Viscountess Polonhac had promised her husband never to accept a gallant, except at his own request. The Viscountess, like all the high-born ladies and gentlemen of the period, prided herself on the strictest adherence to her word, and, like most of the ladies and gentlemen of the period, she cared very little about breaking it in spirit, so long as she could keep it to the letter. For awhile herself and her chosen lover, Guillems of St. Legier, were greatly distressed by the promise, and much puzzled as to how it was to be set aside in an honourable way. After thinking for a long time, Guillems hit on a notable plan. He told the Viscount that there was a certain lady who had promised never to love without the consent of her husband—a thing which proves that such promises must have been pretty common, otherwise the Lord of Polonhac must have had his suspicions excited by such a beginning. Guillems went on to say that the lady he spoke of loved a worthy knight, but that she shrank from breaking her promise, and in consequence fell seriously ill, and that her husband, discovering the cause of her illness, and being quite a model husband, according to Provençal ideas, released her from her promise, and allowed her to have lovers to her heart's content. Guillems added that he had put the story into a song, of which he gave a copy to the Viscount. The latter was amused by the story, and liked the verses. He recited both to his wife, who, being in Guillem's confidence, affected to be equally amused and pleased, especially with the stanza which contained the husband's licence to love. This stanza she requested her husband to recite again. He did so in his best manner, and the dame, applying the words to herself—by one of those mental processes which won the castigation of Pascal, when recommended by a certain order of casuists—considered herself released from her obligation, and acted accordingly.

Marital jealousy being not unknown in the land of song, and elopements being among the results of this passion, such things happened occasionally among the troubadours. A noted instance, that of Peyre de Maenzac, will be found in our sketch of the Dauphin of Avergne. Still more remarkable was the one in which Sordel, one of the heroes of Dante, took a principal part. At one period Sordel was the Cavaliér. Servénte of Cunizza, the sister of the monster Eccelino of Romagna. The connection was broken off after the marriage of the lady to the Marquis St. Boniface. But Eccelino and his brother becoming the foes of this noble, they actually employed the former lover of their sister to steal her away from her husband! It was a good example of the utter unscruplousness of Italian policy in that age. Sordel found little difficulty in persuading the lady to fly with him. Cunizza afterwards became the heroine of a variety of light adventures, much resembling those which Boccaccio attributes to the daughter of a certain king. But the strangest thing connected with her story is the fact that Dante, who condemns the infinitely nobler Francesca de Remini to eternal punishment, actually gives the worthless Cunizza a conspicuous position in Paradise! Nor is the singularity at all lessened by the explanation which he puts into her mouth, to the effect that she was born under the planet Venus, and therefore the blameless victim of its influence.

Cunizza fui chiamata, e qui refulgo
Perchè mi vinse il lume d' esta stella.
Ma lietamente a me medesìma indulgo
La cagion di mia sorte, e non mi noja
Che forse parria forte a lvostro vulgo.

—Paradiso ix.32-6.

Such opinions, though not universal, were widely entertained in that age. The troubadour, Nat de Mons, has left a tenzon in which he summarises the arguments for and against the doctrines of astrology, without attempting to decide between them; and Alfonso of Castile, to whom he submitted the piece, hesitates equally to pronounce an opinion. Others, however, were hardly so cautious. The doctrine that sinners are not responsible for their sins is far too pleasant not to gain numerous disciples, whether it be propounded under the name of phrenology or astrology.

One result of gallantry among the Provençals was an attention to the person which, in too many instances, became extravagant. To say nothing of excess in ornament, the ladies of the South are said to have indulged in such devices as painting! Thus sings Ogier:—

I cannot bear those ancient graces
Who cheat us with their made up faces.
The lovely white and red they show
Are borrowed from the medico.

And again:—

That creature so splendid is but an old jade;
Of ointment and padding her beauty is made;
Unpainted if you had the hap to behold her,
You'd find her all wrinkles from forehead to shoulder
What a shame for a woman who has lost all her grace
To waste thus her time in bedaubing her face!
To neglect her poor soul I am sure is not right of her,
For a body that's going to corruption in spite of her.

