Texts of the
poems discussed are appended to this essay.
Numbers in brackets refer to endnotes while those in parentheses are
line numbers.
The twelfth
century Troubadour Jaufre Rudel enjoyed a sort of vogue during the nineteenth
century, not so much for his verses as for his legendary biography. [1] The medievalist taste of the era, familiar
from works like Tennyson’s Idylls of the King and pre-Raphaelite
painting, found his vida irresistible.
The poet’s apparent death during the second Crusade and his works
celebrating the value of “amor de lonh” (“love from afar”) were the
basis for the tale that, in spite of never having seen her, he had fallen in
love with the Countess of Tripoli, an area in northern Lebanon and parts of
western Syria then under European rule.
The vida relates that he fell ill while traveling and survived
only long enough for the noble lady to arrive and embrace him, so impressing
her that she thereupon entered a convent.
The cansos themselves are perhaps most productively read as
expressions of a super-refined love, purified almost to the point of
transcending the physical altogether under an impulse similar to that which
underlies the stilnovismo of Dante.
Like the mystical poems of Mechthild and John of the Cross, they express
the simultaneous selflessness and selfishness of love, the intense desire for
union with another, never quite satisfied except perhaps in moments of
transport.
For the
nineteenth century, though, the poems were beside the point. Appropriations of Jaufre arose from the vida
alone. Though the theme of the
exaltation of love persisted and the basic terms of the story remained
consistent, the legend was put to a variety of uses. A survey of poems appropriating the story by
Uhland, Heine, Swinburne, and Carducci will, not surprisingly, indicate the
attitudes and values not of the Middle Ages, but of the more modern era. Like other literary conventions, the
narrative elements some Structuralists would call mythemes are capable of
embodying a variety of meanings and engendering multiple variations.
Ludwig Uhland’s
“Rudello” (1815) is a Romantic myth idealizing Provence as a poetic land in a
way similar to Keats’ attitude toward ancient Greece, implicitly praising
strong emotion while describing a hero doomed for loving too much. Yet there is little darkness in this spiritualized
whimsy, later set to music by Schumann. The
opening, reminiscent of a medieval allegory, fancifully traces the parentage of
the courtly love lyric, southern France’s “reichste Blüte” (“finest
flower”) (11), to “Frühling” (spring) and “Minne” (love). In Uhland’s telling, the poet’s passion is so
potent that it summons up the spirit of the beloved who sweeps about his
chamber as an apparition.
Denn nur in geheimen Nächten
Nahte sie dem Sänger leise,
Selbst den Boden nie berührend,
Spurlos, schwank, in Traumesweise. (25-28)
(For only in the shrouded night does she softly approach the
singer, never even touching the floor, without a trace, wavering, in the manner
of a dream.”
Wollt er sie mit Armen fassen,
Schwand sie in die Wolken wieder,
Und aus Seufzern und aus Tränen
Wurden dann ihm süße Lieder. 29-32
(Should he try to take her in his arms, she will vanish into
vapor, and from his sighs and tears sweet songs came to him.)
In Heinrich Heine’s “Geoffroy Rudèl und
Melisande von Tripoli” [2] the vida becomes the basis for a ghost story
reminiscent of E. T. A. Hoffman, told in the form of a ballad rather than a
Gothic Novelle. Heine’s
innovations include imagining tapestries illustrating the story woven by his
beloved, including the moment of the poet’s death. “Alas!
The welcoming kiss was at the same time a kiss of farewell.” (“Ach! der Kuß des Willkomms wurde/ Auch
zugleich der Kuß des Scheidens” 21-22) The tone is that of a gossipy raconteur, a host
perhaps, relating a curious and colorful local legend. Even the narrative of Jaufre’s life is here
secondary, though. The focus is on the
spectral hijinks of the lovers’ spirits who flitter about like spooks in an Ub
Iwerks cartoon.
In Blay Castle every night
One hears a rustling, cracking, shaking,
The tapestry figures
Suddenly come to life.
(25-28)
In dem Schlosse Blay allnächtlich
Gibt's ein Rauschen, Knistern, Beben,
Die Figuren der Tapete
Fangen plötzlich an zu leben.
