THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES

 
 Olur
 
 Copyright IQOJ by 
 Alfred G. Langivortby
 
 A 
 
 CASTLE KNIGHT AND 
 TROUBADOUR 
 
 In an Apology and Three Tab 
 leaux
 
 The Apology 
 
 I then saw," says Gerard de Nerval, 
 speaking of a certain besettment of 
 ideas of his own, "vaguely drifting 
 into form, plastic images of antiquity 
 which outlined themselves, became defi 
 nite, and seemed to represent symbols of 
 which I seized the idea with difficulty 
 only." I make his words my own, for I 
 also have been haunted by the symbols of 
 things, which have shaped themselves 
 and materialized into living forms, as I 
 read of that resurgent time which awoke 
 Italy from the grief of Rome s decay, 
 brought joy to childlike France, moved 
 rude Germany to thought and song, and 
 stirred in barbarous England the germ of 
 art. 
 
 I should have been pleased had these 
 curious, grave, gay, comic, false, aspir 
 ing, essentially youthful creatures of my 
 
 3
 
 fancy s acquaintance consented to dwell 
 in Italy, for that seemeth a fair country, 
 and it is, moreover, the one that taught 
 men how to think after their long for 
 getting. But my creatures are chivalrous, 
 and Italy was not the home of chivalry. 
 They are sincere and credulous, and Italy 
 was wise with an ancient wisdom and 
 scoffed. I was therefore constrained, 
 whether I would or not, to leave a place 
 so intellectual, so discriminating, so well 
 adapted to enduring achievement, and 
 walk with my insouciant folk to the very 
 careless land of Provence. There are or 
 chards blooming, "the gentle country 
 all abloom with fresh grass" and the 
 brooding day solicits lovers, finders of 
 song, amorous and aspiring women, men 
 whose pride it is to die for the sepulchre, 
 and all other foolish persons. 
 
 Nor will you forget, if you please, that 
 I am not to touch upon the greater ques 
 tions of this pregnant time. It is not for 
 me to comment on the nature of the seed 
 
 H
 
 that, germinating in the rich loam of the 
 ages, came slowly to its spacious growth, 
 till the branches of the tree of knowledge 
 hung over all the Christian lands. Nor 
 shall I speak of the rumor that this seed 
 was dropped from pagan hands ; nor yet 
 discuss, whether, being grown, it proved 
 a upas for Christianity. Nor am I to con 
 cern myself with the men of great and re 
 volutionary ideas with Petrarch, Dante, 
 Boccaccio, Galileo, Lorenzo di Medici, 
 Lionardo, Botticelli, Michael Angelo, 
 Cceur de Leon, Villon, Francis of Assisi, 
 St. Catherine, Margaret of Navarre, 
 Bruno the philosopher, or that extrava 
 gant being, Bernini, who served as the 
 drop curtain for the Renaissance. I do not 
 write of the lucid and formulated time 
 that remains for others. My tale is of an 
 incoherent, joyful day, a morn of dew, in 
 which the world, a-wandering by plea 
 sant paths, discovered song. Yet have no 
 fears that the theme will cloy you with its 
 sweetness, for if you listen you shall hear
 
 a minor and fateful note an under-har- 
 mony, presageful and of power. It is the 
 Sorrow of Woman, making itself audible, 
 swelling above the folly of the time, forc 
 ing men eventually to strife for liberty of 
 thought. But this in a later hour than that 
 of which I write. Now, behold, Dante 
 has not yet taught the dignity of dialects, 
 nor Aldus fashioned his presses. Care 
 lessly, with toying hands, the learning of 
 the Arabs has been gathered up, it is true, 
 but as children gather pearls in the river 
 bed, unheeding their value. And of all the 
 curious, gay kaleidoscopic world, upon 
 three fantastic pieces we must focus our 
 eyes the Castle, the Knight, and the 
 Troubadour. 
 
 16
 
 TABLEAU I. 
 The Troubadour. 
 
 THE ante-rooms of the great hall 
 at Ventadorn were chill and 
 dusky. Through little windows 
 the light came in meagrely, falling with 
 caution on the ill-kept floors. The walls 
 were grey and bare, save for a Damascan 
 scabbard here or a wrought cutlass there, 
 or, in a niche, a distorted figure of the 
 Crucified, carved in black wood. Bones 
 that had been flung from the table or left 
 by the dogs, a dead rat, the stones and 
 peelings of fruit, lay about under foot, 
 annoying no one. 
 
 In one of these rooms, where there was 
 no provision for fire, where the perfume 
 of blossoming orchards came in miserly 
 puffs of sweetness and the sunlight spread 
 itself fan-like through the bars at the win 
 dow, sat four men about a table. They 
 were drinking from cups of polished buf-
 
 falo horn and talking with unctuous good 
 fellowship. 
 
 One was a man of middle age, grave of 
 port, with a hint of the warrior in his bear 
 ing ; as indeed he had a right to have, for 
 it was not a month since William of Poi 
 tiers had returned from the conquest of 
 Jerusalem, whither he had gone with 
 Raymond of Toulouse. The other men 
 were as gay as grasshoppers in July. 
 
 "By His Wounds, Bernard," cried one, 
 "but I swore I should pay a pilgrimage to 
 thy shrine if I never took another journey 
 in my life. I had, if you will believe me, 
 encouragement from our lady. She vowed 
 thatif she had a finder in her hall like thee, 
 she could with more grace assert Nor 
 mandy to be the regnant Court of Love. 
 Any day, if thou art near her tower, thou 
 mayest hear her singing by herself. And 
 what ? Not the famous songs of our great 
 master," he bowed to William of Poitiers; 
 "not the viralais of these errant beggars," 
 and he saluted half mockingly his other 
 18
 
 companions, " but thy songs, Bernard 
 thine ! " 
 
 "Thou speakest of Eleanor, the Duch 
 ess of Normandy?" inquired William 
 with respect. 
 
 "Of the peerless Lady of that jocund 
 Court of Love," cried the first speaker, 
 Peter of Auvergne. "Eleanor, whose 
 white beauty " 
 
 But Bernard of Ventadorn interrupted 
 him: 
 
 "And which of my songs doth she 
 sing ? he asked. His red-brown eyes had 
 little points of flame in them. He leaned 
 forward, breathing quickly, showing his 
 white teeth, blushing with delighted 
 vanity. 
 
