To Raymond de Miravals, who, Nostradamus informs us, was ‘deeply learned in the science of love,’ we are indebted for a series of life-like portraits of some of the loveliest women of the period. This fashionable poet, notorious for his misfortunes in love, died ‘poor, and worn out in body and mind,’ after spending many years of his life sighing in the train of a noted beauty. An old French chronicler writes: ‘Through the songs of Raymond, was Adelais admired and sought of all the barons far and near, and she became the subject of curiosity even at the courts of Aragon and Toulouse, and the king and the count sent her messages and presents of jewels, which she willingly accepted.’
The great ambition of ladies in the days of chivalry was to be eulogised in song, and made famous by the canzons and madrigals of the troubadours; so long as they were the theme, it mattered not how gallant and equivocal was the poetry. The Countess of Tripolis was the cause of the melancholy and dramatic episode which cut short the brilliant career of Rudel, a minstrel attached to the service of Cœur-de-Lion, who ‘became beyond measure the lover’ of this lady, whom he had never seen! Having sung her praises through all Provence, he set out on a pilgrimage in search of the far-famed beauty; but after enduring many miseries on his disastrous journey, he reached the shores of Palestine only to die in the arms of his ladye-love. The Countess, who had hastened to welcome him on his arrival, placed his body, we are told, ‘in a rich and honourable tomb of porphyry, on which were inscribed some verses in the Arabic tongue.’
Another minstrel in the train of Richard was the world-renowned Peter Vidal, unrivalled as an improvisatore, and gifted with an exquisite voice. He travelled far and wide, scattering canzons and sirventés over Christendom; and his Jongleur’s Story produces perhaps a greater impression, and clings to the memory with more strange fascination, than any lyrical composition of the period. Vidal was for some time in the household of the lord of Baux, whose fame as a troubadour was also great. It was in return for the lays of this high-born minstrel that Frederick Barbarossa presented to him the ancient city of Orange. Conquered by the Saracens, re-conquered by Charlemagne, this interesting old place boasts of one of the most romantic histories in the annals of French towns, and its vicissitudes were commemorated in Provençal song. Marseilles, Toulouse, Carcassonne, were all famous cities of the Langue d’Oc; but perhaps the favourite haunt of the wandering troubadours was Aix, the ancient capital of Provence, where the richest rewards of jewels, money, arms, &c., besides unbounded hospitality, were sure to follow the exhibition of their skill. Who could imagine that this little moribund town, a few miles from Marseilles, was at one time the dwelling-place of a noble family, the centre of the most brilliant circle in Southern France? Who can realise in its picturesque decay, the pomp and pageantry of its old historic aspect in the days of chivalry, when Giovanni the troubadour Count of Provence, the last inheritor of a mighty name, sang in his court at Aix? The fondest and proudest memories have gathered round the name of Count Giovanni, his country, his people, his valour.
It is curious to note in the records of the troubadours how many successful followers of the ‘gentle craft’ were connected with the cloister. The witty and dissolute monk of Montaudon was known as a fashionable poet; whilst his superior, Folquet, afterwards Bishop of Toulouse, from a gay troubadour became a fierce religious despot. Many ecclesiastics were sent from the monasteries to preach a sort of musical crusade against the heretics in the Langue d’Oc, who also had their champions in the land of song. Some even became military chiefs of high renown. Conspicuous amongst them was the monk Louis Lascaris, a son of the Count of Ventimiglia. To quote from Nostradamus, who discourses much on this member of an ancient and noble family: ‘He was of such a happy wit, not only in the poetical Provençal, but also in the vulgar dialects, that nobody could equal his sweetness or his invention. While yet a youth, he took holy orders in a monastery; but afterwards falling in love with a lady of the neighbourhood, the sister of the great Isnard of Glanderes, he married her, and had five children. The queen Giovanna having a powerful army in Provence for the expulsion of the free-companies, gave the command thereof to Lascaris, who was valiant and skilled in war. At the end of the campaign, the envy and malice of his ill-wishers caused him to be persecuted by Pope Urban V., who desired that he should return to his convent. But he, who would rather have chosen death in preference, and who saw that the pope was every day becoming more and more exasperated against him, went with a fine equipage to the court of the queen Giovanna, whose protection he claimed.’ The queen of Naples ‘duly considered the services that the poet had rendered, and those that he might yet render her crown. Seeing, besides, that he was a gentleman of handsome person and gay and generous disposition, she wrote so earnestly in his favour to the pope at Avignon, that His Holiness consented to fix a period of twenty-five years at the end of which the poet was to return to his cell.’ Lascaris, however, did not outlive the allotted time.
In this cursory sketch of the troubadours, it would be impossible to enumerate each of the fifty-seven poets whose names are associated with Provençal literature; but we must not forget two or three of those best remembered of their age and country. The unfortunate Luc de la Barre, whose songs reflecting on Henry II., roused the vengeance of that monarch, was hunted from place to place and blinded, when he refused all sustenance, and died of famine and despair. The love-affair of Bertrand of Pezers, a professor of Provençal poetry, with a young and lovely girl in his school, whom he married in spite of all opposition, excited great sympathy and interest. The adventurous couple commenced a life of wandering minstrelsy; and the ‘Monk of the Golden Isle’ informs us that before entering a château, they would make inquiries as to the occupants; and ‘then, with wonderful quickness, they would compose a song ornamented with the memorable deeds in love, war, and the chase, of the châtelain and his progenitors.’
Another wandering couple were the celebrated Raymond Ferrand and the lady of Courbon, who retired from the world, after some years of joyous minstrelsy, to convents within sight of each other. This lady of Courbon was notorious as one of the presidents of the ‘Court of Love,’ held in the castle of Romanini. Queen Eleanor, wife of Henry II., the Countess of Champagne, the Countess of Narbonne, and many noted beauties, gave sentences in these courts, which Hallam speaks of as ‘fantastical solemnities where ridiculous questions of gallantry were debated.’ To borrow the language of Sismondi—the noble ladies of that period ‘instituted courts of love, in which questions of gallantry were gravely discussed and determined by their suffrages; in a word, they had brought the whole of the south of France into a state of carnival, which forms a singular contrast to the ideas of reserve, virtue, and modesty which we ascribe to the good old times.’
In Provence, during the middle ages, the serenade was a custom, with the charming alba and serena—morning and evening songs. Many chivalrous singers were adepts in this light and characteristic form of Provençal poetry.
An old proverb says, ‘The Arabs’ registers are the verses of their bards;’ and so these medieval canzons and madrigals—which are inseparably connected with a most romantic era—present the old life with all its grand ideas and great actions; bringing many illustrious names out of the dim mists of fable into the clear daylight of history.
‘HOME! SWEET HOME!’
’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,