Algernon Charles Swinburne’s “The Triumph
of Time” uses the Jaufré legend as the basis for a typically self-dramatizing pose
with its persona swooning near death when denied his love. The stanza is elaborate with iambs stumbling
over anapests in breathless tetrameters that snap to order at each line’s end,
regularly rhyming ababccab. The poet’s
legend is related in a few lines. Due to
his love for the distant lady he hinds himself failing “for her love’s
sake.” (325) She approaches, bids him “Live” (331), and he
revives for a moment, enjoying then the full joys of love, so that he dies
“praising God for his gift and grace. (329)
Lest this be taken as a dramatic climax, it is followed by eight stanzas
of the poet’s lamenting his greater suffering.
He vows never again to smell roses. (353) Moreover, he spitefully declares, “I shall
hate sweet music my whole life long.” (360)
Planning to continue his protestations into the afterlife, he concludes
“If I cry to you then, will you hear or know?” (392)
For Swinburne Jaufré’s story turns out to be
simply the case of a lover in less distress than his own. Still he works up considerable froth with his
usual overwrought protestations, arguing that death would be far preferable to
his death-in-life, deprived of the object of his affections who had married someone
else, all the more rapidly perhaps once she glimpsed the poet in pursuit. He expresses a passion about passion
commensurate with the Troubadour’s and with a similar foregrounding of
technical and musical effects.
Swinburne, here as elsewhere, dissipates his effect by excessive
repetition.
In Giosue Carducci’s “Geoffrey Rudel” (1888)
Mélisande
is substituted for her mother Hodierna and Bertrand, an aide to Jaufre, is
introduced. The poem begins on shipboard
with the poet already mortally stricken.
The focus is on the climactic moment with the insight of the dying man
who declares,
– Contessa, che è mai la vita?
E’ l’ombra d’un sogno fuggente.
La favola breve è finita,
il vero immortale è l’amor. 73-76
“Lady, what is this life of ours?
The fleeting shadow of a dream.
Now end the fable’s transient hours,
‘Tis only love that knows not death.
In cosmic affirmation of that realization, the sun suddenly breaks though and shone “dal cielo sereno” just as the princess’ blond hair falls as though beams of light (irragio) on the body of the poet.
E il sole dal cielo sereno
calando ridente ne l’onda
l’effusa di lei chioma biona
su ‘l morto poeta irraggiò.” 85-88
The sun broke through his misty veil.
From sky serene shone on the sea.
The lady’s golden locks set free
Like light o’er the dead poet fell.”
The polysemous
potential of Jaufre’s story is evident in these uses alone, but this survey far
from exhausts the recent revisionary versions of the story. Stendhal reprints the vida as section
CLXIII of De l’Amour (1822) and Rostand spun out the tale over four acts in La
princesse lointaine (1895), a vehicle for Sarah Bernhardt. Twentieth century retellings include “Rudel
and the Lady of Tripoli” by A. Mary F. Robinson (known also as Madame Duclaux)
(1902) and A Knight's Life in the Days of Chivalry by Walter Clifford
Meller (1924). This last was a source
for in Alfred Döblin’s extraordinarily ironic picture of Jaufie (as Döblin
unaccountably calls the poet) in his last novel Hamlet or The Long
Night Comes to an End. Döblin seeks
to undo the accumulation of Romantic and sentimental associations for the story
by a distinctively bathetic treatment like Joyce had provided in Ulysses. In this belated version Jaufie is escaping
the consequences of an adulterous affair when he sails toward the princess who
turns out to be old and ugly as well as a drinker of human blood (in search of
youth). His real love, called Petite
Lay, is a commoner, in eligible for engagement in courtly love. These later turns of the legend are beyond
the scope of this article.
The body of associations Döblin was overturning are apparent in the review of four nineteenth century poetic treatments from three different countries. Though they make no changes in the fundamental terms of the story, each conveys a wholly different tone.