 Peter smiled at him tantalizingly and 
 did not at once answer. 
 
 "Come, come," pleaded Bernard. 
 "Tell me, Peter ! I have not deserved so 
 much, my friends, but if joy beyond des 
 erts comes to one " 
 
 "Cease thy clamor, "laughed Peter. "I 
 
 9
 
 will, being a good-natured fool and free of 
 envy, sing to theethat song of thine which 
 she doth most affect." 
 
 He lifted his German lyre from the 
 table, made an absurd feint of ladylike airs 
 and sang in an exquisitely sweet but mock 
 ing falsetto this song : 
 
 "Behold, the meads are green again, 
 The orchard bloom is seen again, 
 Of sky and stream the mien again 
 
 Is mild, is bright; 
 Now should each heart that loves obtain 
 
 Its own delight. 
 
 "But I will say no ill of love, 
 However slight my guerdon prove ; 
 Repining doth not me behoove ; 
 
 And yet to know 
 How lightly she I fain would move, 
 Might bliss bestow ! 
 
 "There are those hold my fancy great, 
 Because with little hope I wait; 
 But one old saw doth animate 
 
 And me assure : 
 Their hearts are high, their might is great, 
 
 Who well endure." 
 
 William of Poitiers listened with the 
 air of a critic, his strong, passionate, face 
 20
 
 wearing a certain reserve ; the maker of 
 the poem, who now heard for the first 
 time his own verses sung by a Troubadour 
 of his own quality, was as flushed and joy 
 ful as a girl who hears the first love vow 
 whispered in her ear. The third man, 
 who had a dark and sensitive face 
 Raoul de Coucy, a bastard of noble birth, 
 and a singer in Fate s despite broke into 
 impetuous applause. 
 
 "It is a pretty enough song," said Wil 
 liam, stroking his beard and speaking 
 rather caustically, "and I doubt not the 
 white lady Eleanor can make it languish 
 ing as moonlight on the sea, but beggar 
 me if twas writ for her! Eh, Bernard, 
 confess thyself! These cries of longing 
 were for one as fair, and much less pro 
 digal of her rewards ? " 
 
 Bernard, the baker s son, chief of the 
 singers to Elbe III, Viscount of Venta- 
 dorn, lifted his horn filled and overflow 
 ing. 
 
 " It was writ for Adelaide of Venta- 
 21
 
 dorn ! " he shouted. And all his guests, 
 arising, drank, while Bernard continued 
 his eulogy: "Adelaide of Ventadorn, who 
 I say hath the whitest hands, the most 
 star-like eyes, the stateliest grace of any 
 lady I care not how born and I care not 
 how loved in all the land. " And he 
 launched into more intimate praise, till 
 the men laughed deep in their throats and 
 turned hot, avid eyes on each other. Wil 
 liam of Poitiers, the king of evil jesters, 
 spoke out with scurrilous wit. Peter of 
 Auvergnechuckledendlessly,and clapped 
 his fellow-singers on the backs. Only 
 Raoul, the Bastard, having flushed with 
 passion, flushed deeper with shame. He 
 laid his hand heavily upon his breast and 
 seemed to press something cruel into the 
 flesh. The lust died out of his eyes, and the 
 receding blood left him ghost-pale, with 
 trembling lips. 
 
 Outside the air was balm, but between 
 the heavy walls the chill of winter still 
 lingered, and Raoul drew about his sen- 
 22
 
 sitive body a cloak of yellow, weather- 
 stained and fringed at the edges with 
 much wear. 
 
 "What a monk thou art, Raoul, " 
 sneered Peter of Auvergne. "Hast thou 
 no laughter in thee ? By His Body, man, 
 who art thou to turn away from a good 
 full-bellied jest ! Art thou so nice ? It 
 eases me to let out a little against these 
 aristocrats ! Why, man, we eat their crusts; 
 we sleep in their dark corners, we come 
 when they invite us and roam forth when 
 they frown. We know what it is to draw 
 up our belts for the ache of hunger, and 
 also we know how it is to be stuffed as full 
 as roasted geese. We who may not be 
 lords, who can not remain peasants, who 
 no matter what our wit or our learning 
 must lick other men s shoes, may we not 
 scoff a little ? We may not consort on 
 equal terms with women of like intellect 
 with our own, and if we kiss, it must be 
 in the shadow of the hawthorne betwixt 
 twilight and dawn, and like as not, a poig- 
 
 2 3
 
 nard for our pains. Ah, we plume our 
 selves, do we! Call ourselves finders, 
 Troubadours, favorites ! We are dogs, 
 man sorry dogs, picking up bones from 
 the tables of the witless ; shivering while 
 they sit before the fire ! If we have a talent 
 for scoffing, by the Sephulchre, let us 
 scoff!" 
 
 And he sang with insolent intonation 
 a catch of William of Poitiers. 
 
 Raoul wore embroidered on his tat 
 tered sleeve the coat of arms of the house 
 Coucy, though with the bar sinister, and 
 it was now with the tolerant and arrogant 
 contempt of the Counts of Coucy that he 
 regarded the Troubadour. 
 
 "I find good among nobles as well as 
 Troubadours, my impassioned Peter," 
 Raoul said with a certain condescension. 
 "As for my vocation, it is of my choosing, 
 and I let others belittle it I do it not 
 myself, by the Mother of God ! In kisses 
 I do not indulge, my friend. I sing hon 
 orably to virtuous ladies." 
 24
 
 His friends broke into a guffaw and 
 under the tattered cloak, de Coucy s hand 
 flew to his sword. 
 
 "Messieurs!" he cried. There was 
 battle in his eyes. William of Poitiers 
 sniffed contemptuously. But the others, 
 for all their bravado, felt the spirit of the 
 unchallenged autocracy of the dominant 
 class in this attitude, this ejaculation, this 
 indefinable hauteur of the high-bred, mys 
 tical, moody face. Peter muttered some 
 thing placating, and Bernard, as host, 
 changed the conversation to pleasanter 
 themes. He stood up straight and slim 
 before his guests and waved them to their 
 seats. 
 
