Before joy and its parliaments had dispersed the general gloom, minstrels went about singing distressed maidens, imprisoned women, jealous husbands, the gamut of love and lore.  Usually they sang to ears that were indifferent or curious merely.  But occasionally a knight errant overheard and at once, lance in hand, he was off on his horse to the rescue.  The source of the minstrel’s primal migration was Spain.

In the mediaeval night, Spain, or, more exactly Andalusia, was brilliant.  On the banks of the Great River, Al-Ouad-al-Kebyr, subsequently renamed Guadalquivir, twelve hundred cities shimmered with mosques, with enamelled pavilions, with tinted baths, alcázars, minarets.  From three hundred thousand filigree’d pulpits, the glory of Allah and of Muhammad his prophet were daily proclaimed.

At Ez Zahara, the pavilion of the pleasures of the Caliphs of Cordova, forty thousand workmen, working for forty years, had produced a stretch of beauty unequalled then and unexceeded since, a palace of dream, of gems, of red gold walls; a court of alabaster fountains that tossed quick-silver in dazzling sheafs; a patio of jasper basins in which floated silver swans; a residence ceiled with damasquinures, curtained with Isfahan silks; an edifice filled with poets and péris, an establishment that thirteen thousand people served.

Ez Zahara, literally, The Fairest, a caliph had built to the memory of a love.  It was regal.  The caliphs were also.  The reigns of some of them were so prodigal that they were called honeymoons.  At Seville and Granada were other palaces, homes as they were called, but homes of flowers, of whispers, of lovers or of peace.  Throughout the land generally there was a chain of pavilions and cities through which minstrels passed, going up and down the Great River, serenading the banks that sent floating back wreaths of melody, the sound of clear voices, the tinkle of dulcimers and lutes.  But most beautiful was Cordova.  Under the Moors it eclipsed Damascus, surpassed Baghdad, outshone Byzance.  It was the noblest place on earth.

Throughout Europe at that time, the Moors and the Byzantines alone had the leisure and the inclination to think.  They alone read and alone preserved the literature of the past.  Together they supplied it to the Renaissance.  But from the Moors went poetry of their own.  It was they who invented rhyme. Charmed with the novelty, they wrote everything in it, challenges, contracts, treaties, diplomatic notes, and messages of love.  The composition of poetry was an occupation, usual in itself, which led to unusual honors, to the dignity of office and high place.  Ordinary conversation not infrequently occurred in verse which was otherwise facilitated by the extreme wealth of the language.  Some of the dictionaries known generally from their immensity as Oceans-which, escaping later the unholy hand of the Holy Office, the Escorial preserved, were arranged not alphabetically but in sequence of rhyme.  In addition to the latter the Moors invented the serenade and for it the dulcimer and guitar.  They not only lived poetry and wrote it and talked it but died of it.  The unusual honors to which it led and which resulted in a government of poets left them defenceless.  Verse which was their glory was also their destruction.  Meanwhile it was from them that the world got algebra and chivalry besides.

Chivalry has been derived from Germany.  The Teutons invented the false conception of honor-revenge for an affront, the duel and judgment by arms.  That is not chivalry or even bravery, it is bravado.  Bravery itself, perhaps the sole virtue of the early Teuton, was not the only one or even the first that was required of the Moorish Rokh.  To merit that title which was equivalent to that of knight, many qualities were indispensable:  courtesy, courage, gentility, poetry, diction, strength, and address.  But courtesy came first.  Then bravery, then gentility, in which was comprised the elements that go to the making of the gentleman-loyalty, consideration, the sense of justice, respect for women, protection of the weak, honor in war and in love.

These things the Teutons neither knew nor possessed.  The Muslim did.  Prior to the first crusade, the male population of Christendom was composed of men-at-arms, serfs, priests, monks.  The knight was not there.  But in Sicily, at the court of the polished Norman kings where Saracens had gone, particularly in Spain, and certainly at Poictiers, the knight had appeared.  The chivalry which he introduced was an insufficient gift to barbarism.  To it the Moors added perfumery and the language of flowers.

Muhammad’s biographers state that there were but two things for which he really cared-women and perfume.  His followers the Moors could not do more than do better.  Other inventions of theirs being inadequate, they joined to them the art of preserving perfume by distillation and the art, higher still, of perfuming life with love.  Muhammad was unable to convert humanity to a belief in the uniqueness of Allah, but the Moors, for a while at least, converted Europe to a belief that love was unique.  Muhammad created a paradise of houris and musk.  More subtly the Moors created a heaven on earth.  It had its defects as everything earthly must have, but such were its delights that the courtesan had no place in its parks.  For the first time in history a nation appeared that renounced Venus Pandemos.  For the first time a nation appeared among whom woman was neither punished nor bought.