Uhland makes of Jaufre a grand Romantic
ideal, though exotic and unattainable, an idealized location in time and place,
itself a “love from afar,” like that later parodied in Edgar Arlington
Robinson’s “Miniver Cheevy” who absurdly “loved the days of old.” It is that retrospective view, the longing
for the past, that first distinguishes this reading from the work of Jaufre
itself. Yet such a nostalgic sensibility
had appeared in the vida itself, less than a century after the poet had
died, a reflex placing the symbolic action with only a mediated relation to
lived experience.
In Heine’s ballad this exalted notion of a
poetic Provence is transformed into the quaint and picturesque setting for an
entertaining story of poltergeist-like spirits haunting a French castle. The focus has passed from momentous and
potent emotion to the curious side-effects that followed the decease of the two
lovers. The tone is that of a storyteller,
passing time about the fireside.
One might have thought that Jaufre’s story
is as extreme and extravagant an example of romantic devotion a poet might
conceive. Yet the reader of Swinburne
finds that for him Jaufre is merely an occasion for the swooning aesthete to
more dramatically paint his own self-portrait, recovering the emotional energy
but using the medieval example to emphasize his own greater capacity for love.
Finally, for Carducci the legend provides
the occasion for an operatic full-dress scene of insight into the evanescence
of experience, delineated with magisterial control. Carducci synthesized Romanticism in his celebration
of passion with a highly Classical attention to craft.
1.
The vida is short enough to include here in its entirety in both Old
Occitan and in English.
Jaufres Rudels de Blaia si fo mout
gentils hom, princes de Blaia. Et enamoret se de la comtessa de Tripol, ses
vezer, per lo ben qu’el n’auzi dire als pelerins que venguen d’Antiocha. E fez
de leis mains vers ab bons sons, ab paubres motz. E per voluntat de leis vezer,
et se croset e se mes en mar, e pres lo malautia en la nau, e fo condug a
Tripol, en un alberc, per mort. E fo fait saber a la comtessa et ella venc ad
el, al son leit e pres lo antre sos bratz. E saup qu’ella era la comtessa, e
mantenent recobret l’auzir e·l flairar, e lauzet Dieu, que l’avia la vida sostenguda tro qu’el
l’agues vista; et enaissi el mori entre sos bratz. Et ella lo fez a gran honor
sepellir en la maison del Temple; e pois, en aquel dia, ella se rendet morga,
per la dolor qu’ella n’ac de la mort de lui.
Jaufré Rudel, of Blaye, was a very
noble man, prince of Blaye. He fell in love with the Countess of Tripoli,
without ever having seen her, because of the good things he heard being said
about her by pilgrims who came from Antioch. And he made about her many verses
with good melodies but with weak wordings. And because he longed to see her, he
took up the cross [= joined the Crusades] and set out to sail the seas. He fell
ill in the ship and was taken to Tripoli, to an inn, near dead. The Countess
was notified about him, and she came to him—came right up to his bed, and took
him in her arms. He recognized that it was the countess, and, instantly, he
recovered his sense of hearing and his sense of smell [for smelling her
perfume], and he praised God for keeping him alive long enough for him to have
the power of vision to see her. That is how he died, enfolded in her arms. She
had him buried in the house of the Temple, honoring him greatly. Then she
became a nun, that same day, because of the sorrow she felt over his death.
2. Published in Romanzero (1851). The Countess is the historic figure Hodierna
in many retellings. Here the role is
passed down to her daughter Melisande.
Rudello
Ludwig Uhland
In den Talen der Provence
Ist der Minnesang entsprossen,
Kind des Frühlings und der Minne,
Holder, inniger Genossen.
Blütenglanz und süße Stimme
Konnt an ihm den Vater zeigen,
Herzensglut und tiefes Schmachten
War ihm von der Mutter eigen.
Selige Provencer Tale,
Üppig blühend wart ihr immer,
Aber eure reichste Blüte
War des Minneliedes Schimmer. 12
Jene tapfern, schmucken Ritter,
Welch ein edler Sängerorden!
Jene hochbeglückten Damen,
Wie sie schön gefeiert worden!
Vielgeehrt im Sängerchore
War Rudellos werter Name,
Vielgepriesen, vielbeneidet
Die von ihm besungne Dame.