 "Be comforted, good friends," he said. 
 "Great honor have you done me, journey 
 ing for days to the castle of this my Lord, 
 to listen to the singing of his minstrel. 
 Now, before we are called to the Plais- 
 ance, where as is the custom, my Lady 
 Adelaide, mistress of my soul, Countess 
 of my Lord, Queen of our Court of Love, 
 
 25
 
 doth welcome all comers and discuss the 
 gai sience, let me speak. You have come 
 from other courts, to listen to the song- 
 maker of Ventadorn. Very well, I shall 
 sing my best for you. I shall extend to 
 you, as my Lord permits me, the hospi 
 tality of our house. I shall present you to 
 my mistress, and she shall commend your 
 songs, and I say, and will maintain it, that 
 she hath as goodly a taste in lais, verilais, 
 rondels, ballades, gestes and Arabian 
 rimes, quadruple and sextuple as any lady 
 in all the land. Moreover I maintain that 
 of all Lords there be none more kind than 
 the Viscount of Ventadorn. And behold, 
 I have not been a beggar in my time, nor 
 hath any true poet been turned from these 
 doors forth into the hedges. I was born 
 in the bakehouse back yonder. I was 
 nay, I remain with all fidelity, the son 
 of a baker, a man of no estate and no con 
 sideration, but one who loves song and 
 laughter. The little scullions played with 
 me in my babyhood, and when I grew to 
 26
 
 stripling s size I cleaned the pots, or fed 
 the dogs, and only at night when none 
 were by to watch dared I creep out of the 
 kitchen close and wander to the Plaisance 
 to lie among the flowers or listen to the 
 calling of night birds. Then behold one 
 day, as it were an apple falling from a tree, 
 a song fell into my lap. I cannot tell why 
 twas, for I had no notion that I could 
 sing. With wonderment I found my 
 throat giving forth songs. All my words 
 came in measures, riming, fit for music 
 such songs as no other finder yet had 
 sung ! " 
 
 The rival Troubadours made no com 
 ment. It was the custom of the finders to 
 celebrate their prowess in song, even as 
 the Crusaders told of their exploits and 
 their victories. 
 
 Bernard resumed : " I nursed the secret 
 in my heart and I made many songs and 
 bided my time. And it came. For the Vis 
 count brought home young Adelaide of 
 Montpelier, his second bride, a lily with 
 .27
 
 a heart of gold, making joy yet feeling 
 none, with tears like pearls, with prayers 
 like incense, with a knowledge of things 
 unknown to grosser souls, a creature al 
 ready clad for presentation to the Lord of 
 pure spirits. And the day she came forth 
 in her bridal robes to welcome all who 
 pay tribute unto the demesnes of Venta- 
 dorn and to receive the lords whose lands 
 lie junct to ours, I crept in from the kit 
 chen. The hall was all alight and won 
 derful. I saw the jewels flashing on the 
 sword hilts of the nobles and on their 
 necks. I saw the women glowing like the 
 sunset, and in their midst, Adelaide like a 
 pure white cloud. I beheld her beauty as 
 it were a vision above the Sephulchre in 
 the sacred city. I went forward in the 
 press, all in my homespun, with my 
 clipped hair and my baker s cap in my 
 hand and knelt. I had no instrument ; I 
 hardly had a name. I knelt and waited. 
 There is a youth kneeling to thee, my 
 lord, I heard my lady say. So, dimly, in 
 28
 
 the confusion of my senses, I not know 
 ing what might come next, some one 
 lifted me, and I heard the Viscount bid 
 ding me state my case. Then I saw no one 
 and there was a kind of splendor about 
 me, as if lightning had filled the hall and 
 had staid there, quivering, and I stood 
 forth and lifted both my arms and cried : 
 * Behold, me Lord, I am a finder! I can 
 sing songs. I pray you, for the glory of 
 this house, let me sing ! And, since it is 
 a tradition never to silence the voice of 
 a singer beneath this roof, the Viscount 
 gave permission and I sang. But curiously 
 enough the song I meant to sing was gone 
 from me, and I thought for a moment I 
 was lost. Then gazing in the soft eyes of 
 our Lady Dove, a new song came a dar 
 ing song. I looked at the grey beard of 
 her husband verily, she had not met 
 him till the wedding day and I met 
 her shining-patient eyes, her golden hair, 
 nay, nay, her thrice golden youth, and I 
 sang I know not what for though 
 29
 
 the rhymes came rushing from me like 
 water from the gargoyles at the door, I 
 forgot them, once they were done." 
 
 The Troubadours groaned in sym 
 pathy. Lost honor would have disturbed 
 them little. A man dead, a maid disgraced 
 well, these were incidents. A man and 
 a maid should have care for life and maid 
 enheads. But a lost song ! It moved them 
 to pity. 
 
 "So," resumed Bernard, "I became the 
 singer of Ventadorn, and I make songs to 
 Beauty, to Spring, to Night ! 
 
 The perfumes of April floated in the 
 window, bringing with it a sound of 
 women s laughter. 
 
 "Go, my little children, and curl your 
 locks," cried Bernard, lifting his finger 
 for them to note the laughter. "Our 
 Court gathers. Hasten the ladies will 
 be waiting. As for thee, Raoul, if thou 
 art inclined, thou shalt wear my new 
 coat." 
 
 "I give thee thanks," said Raoul gent- 
 
 3
 
 ly; "but my coat and I go together now 
 even as we have for several years, in storm 
 and in shine, at buryings and fetes." 
 
 "Presently they were pacing down the 
 sunlit length of the Plaisance, where 
 under a fringed canopy of Damascan silk 
 sat a company of ladies and gentlemen, 
 very gayly faired. Servants went in and 
 out among the company bearing fruits 
 and drinks, flowers wreathed the chairs 
 in which the ladies sat, and in the blos 
 soming trees about them sang the mating 
 birds. 
 
 Little cries of delight broke from the 
 ladies as the Troubadours approached. 
 They fluttered their diaphanous scarfs, 
 flung flowers at the minstrels, and were 
 apparently enchanted at everything 
 the soldier-like bearing of William of 
 Poitiers, the nonchalance of Peter of A u- 
 vergne and of Bernard of Ventadorn, and 
 the haughty bearing of the ragged Raoul 
 de Coucy. Bernard presented the guests 
 to his lord and lady not that William 
 
 3 1
 
 required an introduction, for there were 
 at this time few courts before which he 
 had not appeared. 
 
