Essays on the Origins of Western Music
by
David Whitwell
Essay Nr. 92: The Music of the Troubadours
The themes of the renewal of Spring, rural simplicity and love, of which the early Greek lyric poets sang were, and are, universal. The repertoire of lyric poetry became smaller as Rome subjugation began, and smaller again under the influence of the Church. The Dark Ages have left us with an incomplete history of poetry, but it does seem apparent that the spirit of lyric poetry never completely died out.
In France, those who carried on this tradition during the glorious final two centuries of the Middle Ages are called, troubadours. The troubadours sang in a new language, but they composed and sang poetry on the same themes as the Greek lyric poets. If their love songs seem more vivid and personal than the myths and allegories of the Greeks, it is because they celebrate their own experience rather than an allegorical ones.
With the East to West shift in political power, which began in the 11th century, the south of France began to flourish. One might say that the patronage of these aristocratic families represents the real beginning of the Renaissance in the arts. It was here that the troubadours had their origin, one of the first being William of Aquitaine, Count of Poitiers (1071 - 1127 AD).
We are fortunate to possess some biographical information about many of these troubadours. It is generally assumed by scholars that these short biographies are somewhat exaggerated and romantically colored, but they nevertheless provide a valuable general view of this activity. We can see, for example, that the troubadours came from all levels of society. Some were nobles, some were poor bourgeois and even orphans, some were monks, and some were, or became, jongleurs -- wandering musicians who traveled in many lands.
These early biographies also frankly tell us that some of the troubadours (Guillaume IX, Pons de Capdueill and Peire Vidal, for example) were outstanding composers and singers, while others are described as “bad singers” (Gaucelm Faidit and Aimeric de Peguilhan). Within the latter category, presumably, were some who composed, but employed a jongleur to sing their songs for them. Such a one was Peire Cardenal, the son of aristocratic parents, who,
went through the courts of kings and noble barons, bringing a joglar with him who sang his sirventes.[1]
And neither did being a noble guarantee lofty language. Jaufre Rudel, Prince of Blaia, was described as composing “good verses, but with poor words, though the tunes were good.”[2]
The relatively brief period during which the troubadours, and their northern colleagues, the trouveres, existed, is presented in most literature clothed in the romance of courtly life. Some of them, indeed, had reputations as great lovers, such as Guillem de Montanhagol, a knight of Provence, who was called in an early biographical note, “a good troubadour and a great lover.”[3] One finds here as well truly romantic tales of love, such as that of the troubadour Raimon Jordan who was inaccurately reported to have been killed in battle and returned to find his grieving wife had joined a convent.
On the other hand, one finds in these early biographies examples of behavior which depart dramatically from the traditional image of the troubadour. Marcabru, we are told, even “spoke badly of women and of love.”[4] This troubadour, who had a reputation for “malicious songs,” was eventually murdered by one who was the object of his music. Peire Vidal, another who was known for speaking badly of others, had his tongue cut out by a noble!
Some troubadours, including Ventadorn, Mareuil and Cabestanh, violated the court’s trust by making love with their patron’s wife, although perhaps this was a frequent occurrence where marriages were often made only for political purposes. In the case of Cabestanh, the offended noble, Raimon, murdered him, carried the troubadour’s heart home,
and he had it roasted with pepper and served to his wife. And when the lady had eaten the heart of Cabestanh, Raimon told her what it was. When she heard that, she fainted away. And when she came to she said, “My lord, you have given me such a good meal I shall never take another.” Hearing her speak thus, he came at her with his sword and would have split her head, but she ran to a balcony and threw herself down to her death.[5]
Some of the most revealing information about the troubadours is found in their own words, in their songs. In this regard, the most interesting song of all is one by Peire d’Alvernhe which describes the musical characteristics of 12 troubadours and himself. As this song is by far the most important eye-witness document we have of these lyric poets, we shall quote it in entirety.
I shall sing about those troubadours
who sing in many fashions, and all praise
their own verses, even the most appalling;
but they shall have to sing elsewhere,
for a hundred competing shepherds I hear,
and not one knows whether the melody’s rising or falling.
In this Peire Rogier is guilty,
thus he shall be the first accused,
for he carries tunes of love in public right now,
and he would do better to carry
a Psalter in church, or a candlestick
with a great big burning candle.
And the second: Giraut de Bornelh,
who looks like a goatskin dried out in the sun,
with that meager voice of his, and that whine,
it is the song of an old lady bearing buckets of water;
if he saw himself in a mirror,
he would think himself less than an eglantine.
And the third: Bernart de Ventadorn,
a hand’s breadth smaller than Bornelh;
a fellow who worked for a wage was his father,
he shot a laburnum handbow well,
and his mother heated the oven
and gathered the brushwood together.
And the fourth, from Brive, the Limousin,
a jongleur, and the most beggarly man
between Benevento and here;
and he looks like a sick
pilgrim when he sings, the wretch,
so that I nearly pity him myself.
En Guillem de Ribas is the fifth,
who is bad outside and in,
he recites all his verses with a raucous voice,
so his singing sounds like hell,
for a dog would sing as well,
and his eyes roll up like Christ in silver.
And the sixth, Grimoart Gausmar,
a knight who tries to pass for a jongleur,
and whoever agrees to let him could not do worse,
God damn whoever gives him clothing of motley and green,
for once his costume has been seen,
a hundred more will want to be jongleurs.
And Peire de Monz— makes seven,
since the Count of Toulouse sang him
a charming song, though he himself never sang;
and whoever stole it from him is to be respected,
except it was a pity he neglected
to amputate the little foot that hangs.