Aber niemand mocht erkunden,
Wie sie hieße, wo sie lebte,
Die so herrlich, überirdisch
In Rudellos Liedern schwebte; 24
Denn nur in geheimen Nächten
Nahte sie dem Sänger leise,
Selbst den Boden nie berührend,
Spurlos, schwank, in Traumesweise.
Wollt er sie mit Armen fassen,
Schwand sie in die Wolken wieder,
Und aus Seufzern und aus Tränen
Wurden dann ihm süße Lieder.
Schiffer, Pilger, Kreuzesritter
Brachten dazumal die Märe,
Daß von Tripolis die Gräfin
Aller Frauen Krone wäre; 36
Und so oft Rudell es hörte,
Fühlt' er sich's im Busen
schlagen,
Und es trieb ihn nach dem Strande,
Wo die Schiffe fertig lagen.
Meer, unsichres, vielbewegtes,
Ohne Grund und ohne Schranken!
Wohl auf deiner regen Wüste
Mag die irre Sehnsucht
schwanken. 44
Fern von Tripolis verschlagen,
Irrt die Barke mit dem Sänger;
Äußrem Sturm und innrem Drängen
Widersteht Rudell nicht länger.
Schwer erkranket liegt er nieder,
Aber ostwärts schaut er immer,
Bis sich hebt am letzten Rand
Ein Palast im Morgenschimmer.
Und der Himmel hat Erbarmen
Mit des kranken Sängers Flehen,
In den Port von Tripolis
Fliegt das Schiff mit günst'gem
Wehen. 56
Kaum vernimmt die schöne Gräfin,
Daß so edler Gast gekommen,
Der allein um ihretwillen
Übers weite Meer geschwommen:
Alsobald mit ihren Frauen
Steigt sie nieder unerbeten,
Als Rudello, schwanken Ganges,
Eben das Gestad betreten.
Schon will sie die Hand ihm
reichen,
Doch ihm dünkt, der Boden
schwinde;
In des Führers Arme sinkt er,
Haucht sein Leben in die Winde.
Ihren Sänger ehrt die Herrin
Durch ein prächtiges Begängnis,
Und ein Grabmal von Porphyr
Lehrt sein trauriges
Verhängnis. 72
Seine Lieder läßt sie schreiben
Allesamt mit goldnen Lettern,
Köstlich ausgezierte Decken
Gibt sie diesen teuren Blättern;
Liest darin so manche Stunde,
Ach! und oft mit heißen Tränen,
Bis auch sie ergriffen ist
Von dem unnennbaren Sehnen.
Von des Hofes lust'gem Glanz,
Aus der Freunde Kreis geschieden,
Suchet sie in Klostermauern
Ihrer armen Seele Frieden. 84
Rudello
Ludwig Uhland
In the valleys of Provence
The courtly love song arose,
Child of springtime and of love,
Lovely, fervent companions.
The radiance of blossoms and sweet
voices
Reminds one of its father,
The ardour of the heart and deep
pining
Came to it from its mother.
Blessed valleys of Provence,
You were ever lushly blooming,
But your richest blossom
[Was]1 the shimmer of the courtly
love song. 12
Those valiant, trim knights,
What a noble guild of minstrels!
Those greatly delighted ladies,
How beautifully they were
celebrated!
Highly honoured in the choir of
minstrels
Was Rudello’s worthy name,
Praised much, envied much
That woman whom he lauded in song.
But no one was able to ascertain
What she was called, where she
lived,
She who so gloriously,
transcendently
Hovered in Rudello’s songs; 24
For only in secret nights
Did she quietly approach the
singer,
Not ever even touching the ground,
Traceless, swaying, as in a dream.
If he wished to catch her in his
arms,
She vanished once more into the
clouds,
And out of sighing and out of
tears
Sweet songs were born to him.
Mariners, pilgrims, crusaders
At that time brought the tidings
That the Duchess of Tripoli
Was the queen of all women; 36
And whenever Rudello heard it,
He felt a pulsing within his
breast,
And he felt himself compelled to
go to the shore
Where the ships lay ready.