 "My lady," cried Desiree Autafort,one 
 of the youngest and most beautiful of 
 the company, "I have a subject, an it 
 please thee, fit for debate this propitious 
 day which brings so many gallant singers 
 to our court." She smiled upon the com 
 pany with conscious coquetry. 
 
 "Pray thee, speak," smiled Adelaide 
 in her slow way, flinging a white rose at 
 the girl. Desiree caught it and held it in 
 her long delicate fingers fingers laden 
 with the pale blue turquoises of the Ara 
 bians and announced with much sol 
 emnity the subject she had to propose. 
 
 "Which," she said, "are the greater 
 the benefits or the ills of love ? " 
 
 There was applause. Knights, ladies, 
 greybeards, striplings, the waiting Trou 
 badours, received the suggestion with 
 profound resped:. It was evident that here 
 was theme for discourse. 
 
 3 2
 
 "Who else deviseth for us a theme ?" 
 asked Adelaide courteously. Blanche- 
 fleur Vaquerias, the Spaniard, luscious and 
 half-sullen, looked up from beneath meet 
 ing brows, and caught the eye of the lady. 
 
 "Speak, my little one," said Adelaide 
 kindly. 
 
 "I have bethought me of a subject more 
 intricate," acknowledged Blanchefleur, 
 when she had saluted as maiden should a 
 matron. "Listen, of thy courtesy." She 
 lifted the tasselled wand she held in her 
 hand a pretty folly, hanging with 
 silver rings and little tinkling bells: 
 "Which loveth the more deeply, one who 
 can not keep from speaking to every one 
 of his lady, or one who doth not speak of 
 her at all yet thinketh of her night and 
 day?" 
 
 The cries of approval were more pro 
 nounced. 
 
 "A diverting question," muttered the 
 Viscount in his grey beard. 
 
 " Most suitable to the day," William 
 
 33
 
 of Poitiers said to his fellow-singers. 
 
 "It is my choice," announced Adelaide 
 in her resonant and calm voice. "And 
 thou, Bernard, since day and night thou 
 singest my praises, shalt do well to defend 
 him, who, loving, speaketh his love. And 
 thou Raoul de Coucy, who art pale and 
 of a melancholy cast, as if thou knewest 
 over well the silences and sorrows of love, 
 shalt defend him who, in lonely places, in 
 ruins and beside dark seas, and in leafless 
 forests, and in night and rain, walketh 
 thinking of his love and, warmed and fed 
 by thought of her, feeling speech a super 
 fluity. Thou, Peter of Auvergne, shalt 
 do our singer here, our Bernard, the 
 honor of sustaining him in his argument, 
 and thou, William of Poitiers, for that 
 thou art eldest and hast the most of cele 
 brity, shalt stand with Raoul, least known 
 and the youngest in years." 
 
 She lifted her hand, and the musi 
 cians burst into a jocund strain upon their 
 pipes. Four little boys clad in scarlet and 
 
 34
 
 gold appeared suddenly in the midst of 
 the guests, and began flinging a shower 
 of apple-blossoms among them. 
 
 The Troubadours stood waiting, Wil 
 liam confident, Peter somewhat harrassed 
 and on his mettle to show his worth, 
 Bernard complacent under the caressing 
 of Adelaide s eyes, Raoul distrait, his 
 arms folded across his breast. 
 
 There came upon the scene at this 
 moment, an ancient and eldrich dame, 
 the blind Countess of Provence. A pair 
 of buxom maidens, hearty as cabbages, 
 supported her on each side ; a rugged 
 dwarf with an elfish smile carried her 
 train of brocade. She walked slowly, lift 
 ing her dress high in front and betraying 
 a pair of much embroidered slippers. 
 About her neck swung a huge chain of 
 yellowing pearls. She was seated with 
 ceremony, and to her were brought the 
 Troubadours, and the theme of their dis 
 course for the day was made clear to her. 
 She listened with her head bent forward 
 
 35
 
 and her sightless eyes on the minstrels. 
 
 Then, since she was a great patroness 
 of song, though blind and past the age of 
 dalliance, she spoke to each of them of 
 their findings, talked of the sirvente, the 
 gest, the art of the jongleurs, the better 
 adaptation of the tongue of the south 
 against the tongue of the north to poetry, 
 joy, and grace. Having become accus 
 tomed to their voices so that she could 
 discern one from the other, she begged 
 that she might touch their brows, and at 
 that moment came over her a certain rigi 
 dity, such as falls upon cataleptic persons, 
 so that she sat, corse-stiff, with vague, un 
 wavering eyes, and spoke as one speaks 
 who knows not what he says, yet utters 
 words put into him from some power 
 without. First came William of Poitiers, 
 wary and disdainful. 
 
 **Thou, Master of Troubadours," she 
 said, "shalt behold thy mastery go from 
 thee, for even beside thee is one destined 
 to be greater than thou. Thou who hast 
 
 36
 
 fought in battles shall die in bed; thou 
 who hast chronicled other men s lives 
 shalt have none at hand in the day of thy 
 death to mark the manner of thy going. 
 Thou who hast scoffed shalt one day re 
 pent, and the fairest song of thy making 
 shalt be the song of repentance." 
 
 William moved from beneath that 
 mystic hand with aversion. 
 
 "A song of repentance ! " he sneered, 
 and cast a glance of midday love full on 
 Blanchefleur. 
 
 Next knelt Peter of Auvergne, grin 
 ning foolishly. 
 
 "And thou shalt be beaten down in 
 better men s quarrels as a cricket of the 
 fields, piping at the moon, is drenched in 
 bitter rain. Yet because of the sweetness 
 of the piping, men shall long remember 
 thee." 
 
 Peter, chidingly grateful, lifted the 
 hem of the old autocrat s robe to his sen 
 sual lips. A poet s pride shone in his eyes. 
 
 Next came Raoul de Coucy, respectful 
 
 37
 
 to the ancient dame. 
 