The Monk of Montaudin, who is equally severe, goes more into detail. He says that the ladies lay on the paint so thick as to eclipse the images suspended in the chapels; that the older ones paint the wrinkles under their eyes; that they mix mercury with other drugs; that they use a wash of which mare's milk and ground-beans form the chief ingredients; that they employ saffron so lavishly as a cosmetic, as to quadruple the price thereof; and that there are more than three hundred different washes and ointments employed by the sex.

It would have been as well had the dames confined their chemical studies to the composition of cosmetics Never, however, was there a brisker demand for those ugly things, love lotions, which were, as usual, little better than poisons. Among the victims of such trash were several of the troubadours. One of the highest promise, Luc de Grimaldi, was attached to a young lady of the great house of Villeneuve, and from her he received a potion that deprived him of reason. Nor was this the worst. In one of his paroxysms the poor man slew himself. Nostradamus writes that the damsel was repeatedly impelled to the verge of suicide, by the reprobation—most of it in verse—which her conduct drew down. But, unfortunately for the character of the age, his remarks go to show that, in this instance, public abuse was directed at the deed, not as a thing essentially wicked in itself, but because it had deprived society of a man that could ill be spared. A brother poet, Rostang Berenguer, was more fortunate in similar circumstances. “He was enamoured of a Provençal dame, whose name and family are unknown, and who was somewhat stricken in years. She was the most expert in mischief of all the women of her time. She knew all the simples that were to be gathered on the Col d'Amie and among the other mountains of Provence; she was skilful in the composition of aphrodisiacs, and learned in the days most favourable for their administration. To the poet this woman gave a beverage which I will not term erotic, but rather mortal. In consequence of this draught he lost his senses, and assuredly would have died had he not been succoured by a pitying damsel, the daughter of a Genoese gentleman of the house of Cibo, who dwelt at Marseilles, and to whom the poet had been introduced by means of a canzon which he had written in her praise. Through a powerful antidote which she gave him to drink, the damsel restored him to sense and health. In return, the grateful poet not only celebrated his preserver in many songs, but, abandoning the hag, sought to devote himself to her exclusively. She, however, being as virtuous as beautiful, repelled his attentions, and eventually induced him to discontinue them by means of a poem which she wrote—for she, too, was a troubadour.” It is not improbable that the mediæval Mrs. Turner introduced in the foregoing story, was as skilful as her English successor in producing aids to beauty; and it is quite possible that, like many another of her species, she was fully capable of preparing and administering a fatal draught on request. That the damsel Cibo, who was so virtuous and beautiful, should possess similar knowledge, shows the startling prevalence of such studies in the good old times.

There were not wanting writers to denounce the whole vicious system of gallantry propounded by the troubadours, authorised by the Courts of Love, and maintained by Fashion. Giraud Borneil shows what he thought of the current vice when, alluding to the divorce of Louis VII., he says—“It is better for a king to forfeit one-half of his dominions than to retain a wife of infamous repute.” Ricard of Barbesieux declares that the ladies of fashion spent their time in corrupting one another, and in ruining all connected with them; and that, when they had effected all the mischief within their power, they sat down to justify their depravity, and to make merry over its results. Guy of Uzes says—“Love is utterly degenerate; women engage therein as a play, take the first comers to their hearts, and change them as they change their cloathes.” William Adhemar laments that they prefer fools to men of merit, and disagreeable gallants to amiable husbands; that they despise the liberality of the former, and, while ruining their fortune, abandon themselves to suitors equally worthless, in mind, body, and estate. And Peyre d'Auvergne boldly denounces these gallant connections as so many adulteries, from whence spring a generation destitute of honour, courage, or merit of any kind, and which usurps estates, titles, and honours, to which it has no right.

Notes

1. Our readers will notice that Rudel was insane only as a lover. Few poets would so frankly admit that their verses required explanation.

2. Literally thus in the original.