Ocean, precarious, turbulent,
Bottomless and limitless!
Upon your agitated desert
Mad longing might well range.
Far off course from Tripoli
The barque strays about with the
minstrel;
Rudello can no longer withstand
The outer tempests and the inner
urging. 48
Gravely ill he lies stricken,
But he constantly gazes eastward,
Until at the final horizon there
arises
A palace in the shimmer of
morning.
And Heaven takes mercy
On the ailing minstrel’s pleading;
Into the Port of Tripoli
The ship flies, driven by favourable
winds.
Barely has the beautiful Duchess
heard
That such a noble guest has
arrived,
A guest who for her sake alone
Has travelled over the wide sea: 60
Immediately with her ladies
She descends to the shore,
unasked,
Just as Rudello, with tottering
gait,
Steps ashore.
Already she extends her hand to
him,
But he feels as if the ground has
disappeared from under his feet;
He sinks into the captain’s arms,
And breathes his last into the
winds.
The Lady honours her minstrel
With a stately burial,
And a monument of porphyry
Tells of his tragic fate. 72
His songs she has scribed --
All of them -- in gold letters;
Magnificently decorated covers
She places upon these precious
leaves;
Many an hour she spends reading
the book,
Alas! and oft with burning tears,
Until she too has been seized
By the nameless yearning.
Departed from the gay brightness
of the court,
From her circle of friends,
In the stone walls of a convent
She seeks peace for her poor soul. 84
Geoffroy Rudèl und Melisande von
Tripoli
Heinrich Heine
In dem Schlosse Blay erblickt man
Die Tapete an den Wänden,
So die Gräfin Tripolis
Einst gestickt mit klugen Händen.
Ihre ganze Seele stickte
Sie hinein, und Liebesträne
Hat gefeit das seidne Bildwerk,
Welches darstellt jene Szene:
Wie die Gräfin den Rudèl,
Sterbend sah am Strande liegen,
Und das Urbild ihrer Sehnsucht
Gleich erkannt in seinen Zügen.
Auch Rudèl hat hier zum ersten
Und zum letzten Mal erblicket
In der Wirklichkeit die Dame,
Die ihn oft im Traum
entzücket. 16
Über ihn beugt sich die Gräfin,
Hält ihn liebevoll umschlungen,
Küßt den todesbleichen Mund,
Der so schön ihr Lob gesungen!
Ach! der Kuß des Willkomms wurde
Auch zugleich der Kuß des
Scheidens,
Und so leerten sie den Kelch
Höchster Lust und tiefsten
Leidens.
In dem Schlosse Blay allnächtlich
Gibt's ein Rauschen, Knistern,
Beben,
Die Figuren der Tapete
Fangen plötzlich an zu leben.
Troubadour und Dame schütteln
Die verschlafnen Schattenglieder,
Treten aus der Wand und wandeln
Durch die Säle auf und
nieder. 32
Trautes Flüstern, sanftes Tändeln,
Wehmutsüße Heimlichkeiten,
Und postume Galantrie
Aus des Minnesanges Zeiten:
»Geoffroy! Mein totes Herz
Wird erwärmt von deiner Stimme,
In den längst erloschnen Kohlen
Fühl ich wieder ein
Geglimme!« 40
»Melisande! Glück und Blume!
Wenn ich dir ins Auge sehe,
Leb ich auf - gestorben ist
Nur mein Erdenleid und - wehe.«
»Geoffroy! Wir liebten uns
Einst im Traume, und jetzunder
Lieben wir uns gar im Tode -
Gott Amour tat dieses Wunder!«
»Melisande! Was ist Traum?
Was ist Tod? Nur eitel Töne.
In der Liebe nur ist Wahrheit,
Und dich lieb ich, ewig
Schöne.« 52
»Geoffroy! Wie traulich ist es
Hier im stillen Mondscheinsaale,
Möchte nicht mehr draußen wandeln
In des Tages Sonnenstrahle.«
»Melisande! teure Närrin,
Du bist selber Licht und Sonne,
Wo du wandelst, blüht der
Frühling,
Sprossen Lieb' und Maienwonne!«
Also kosen, also wandeln
Jene zärtlichen Gespenster
Auf und ab, derweil das Mondlicht
Lauschet durch die Bogenfenster.