 "And thou, poor de Coucy, landless, 
 the innocent shame of thy family, shalt 
 find the poet s joy the only pay for thy ex 
 penditures. Thou, half lover, half poet, 
 tormenting thyself secretly even now 
 with penitential garments, thou who 
 standest in the court of folly, shalt keep 
 thy feet in the mud of earth and thine 
 eyes on the stars of heaven. And into thy 
 heart this day shall come a new joy and a 
 fresh grief, for this is the day of thy des 
 tiny. And the time shalt come when thou 
 afar, shalt write a threnody for her whom 
 thou shalt love, she being dead." A chill 
 wind seemed to strike her shrivelledbody, 
 and she shivered, then spoke again. "And 
 thou shalt perish in a mad hour, amongst 
 many men, dying like thyself, outside the 
 walls of a beleaguered city, and in that 
 dying think on one thou seest first today." 
 
 Raoul, believing, pale, his mystic eyes 
 on those of the prophetess, lifted her hand 
 to his lips as being of her class, though 
 
 38
 
 ragged and a wanderer, he had the grace 
 to do. 
 
 Then moved he apart and stood gazing 
 at the sad face of Adelaide as one stricken 
 with a mortal love. 
 
 Last came Bernard of Ventadorn, non 
 chalant and affectionate for had he not 
 known the old prophetess since his baby 
 hood ? 
 
 "And thou, Bernard," she said: "thou, 
 ardent yet changeful, a perfumed wind 
 blowing now here, now there, a gorgeous 
 butterfly feasting on the flowers of Venta 
 dorn, art set aside for immortality. While 
 men live on earth they shall sing thy songs 
 when they are love-stricken. Thou shalt 
 stir the blood of the sluggish, fan the fire 
 of the glowing into flame. By moonlight 
 and by sunlight, in meeting and in part 
 ing, lovers shall remember thee. But 
 Bernard, the flowers that tempt thee to 
 day shall hold no sweet for thee to-mor 
 row. Therefore sing on, and let us hear 
 thy voice, that in less lyric hours we may 
 
 39
 
 cherish memories of thy tunefulness." 
 
 The rigidity slipped from her as it had 
 been a drenched garment. She flushed 
 slowly with the pale glow of age, and 
 moved her hands to play with that great 
 rope of yellowing pearls. 
 
 "The argument! the argument!" cried 
 all the people, and Adelaide, starting from 
 a reverie, gave signal that the debate was 
 to begin. 
 
 The day glowed on to its perfect hour. 
 On the flowery slopes the pale gold sun 
 light brooded. The amorous birds soli 
 cited each other with melting songs. 
 
 Bernard of Ventadorn sang to his mis 
 tress, but with careless lips. She, out of 
 deep eyes, regarded him as the astronomer 
 regards the heavens, beholding mysteries. 
 And Raoul de Coucy, in his rags, made a 
 new song of delicate melancholy: 
 
 40
 
 "I have learned how love can wound, 
 Grievously his dart I feel, 
 But how sweetly he can heal, 
 That I never yet have found. 
 
 "The physician well I know 
 Who alone can cure my pain, 
 But to me what is the gain, 
 If my wounds I dare not show ? "
 
 TABLEAU II. 
 The Knight. 
 
 EBLE III, Viscount of Ventadorn, 
 sat in his hall on a certain day. Be 
 hind his chair of carved wood hung 
 a tapestry depicting a boar hunt, and on 
 the dais beneath his feet was the skin of 
 leopards sewn in a mottled carpet. On his 
 finger shone the signet ring; and at his 
 elbow sate his clerk. Down each side of 
 the grim hall, staves in hand and knives at 
 belt, stood his stout men-at-arms, and by 
 the dais, splendid in his trappings, was his 
 Seneschal. 
 
 Long and pale was the face of Venta 
 dorn, and the grey beard was scant. Flo 
 rentine velvet, black as the Shades, 
 clothed the tall form, and a chain of Ven 
 etian gold was hung about his neck. 
 
 To him came certain persons crying 
 judgment a woman who had been 
 beaten by her husband; a man who had 
 
 43
 
 been robbed of all his little wealth; a 
 knight who had been deserted by a wan 
 ton wife. 
 
 To the woman who had been chastised 
 Ventadorn gave laughing scorn. "A beat 
 ing ?" he roared ! " I beat my first wife 
 heartily and rejoice to remember it. Get 
 home to thy master and do his bidding, 
 and thank the good God that thou hast a 
 husband who hath health to use a stick 
 on thee." 
 
 The woman went weeping, but at the 
 door she turned. 
 
 "I never gave my husband the cause to 
 beat me that thy Lady Adelaide give 
 thee," she whispered. Ventadorn heard 
 yet feigned not to hear, and there was 
 brought before him the keeper of for 
 ests who had been robbed of his savings. 
 
 "How earnest thou by savings ? " he 
 sneered. 
 
 "By going hungry, my lord, when 
 others gorged; by going cold when others 
 were clad; by sitting in darkness when 
 
 44
 
 others had light and fire." 
 
 "And why didst them do this thing ? " 
 
 " Because I have a daughter now at the 
 Convent of Mary, whom I would dower, 
 for she is all I have, my lord, and a good 
 girl, and I desire for her a husband." 
 
 "And who robbed thee ? " 
 
 "My lord, I hold it to be the Captain 
 of thy knights, who spoke to me the other 
 day telling me my Lord of Toulouse re 
 quired a tribute from vassal and freeman 
 for his second expedition to the Holy 
 Land." 
 
 "And gavest thou the tribute ? 
 
 "My lord, have mercy! I had only my 
 little savings, to dower my child! " 
 
 "Their action hath my sanction, by His 
 Wounds! " swore the Viscount. "What, 
 shall Christian hounds grudge a pittance, 
 while the Sepulchre of our Lord lies de 
 filed in pagan hands ? Shall thy betters 
 suffer in saracen prisons, die in the snows 
 of Alpine passes, faint on the scorching 
 plains, rot on fever-cursed ships or perish 
 
 45
 
 before the walls of Jerusalem, while thy 
 baggage of a daughter is kept in luxury ? " 
 
 The man cringed nay crawled 
 then at the door stood erect and flamed 
 wrath from his spiteful eyes. A hound, 
 much noted for its ferocity, and sent from 
 Germany to Provence, caught the con 
 tagion of the man s anger and bit at his 
 leg. The man seized this vent for his rage 
 lightning-quick drew a knife, severed 
 the brute s throat, and stood waiting with 
 a certain foolish exultation in his eyes. 
 