And the eighth, Bernart de Sayssac,
who never knew any other work
but going around begging little gifts;
and I have not thought him worth a piece of mud
since he begged En Bertran de Cardalhac
for an old cloak that stank of sweat.
And the ninth is En Raimbaut,
who thinks so highly of his poetry;
but I think nothing of his rhymes,
they have neither warmth nor cheer,
therefore I rank him with the bagpipers
who come up to you and beg for coins.
En Ebles de Sagna is the tenth,
who never had any luck in love,
though he sweetly sings his little air;
a vulgar puffed-up shyster
who, they say, for two cents
rents himself here, and sells himself there.
And the eleventh, Gonzalgo Roitz,
who vaunts his skill in song
and thus presumes to call himself a knight;
no strong blow was ever struck
by him, he was never that well armed,
unless, of course, he got off in flight.
And twelfth is an old Lombard,
who calls his friends all cowards,
and he himself is terrified;
and yet the songs he writes are valiant,
with bastard phrases neither Occitan nor Italian,
and he is known to all as Cossezen, “Just Right.”
Peire d’Alvernhe, now he has such a voice
he sings the high notes, and the low (and the in-between).
and before all people gives himself much praise;
and so he is the master of all who here convene;
if only he would make his words a little clearer,
for hardly a man can tell what they mean.
This verse was made to the noise of bagpipes
at Puivert, with much laughter and play.[6]
Peire d’Alvernhe (fl. 1150 - 1180), as he freely admits here, was known for his propensity toward self-praise. In another song he suggests he has many jealous detractors, but knows he is the best because of the money he makes, “of which there’s plenty.”
And no matter who seethes or grumbles about it, since my style
of poetry is so fine...; for I am the root and say that I’m the
first in perfect speech, defeating my stupid assailants who raise against me the outcry that I’m of no use in it.[7]
He adds that the careful listener will agree that his work is the best, even though it will always be subjected to criticism. The latter, he says, one must simply ignore.
It’s certainly not to be mocked at if one hears it, rather should
it be most pleasing, even though the opinions of the overweening,
with their stupid, feeble, feckless sniggers, drag down that
which is on high; we see that good makes its own way forward,
while mockery stays galloping behind.
Hence it is well to ignore it, for never does mockery or spite
desist....[8]
No less confident than d’Alvernhe, was Bernart de Ventadorn (fl. 1150 - 1180) who began a song, “It is no wonder that I sing better than any other singer....”[9] This singer, who personifies as much as any the traditional image we have today of the troubadour, has left a song which speaks of the place of love and music in the courtly life and reflects his alarm in seeing the beginning of the decline of chivalry.
I am so saddened by what I see that I do not feel like singing. Men used to strive hard to win worth, honor, and praise, but now I do not see or hear anyone speak of love, and, as a result, reputation, nobility and joy become matters of indifference....
Man can only achieve worthiness in the love and service of ladies, for sport and song, and all that pertains to nobility, begin there. No man is worth anything without love, and therefore I would not want to rule the whole world if I could not have joy.[10]
Another autobiographical reference, in a song by the troubadour Raimbaut d’Orange (1150 - 1173), is typical of several which seem to use the ancient term for the wandering musician, “jongleur,” as synonymous with “troubadour.”
Jongleur they call me, I go singing
mad with love, in courtly ways.[11]
Certainly the wandering musician of ill repute was still in existence, but he is always described differently from these troubadours. Consider, for example, Giraut de Borneil’s (1165 - 1211) description of one of these men.
Cardaillac, they tell me that you are coming in search of a sirventes with which to earn yourself some money; but before the door-keeper lets you in I want you to thank me from a distance, for your breath is rather bad and you are apt to come too close. This is why a man is better off sending you a few pence rather than waiting for you to approach; for he suffers great torment if he does not turn away his face or cover his nose!....
Since men call you then the “woolly minstrel....”[12]
An entirely different kind of person was Arnaut Daniel (fl. 1180 - 1200). Born a noble, and praised by Dante as a craftsman of the modern tongue,[13] he nevertheless describes himself as a traveler, too poor to own a horse.
I am Arnaut, who gathers the wind, and hunts the hare on oxback, and swims against the rising tide.[14]
And there were some troubadours, like Cerver’ de Girona (fl. 1250 - 1280), who though attached to the royal court of Aragon, seems to have been, regardless of title, rather despondent over his place in the court.
I go singing, thinking, fixing, rhyming, honing praising
loving commands of affection without pleasure....
Praising, waiting, singing;
my life is ignominious.[15]
Finally, the troubadour songs rarely mention other kinds of court music. References to string players are usually negative, as we can see in the example by a troubadour known as the Monk of Montaudon (fl. 1180 - 1215).
And it irritates me, I swear by Saint Salvat,
to hear a vile violinist in a good court.[16]
This, even though troubadours may have accompanied themselves with such instruments. A song by the trouvere Colin Muset, for example, includes the lines,
I went to her in the little field
with fiddle and bow
and sang her my muset
with great love....[17]
A song of Guilhem de Montanhagol (1233-1270) mentions the performance of melodies on bells, an instrument we see in iconography but rarely read about.[18]
On the Inspiration of the Composer
A large number of troubadour songs begin with a reference to the inspiration of the seasons, especially Spring which is associated with the renewal of life. A typical example can be seen in Ventadorn.
When the flower appears by the green leaves, and I find the season clear and quiet, and soft songs of the birds in the grove sweeten my heart and refresh me, then the birds sing in their fashion; and I, who have more joy in my heart, must also sing well, for every day’s work is mirth and melody; I think of nothing else.[19]