Doch den holden Spuk vertreibend,
Kommt am End' die Morgenröte -
Jene huschen scheu zurück
In die Wand, in die Tapete. 68
Geoffrey Rudel and Melisande of
Tripoli
Heinrich Heine
In the Château Blay still see we
Tapestry the walls adorning,
Worked by Tripoli’s fair countess’
Own fair hands, no labour scorning.
Her whole soul was woven in it,
And with loving tears and tender
Hallow’d is the silken picture,
Which the following scene doth
render:
How the Countess saw Rudèl
Dying on the strand of ocean,
And the’ ideal in his features
Traced of all her heart’s emotion. 12
For the first and last time also
Living saw Rudèl and breathing
Her who in his every vision
Intertwining was and wreathing.
Over him the Countess bends her,
Lovingly his form she raises,
And his deadly-pale mouth kisses,
That so sweetly sang her praises.
Ah! the kiss of welcome likewise
Was the kiss of separation,
And they drain’d the cup of
wildest
Joy, and deepest desolation. 24
In the Château Blay at night-time
Comes a rushing, crackling,
shaking
On the tapestry the figures
Suddenly to life are waking.
Troubadour and lady stretch their
Drowsy ghostlike members yonder,
And from out the wall advancing,
Up and down the hall they wander.
Whispers fond and gentle toying,
Sad-sweet secrets,
heart-enthralling,
Posthumous gallánt soft speeches,
Minnesingers’ times recalling: 36
“Geoffry! At thy voice’s music
“Warmth is in my dead heart
glowing,
“And I feel once more a glimmer
“In the long-quench’d embers
growing!”
“Melisanda! I awaken
“Unto happiness and gladness,
“When I see thine eyes; dead only
“Is my earthly pain and sadness.”
“Geoffry! Once we loved each other
“In our dreams; now, cut asunder
“By the hand of death, still love
we,—
“Amor ’tis that wrought this
wonder!” 48
“Melisanda! What are dreams?
“What is death? Mere words to scare
one!
“Truth in love alone e’er find we,
“And I love thee, ever fair one!”
“Geoffry! O how sweet our meetings
“In this moonlit chamber nightly,
“Now that in the day’s bright
sunbeams
“I no more shall wander lightly.”
“Melisanda! Foolish dear one!
“Thou art light and sun, thou
knowest!
“Love and joys of May are budding,
“Spring is blooming, where thou
goest!”— 60
Thus those tender spectres wander
Up and down, and sweet caresses
Interchange, whilst peeps the
moonlight
Through the window’s arch’d
recesses.
But at length the rays of morning
Scare away the fond illusion;
To the tapestry retreat they
On the wall, in shy confusion. 68
conclusion of “The Triumph of Time”
Algernon Charles Swinburne
There lived a singer in France of
old
By the tideless dolorous midland sea.
In a land of sand and ruin and
gold
There shone one woman, and none but she.
And finding life for her love's
sake fail,
Being fain to see her, he bade set
sail,
Touched land, and saw her as life
grew cold,
And praised God, seeing; and so died he. 328
Died, praising God for his gift
and grace:
For she bowed down to him weeping, and
said
"Live;" and her tears
were shed on his face
Or ever the life in his face was shed.
The sharp tears fell through her
hair, and stung
Once, and her close lips touched
him and clung
Once, and grew one with his lips
for a space;
And so drew back, and the man was dead.
O brother, the gods were good to
you.
Sleep, and be glad while the world
endures.
Be well content as the years wear
through;
Give thanks for life, and the loves and
lures;
Give thanks for life, O brother,
and death,
For the sweet last sound of her feet,
her breath,
For gifts she gave you, gracious
and few,
Tears and kisses, that lady of yours. 344
Rest, and be glad of the gods; but
I,
How shall I praise them, or how take
rest?
There is not room under all the
sky
For me that know not of worst or best,
Dream or desire of the days
before,
Sweet things or bitterness, any
more.