 "Bind that man," commanded Venta- 
 dorn. "Teach him the smell of a dun 
 geon. He hath had too much fresh air! 
 
 To the husband who came complain 
 ing that his wife had left him in wanton 
 ness, Ventadorn gave greeting. 
 
 "Bring wine," he called, and it being 
 brought, he filled two vessels. 
 
 "Let us drink," he said. And when 
 they had finished he asked: 
 
 "Friend, dost thou like this wine? " 
 
 "It is excellent, " said the man and tip-
 
 ped his horn again lest an unquaffed drop 
 should remain. 
 
 "Since thou likest it," said the Vis 
 count, " I shall send thee a cask. When 
 that is gone let me know and I will send 
 thee more. It is better than many wives." 
 
 The man looked straight in the eyes of 
 Ventadorn, and understood. 
 
 " He knows, " thought the man. "He 
 understands. I was indeed foolish to 
 come. These are affairs to which a man 
 ought to attend himself." And he went 
 home to devise how he should slay his 
 rival. 
 
 Then Ventadorn sent away his clerk, 
 and dismissed his men-at-arms, and to his 
 Seneschal he said: 
 
 "Bring the Troubadour! " 
 
 So there appeared before him presently 
 Bernard the Troubadour, his arms bound, 
 his garments and his flesh nasty with the 
 filth of a dungeon. 
 
 "Cut his bonds," said Ventadorn. And 
 they were cut. 
 
 47
 
 "Now leave us," said the Lord to the 
 Seneschal, and they were left. 
 
 Ventadorn came down out of his high 
 seat and stood before the minstrel. 
 
 "Bernard of Ventadorn," said he, 
 "thou art a knave! " 
 
 The Troubadour drew his breath in 
 through his teeth with a sharp sound and 
 ventured nothing. 
 
 "Bernard, son of my baker, my some 
 time pot-boy, this is the hour of our reck 
 oning! " 
 
 " My Lord, " retorted he, "As thou 
 sayest! " 
 
 " Bernard, did I not because of thy 
 genius lift thee up to a high place, cause 
 my chaplain to teach thee, make thy glory 
 a part of the glory of the house ? " 
 
 Bernard smiled. 
 
 "If thou choose to put it so, my Lord, 
 it is so." 
 
 The Viscount came nearer to the min 
 strel. His old eyes narrowed, and a cruel 
 smile flickered around his thin lips.
 
 "Bernard, " said he, "dost know a tree 
 out yonder in the orchard which beareth 
 red blossoms, but never reacheth fruit ? " 
 
 "I know such a tree," said the Trou 
 badour. 
 
 "It is called the Judas tree, Bernard." 
 
 " Even so, my lord. " 
 
 "On it hanged one who betrayed his 
 Master. " 
 
 The Troubadour s nostrils quivered 
 like those of a frightened horse; there was 
 a curious twitching about the loose flesh 
 on his brow; blotches of red appeared on 
 his face and disappeared as sudden as they 
 came. 
 
 "Wert thou of fitting birth, Bernard, I 
 should fight thee, and one of us would 
 die. " 
 
 The Troubadour s knees were giving 
 a little. He was, after all, the son of a 
 baker. Courage was not in his traditions. 
 
 "Or were I as some, I should hang thee 
 like an over-ripe apple from the limb of 
 that same fruitless tree the second of 
 
 49
 
 thy kind to find justice on it. This, in 
 deed, did I debate with myself. Yet, be- 
 causeit would bring disagreeable thoughts 
 to my mind, and because I know myself 
 punished in theefor my folly in elevating 
 one of thy kind to honor, I do no more 
 than send thee forth. Get thee gone, Ber 
 nard, traitor and troubadour, and get thee 
 far! A horse shall be given thee my 
 last gift of many. Let me see thee never 
 more! " 
 
 He struck upon the floor with his staff, 
 and there appeared the men-at-arms and 
 bore the Troubadour a way. Then came a 
 little later pale Adelaide creeping along 
 the hall, and found the old man huddled 
 in a seat, his eyes sunken, his cheeks color 
 less. 
 
 "My lord" she said, hesitatingly. 
 
 He leaped up and pointed an accusing 
 finger at her. She smiled and held up her 
 head, shaming him with clear gaze, beat 
 ing down his scorn with her deeper scorn. 
 Then, wavering, he all but fell, and she, 
 
 5
 
 calling others to his assistance, saw 
 him borne away. She stood for a time, 
 like a woman of stone in the midst of the 
 vast, dim hall. Perhaps she reviewed all 
 that has passed there. She roused herself 
 and looked around. Gaunt shadows 
 seemed to move in the recesses. The arras 
 swayed slowly. From the court came the 
 sound of hoofs. Some one was departing 
 in haste. Adelaide leaned against a pillar 
 heavily, her hands clasped together and 
 hanging down before her. 
 
 The hoofs clanged loud on the stone, 
 grew faint, then fainter, grew ghostly, 
 ceased ! 
 
 Another sound arose. It was some one 
 singing in a far chamber. Unto her sick 
 soul floated in the words:
 
 U O sweet, my soul, whate er they say, 
 There is no grief like ours to-day, 
 When friend from friend is rent away. 
 Alas, I know too well," said he, 
 "How brief one happy night may be. 
 
 Ah ha! 
 
 I hear the sentry s call afar; 
 Up and away ! 
 Behold the day 
 Comes following the day-star."
 
 TABLEAU III. 
 The Castle. 
 
 THE springhad gone thatspring 
 and others. Now, bleakly, out of 
 the North, blew the rain-smitten 
 wind. It beat on Adelaide s tower with 
 ghostly importunity. It whispered secrets 
 of the castle old crimes committed in 
 those ancient rooms old joys, dead as 
 the sorrows. Whispered the secrets ? 
 Nay, it shrieked them in a wierd anti- 
 phony secrets of the dungeons, of the 
 chambers, of the long, dark, dank pas 
 sages, of the battlements, of the sheer 
 escarpment the Rhone rolled beneath 
 of the towers, of the long refectory, of 
 the rooms where the servants cluttered, 
 the rooms where the knights drank to 
 soddenness; the rooms where babes were 
 born, the rooms where women died! 
 