Love will not come to me now
though I die,
As love came close to you, breast to
breast.
I shall never be friends again
with roses;
I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note
grown strong
Relents and recoils, and climbs
and closes,
As a wave of the sea turned back by song.
There are sounds where the soul's
delight takes fire,
Face to face with its own desire;
A delight that rebels, a desire
that reposes;
I shall hate sweet music my whole life
long.
The pulse of war and passion of
wonder,
The heavens that murmur, the sounds that
shine,
The stars that sing and the loves
that thunder,
The music burning at heart like wine,
An armed archangel whose hands
raise up
All senses mixed in the spirit's
cup
Till flesh and spirit are molten
in sunder —
These things are over, and no more mine. 368
These were a part of the playing I
heard
Once, ere my love and my heart were at
strife;
Love that sings and hath wings as
a bird,
Balm of the wound and heft of the knife.
Fairer than earth is the sea, and
sleep
Than overwatching of eyes that
weep,
Now time has done with his one
sweet word,
The wine and leaven of lovely life.
I shall go my ways, tread out my
measure,
Fill the days of my daily breath
With fugitive things not good to
treasure,
Do as the world doth, say as it saith;
But if we had loved each other — O
sweet,
Had you felt, lying under the
palms of your feet,
The heart of my heart, beating
harder with pleasure
To feel you tread it to dust and death —
Ah, had I not taken my life up and
given
All that life gives and the years let go,
The wine and honey, the balm and
leaven,
The dreams reared high and the hopes
brought low?
Come life, come death, not a word
be said;
Should I lose you living, and vex
you dead?
I never shall tell you on earth;
and in heaven,
If I cry to you then, will you hear or
know? 392
Geoffrey Rudel
Giosue Carducci
“Dal Libano trema e rosseggia
su ‘l mare la fresca mattina:
da Cipri avanzando veleggia
la nave crociata latina.
A poppa di febbre anelante
sta il prence di Blaia, Rudello,
e cerca co ‘l guardo natante
di Tripoli in alto il castello.
In vista a la spiaggia asiana
risuona la nota canzone:
“Amore di terra lontana,
per voi tutto il cuore mi duol”.
Il volo di un grigio alcione
prosegue la dolce querela,
e sovra la candida vela
s’affligge di nuvoli il sol. 16
La nave ammaina, posando
nel placido porto. Discende
soletto e pensoso Bertrando,
la via per al colle egli prende.
Velato di funebre benda
lo scudo di Blaia ha con sè:
affretta al castel: – Melisenda
contessa di Tripoli ov’è?
Io vengo messaggio d’amore,
io vengo messaggio di morte:
messaggio vengo io del signore
di Blaia, Giaufredo Rudel.
Notizie di voi gli fur porte,
v’amò vi cantò non veduta:
ei viene e si muor. Vi saluta,
Signora, il poeta fedel. –
La dama guardò lo scudiero
a lungo, pensosa in sembianti:
poi surse, adombrò d’un vel nero
la faccia con gli occhi stellanti:
– Scudier, – disse rapida –
andiamo.
Ov’è che Giaufredo si muore?
Il primo al fedele rechiamo
e l’ultimo motto d’amore. – 40
Giacea sotto un bel padiglione
Giaufredo al conspetto del mare:
in nota gentil di canzone
levava il supremo desir.
– Signor che volesti creare
per me questo amore lontano,
deh fa che a la dolce sua mano
commetta l’estremo respir! –
Intanto co ‘l fido Bertrando
veniva la donna invocata;
e l’ultima nota ascoltando
pietosa ristè su l’entrata:
Ma presto, con mano tremante
il velo gettando, scoprì
la faccia; ed al misero amante
– Giaufredo, – ella disse, – son
qui. –
Voltossi, levossi co ‘l petto
su i folti tappeti il signore,
e fiso al bellissimo aspetto
con lungo sospiro guardò.
– Son questi i begli occhi che
amore
pensando promisemi un giorno?