 There was one dying there now. It 
 was Adelaide, sometime Queen of the 
 
 53
 
 Court of Love, bride of the Viscount of 
 Ventadorn, beloved of the sweetest of all 
 singers, Bernard. 
 
 The room was heated bv a brazier, 
 
 j 
 
 which glowed evilly in the dusk; and 
 wrapped like a nun in sad garments, lay 
 Adelaide. A missal curiously wrought 
 was by her side, and the flambeau caught 
 in its socket above her couch gave her 
 light for reading. At the foot of her cot, 
 raised delicately on a quivering bar was a 
 Crucifix, very featly fashioned. Desiree 
 Autafort and Blanchefleur Vaquerias sat 
 apart from each other there in the gloom 
 ing chamber, and wrapped their young 
 bodies close in garments of heavy silk. 
 And near the couch of Adelaide was the 
 old Countess of Provence. A tender smile 
 sat on her face, and there was a look of 
 courage about her mouth and her brow. 
 "I remember when I came to Venta 
 dorn, " said Adelaide, with gentle remin 
 iscence. "The castle looked most grim. 
 It was such a different matter from our 
 
 54
 
 chateau. There we were always gay. 
 When first I saw the implacability of this 
 Hold, I shuddered, if thou wilt believe 
 me, dear Countess. I should have des 
 paired I think, if I had not presently been 
 led past all those strange, grand, dark 
 rooms to the kindlier side of the castle. 
 There, as thou knowest, it smiled upon 
 the long Plaisance, the avenue of clipped 
 limes, the bewitching Lake of Lilies, 
 made for a Countess of Ventadorn long 
 since dead. " 
 
 She ceased a little, and the wind hush 
 ing, merely crooned like a sad mother. 
 
 "Then I came to love the fruitful mea 
 dows, where apples and grapes throve. I 
 loved the olive groves, the presses for the 
 oil and wine. I loved the great flocks, the 
 herds, the horses. I loved to watch the 
 weavers and the spinners; the tilling of 
 the ground all the good business of the 
 people. I am as curious as a little child, 
 dear Countess. Not many know all the 
 ways of this old castle. But I do; I know 
 
 55
 
 them all. I could teach Ventadorn fifty 
 secrets of his house, were he inclined to 
 know them. There s not a room of all 
 this wandering, terrible place, not a dun 
 geon, not a cellar, not a passage-way but 
 it hath been traversed by me. It passed the 
 time, thou seest. It passed the time. " 
 
 A servant entered with a steaming 
 pitcher, and Desiree lifted the head of 
 Adelaide and gave her the mulled wine. 
 
 " Drink ye too, my dear ones, " smiled 
 Adelaide. "Let us be as merry as we 
 can. I have always been debonnaire, I 
 hope. When I was little and could not 
 guess what life might lie before me, I said 
 to myself I should be debonnaire. It is a 
 woman s form of courage eh, my little 
 ones ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, assented Desiree and Blan- 
 chefleur. 
 
 "And women have need of such cour 
 age, have they not, dear Countess ? Fear 
 and idleness these are the things they 
 must avoid. My mother taught me to 
 
 56
 
 keep myself employed. She said business 
 was balm for world s-woe. She taught 
 me how to distill perfumes and lotions 
 and herbs and flowers; how to make music 
 on the instruments; how to embroider 
 and to spin; how to dance and how to 
 dream. 
 
 " * Women have need of all these things 
 to comfort them, * she said. Also let 
 them study the stars, the earth, the trees, 
 animals, what poets have writ, what the 
 wise have said. Whatever sorrow the 
 heart hath and women may not escape 
 it in these things lies compensation. 
 So my mother said, and she thought much 
 alone, and had learned wisdom. " 
 
 The blind old Countess nodded but did 
 not speak. 
 
 "Ah, how all that she had taught me 
 came back to me the day of my betrothal ! 
 My father told me I was sought by Ven- 
 tadorn. * He is old, whispered my nurse. 
 My mother cried mercy for me but of 
 what avail are the words of a woman ? 
 
 57
 
 That night we wept in each other s arms, 
 and I restedon her breast like a little child. 
 Then at dawn she heartened me. Do as 
 they bid these men, she said. Thou 
 art beautiful and court will be paid thee, 
 and after a fashion thoushalt have thy re 
 venge. But keep thou thy soul to thyself. 
 Thou art lettered and hast delight in fan 
 tasy, and this likewise will give thee a 
 certain power. And hark you daughter, 
 in discourse reveal thy wit, but not thy 
 heart; for, secretly if not openly, the men 
 have contempt for us. They count us 
 adorable, perhaps; miraculous like the 
 Virgin, but not like them, not their equals. 
 They sell us, buy us, beat us, kill us as they 
 please. No one gainsays them. We are 
 their wives. We belong to them. There 
 fore I say keep thy soul free, and thy 
 sufferings will be less. So I went to my 
 marriage. I rode here in splendor. I found 
 myself lady of this vast estate. B ut I kne w 
 not in this splendor that I should find 
 sustenance for my soul. " 
 
 58
 
 "Thou art talking too much, dearest 
 lady," said Blanchefleur. "Let Desire e 
 sing to thee. " 
 
 So Desiree sang softly, and the song of 
 her singing was the penitential lay writ 
 by William of Poitiers: 
 
 "My life I gave to joy and might, 
 But now to both I say good-night. 
 To Him I go, for my release, 
 Who gives to every sinner peace. 
 
 "Charming and gay the mien I bore, 
 The Lord now wills it so no more; 
 The weight I can no longer bear, 
 I have approached the end so near. 
 
 "I leave all things most dear to me, 
 All worldly pride and chivalry; 
 Whate er God wills, that I embrace, 
 And pray that he will show me grace." 
 
 Minor and haunting was the strain, 
 and when it had ceased, still her wander 
 ing fingers strayed among the mournful 
 strings, and the wind, teachable, elfish, 
 caught the strain and echoed it, till faint, 
 mocking, melodious cries sounded all 
 about the tower. 
 