E’ questa la fronte ove intorno
il vago mio sogno volò? –
Sì come a la notte di maggio
la luna da i nuvoli fuora
diffonde il suo candido raggio
su’l mondo che vegeta e odora,
tal quella serena bellezza
apparve al rapito amatore,
un’alta divina dolcezza
stillando al morente nel
cuore. 72
– Contessa, che è mai la vita?
E’ l’ombra d’un sogno fuggente.
La favola breve è finita,
il vero immortale è l’amor.
Aprite le braccia al dolente.
Vi aspetto al novissimo bando.
Ed or, Melisenda, accomando
a un bacio lo spirto che muor –
La donna su ‘l pallido amante
chinossi recandolo al seno,
tre volte la bocca tremante
co ‘l bacio d’amore baciò.
E il sole dal cielo sereno
calando ridente ne l’onda
l’effusa di lei chioma biona
su ‘l morto poeta irraggiò.” 88
Giosue
Carducci
“From Lebanon the cool fresh morn
Sheds rosy tremors on the sea ;
By Latin barque the cross is borne
From Cyprus sailing gallantly.
On deck stands Rudel, Prince of
Blaye,
With fever faint, his yearning
eyes
Seek on the heights above the bay
Where Tripoli’s fair castle lies.
When he beholds the Asian strand,
The famous song he sings anew.
“Love hath for you from far-off
land
Filled all my heart with aching
pain.”
The circlings of the grey sea-mew
Follow the lover’s sweet
complaint;
On the white sails the sun grows
faint.
Obscured by clouds in fleecy
train.
The ship in the calm haven drops
Her anchor fast ; Bertrand
descends
In anxious care, naught heeds, nor
stops.
Toward the hill his way he wends.
With mourning trappings all
bedight
The shield of Blaye is in his
hand.
He hastens to the Castle height :
” Where is the Lady Mélisande?”
“The messenger of love I come,
I come the messenger of death.
I come to seek you in your home
From Blaye’s good lord, Geoffrey
Rudel.
He caught your fame on Rumour’s
breath.
Unseen he loved you, sang of you.
He comes, he dies ; this poet
true.
Lady, to you sends his
farewell.” 32
With pensive mien the lady rose,
Looked at the squire, some moments
stayed,
Then a black veil around her
throws,
Her face and star-like eyes to
shade.
“Sir Squire,” quoth she, her words
come fast,
“Let us go where Sir Geoffrey
lies.
That we may bear the first and
last
Word love may utter ere he dies.”
Beneath his fair tent pitched
along
Beside the sea Sir Geoffrey lay.
In low tones sang one tender song
That told his heart’s supreme
desire.
“Lord, who didst will that far
away
My love should dwell in Eastern
lands.
Grant that I may in her dear hands
Commit my soul as I expire.”
Guided by faithful Bertrand’s hand
The lady came, the last note
caught.
Before the entrance Mélisande
Lingered, her heart with pity
fraught.
But soon with trembling hand she
threw
Her veil aside, her face left
clear.
Near to her lover sad she drew.
And murmured : “Geoffrey, I am
here.” 56
Stretched on a low divan he lay.
Turning, then vainly strove to
rise;
With a long sigh the Lord of Blaye
Upon those lovely features gazed.
“is that the face, are these the
eyes
Love promised one day should be
mine?
Around that brow did I entwine
Vague dreams my waking thought had
raised”
Just as the moon on some May night
Bursts through the clouds’
encircling gloom.
Flooding the earth with silvery
light,
Fills it with growth and with
perfume.
So to the enchanted lover seems
This tranquil beauty to impart
Sweetness divine beyond all
dreams,
Filling the dying poet’s heart.
“Lady, what is this life of ours?
The fleeting shadow of a dream.
Now end the fable’s transient
hours,
‘Tis only love that knows not
death.
To one in agony supreme
Open thine arms. On the last day
I wait for thee; a kiss now may
Commend to thee my latest breath.”
80
The lady held him to her breast.
And bending o’er her lover pale
Upon his quivering lips she
pressed
Love’s kiss of greeting and
farewell.
The sun broke through his misty
veil.
From sky serene shone on the sea.
The lady’s golden locks set free
Like light o’er the dead poet
fell.”