 "I remember well the day that thou 
 
 59
 
 foretoldst to William the Sinner, dear 
 Countess, that he should sing this peni 
 tential chant. It was the last perfect day 
 of our Court of Love the golden, cloud 
 less day. After that, I remember me, the 
 lightness was gone. " 
 
 The old Countess fingered her great 
 yellow pearls and answered not a word. 
 
 "Thou thoughtst I loved Bernard," 
 cried Adelaide, with sudden, affectionate 
 reproach. "Doth one love a bird in the 
 tree ? Doth one love a little sun-flushed 
 cloud in the sky ? Yet for his melody I 
 loved him; for his fairness I had joy of 
 him. Starving, one takes whatever morsel 
 offers, and if there be a dainty at hand ! 
 Well, well, thou comprehendst! You are 
 all women. Now he is gone long since. 
 The other day there came to my hearing 
 a song he writ in honor of Eleanor the 
 Beautiful. Lend me thy lyre, Desiree, 
 and let me see if I may sing once more. " 
 
 They propped her up and gave her the 
 little golden instrument, and with a pas- 
 60
 
 sion of pathos sh sang the song which 
 her sometime lover had made to a woman 
 fairer than herself: 
 
 "When I behold on eager wing 
 The skylark soaring to the sun, 
 Till e en with rapture faltering 
 He sinks in glad oblivion, 
 Alas, how fain to seek were I 
 The same ecstatic fate of fire! 
 Yea, of a truth I know not why 
 My heart melts not with its desire. 
 
 "Methought that I knew everything 
 Oflove. Alas, my lore was none! 
 For helpless now my praise I bring 
 To one who still that praise doth shun, 
 One who hath robbed me utterly 
 Of soul, of self, of life entire, 
 So that my heart can only cry 
 For that it ever shall require. 
 
 "For ne er have 1 of self been king, 
 Since that first hour, so long agone, 
 When to thine eyes bewildering, 
 As to a mirror, I was drawn. 
 Then let me gaze until I die; 
 So doth my soul of sighing tire, 
 As in the fount, in days gone by, 
 The fair Narcissus did expire. " 
 
 They took the instrument from her, 
 and laid her back among the pillows. 
 61
 
 "It is a fairer song than ever he sang to 
 me, " she said and smiled. 
 
 And now the old blind Countess was 
 mumbling and muttering; and listening 
 the women caught shadows of sentences, 
 vague shapes of ideas, as one beholds mov 
 ing phantoms, half-formed, in the beryl 
 stone. Mumbling with the wind the 
 same word over and over, muttering with 
 the rain that washed the pane, they caught 
 her phrases only in part. 
 
 "World s woe," she said, "world s 
 woe! I am blind now, but in my day I 
 have seen what I have seen. The monks 
 in their cells, who call women evil; the 
 knights and lords, who think them base; 
 the poets, talking foolishly to them; 
 what do any of these know ? It is the 
 women who learn for Sorrow is their 
 teacher. It is the women who know 
 for it is Pain who instrufteth them. The 
 men have sung to us, and fought for us, 
 they have decked us out in jewels, they 
 have made a brave showing for us in our 
 62
 
 bridal processions, and slain those who 
 desired us unlawfully. But have they 
 spoken to us with frank speech ? Have 
 they known the pain we bore; the sorrow 
 we pressed to our bosoms; the longing 
 that teased us, and would not let us rest 
 the longing for Light ? Oh, it is not I 
 who am blind I, who have no eyes. 
 They are blind, who having eyes, can not 
 behold. For surely in the East the Dawn 
 breaks! Amber and white and silver 
 like seraphim wings ! " 
 
 And Adelaide, understanding the sym 
 bol, murmured: "The Dawn breaks ! " 
 
 But those watching through the bitter 
 night saw no such dawn. Only after a 
 time, over the darkling hills, came a wan 
 light and spread till all the earth was 
 ghost-pale with the glow of it. The wind 
 sank. The rain ceased. The noises of the 
 castle crept up the stair. Desiree rested 
 her cheek on her fair arm and slept. 
 Blanchefleur told her beads, for she knew 
 a soul was passing. And the old Countess 
 
 63
 
 of Provence muttered as she drowsed: 
 "The Sorrow of Women! Heart s woe! 
 Heart s woe! " 
 
 And now behold, here is the lament 
 written by Raoul de Coucy, saddest of his 
 house, wanderer, beggar, Troubadour, he 
 of the true heart, who, loving utterly, 
 spoke nothing of his love; and being be 
 reft, sang this song: 
 
 "Of all the wretched I am he who bears 
 Most grevious pain and anguish of the mind. 
 I long to die, and I would deem him kind 
 Who slew me, for my spirit so despairs: 
 My life is naught but misery and dread 
 Since Lady Adelaide, alas ! is dead: 
 I suffer from the injury and dole. 
 O traitorous Death! you can most truly say, 
 A better in the world you could not slay. 
 
 "Ah, it had been a blessed thing 
 If God had willed that I should first have died. 
 Wretched, alas! I would not long abide, 
 Now she is gone. Pardon her, Jesus, King, 
 Almighty God of justice and of truth; 
 Save her, O Christ, by thy exceeding ruth! 
 St. Peter and St. John receive her soul! 
 For in it dwell all virtues men can see, 
 And from all trace of evil it is free. 
 
 "We may be sure the happy angels raise
 
 A song of joy on knowing she is deid, 
 For I have heard, and in the books t is read 
 Godpraises one whom all the people praise. 
 Whence I am sure she s in the palace fair, 
 Amongst the lilies and the roses, where 
 The angels praise her joyously in song. 
 So should, indeed, the one who never lies 
 Seat her above the rest in Paradise. 
 
 4 Ah, since my Lady Adelaide has died, 
 What ills I bear! For I must lay aside 
 All joy, and say to song my last good-bye. 
 Sighing and weeping henceforth is my part, 
 And sad complaint and anguish of the heart." 
 
 Here endeth "Castle, Knight and 
 Troubadour, " as written by Elia W. 
 Peattie; the frontispiece was drawn by 
 Harry Everett To wnsend; and the whole 
 made into this book and sold by The Blue 
 Sky Press, at 4732 Kenwood Avenue, in 
 Chicago. Of this first edition there were 
 printed one hundred and seventy - five 
 copies on paper and twenty-five copies 
 on Japan vellum, this being number
 
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