In the Koran it is written:  “Man shall have pre-eminence over woman because of the advantages wherein God hath caused one of them to excel the other.  The honest women are obedient, careful in the absence of their husbands.  But those whose perverseness ye shall be apprehensive of, rebuke, remove into separate apartments and chastise.”

The Moors were devout.  They were also schismatic.  They had separated from Oriental Islam.  Even in the privacy of the harem they would not have struck a woman with a rose.

The harem was not a Muhammadan invention.  It was a legacy from Solomon.  Originally the Muslim faith was a creed of sobriety that included a deference to women theretofore unknown.  Its subsequent corruption was due to Assyria and the ferocious apostolicism of the Turk.  The Islamic seclusion of women came primarily from an excess of delicacy.  It was devised in order that their beauty might not excite desires in the hearts of strangers and they be affronted by the ardor of covetous eyes.  That ardor the Moors deflected with a talisman composed of the magic word Masch-Allah which, placed in filigree on the forehead of the beloved was supposed to indicate-and perhaps did-that her heart was not her own.  In Baghdad where men are said to have been so inflammable that they fell in love with a woman at the rumor of her beauty, at even the mere sight of the impress of her hand, it was not entirely unnatural that they should have secluded those for whom they cared.  With finer jealousy the Moors suggested to the women who cared for them the advantage of secluding themselves.  To-day a woman who loves will do that unprompted.

In the suggestion of the Moors there was nothing emphatic.  Usually girls of position saw, to the day of their marriage, but relatives and womenfolk whom the husband and his friends then routed with daggers of gold.  But access to Chain-of-Hearts was not otherwise always impossible.  In default of gold daggers there were silk ladders let down from high windows and up which one might climb.  In the local tales of love and chivalry, in the story, for instance, of Medjnoun and Leilah, in that of the Dovazdeh Rokh-the Twelve Knights-many such ladders and windows appear, many are the kisses, multiple are the furtive delights.  Apart from them history has frequent mention of Andalusian Sapphos, free, fervid, poetic, charming the leisures of caliphs, or, after an exacter pattern of the Lesbian, instructing other girls in what were called the keys of felicities-the divans of the poets, the art and theory of verse; more austerely still, in mathematics and law.

To please young women of that distinction, a man had to be something more than a caliph, something else than violently brave.  Necessarily he had to be expert in fantasias with arms and horse, but he had to be also discreet; in addition he had to be able to contend and successfully in the moufakhara, or tournaments of song-struggles of glory that proceeded directly from Mekke where the verses of the victors were affixed with gold nails to the doors of the Mosque.  From these tournaments all modern poetry proceeds.  Acclimatized, naturalized and embellished in Andalusia, they were imitated there by the encroaching Castilians who proudly but falsely called themselves los primeros padres de la poesia vulgar.

At that time, the Provencal tongue, called the Limosin or Langue d’oc, was spoken not only throughout the meridional provinces of France but generally in Christian Spain. Whatever was common to Spanish poetry was common to that of Provence:  both drank from the same source, the overflowing cup of the Moors.  The original form of each is that employed in the divans of the latter.  There is in them also the tell-tale novelty rhyme which, unknown to Greece and Rome, lower Latinity had not achieved.  In addition the Provencal and Spanish tensons, or contentions of song, are but replicas of the moufakhara, or struggles of glory, while the minstrel going up and down the Great River is the obvious father of the itinerant poets whom Barbarossa welcomed in Germany and from whom the Minnesaenger came.  In Italy, Provencal verse was the foundation of that of Dante and Petrarch.  From it in England Chaucer proceeds.  In Aragon it founded the gaya cienca-the gay science, which passing into Provence overspread the world.  The passing was effected by the troubadour, a title derived from trobar, to compose, whence troubadour, a composer of verse.

Technically the troubadour was not only a composer but a knight and not merely that but the representative of chivalry in its supreme expression.  Poetry was the attribute of his order as joy was the parure of the preux chevalier.  But though except in bearing and appearance the knight did not have to be poetic, the troubadour had to be poetic and chivalrous as well.  The vocation therefore, which in addition to these characteristics presupposed also rank and wealth, was such that while a troubadour might disdain to be king, there were kings, Alfonso of Aragon and Coeur-de-Lion among others, who were proud to be troubadours.

Rank was not essentially a prerequisite.  Poetry, exalting and fastidious, occasionally stooped, lifting from the commonality a man naturally though not actually born for the sphere.  The Muse aiding, Bernard de Ventadour, a baker’s son; was raised to the lips of the rather volatile Queen Eleanor.  But the process, hazardous in itself, was infrequent.  Royals were not necessarily on a footing with troubadours, but the latter, who were the peers of kings, required, for the maintenance of their position, abundant means.  They held it becoming to be ceaselessly lavish, to play high and long, to dazzle not only in the tensons but in the banquets and jousts.  Impoverishment supervening they went forth in the crusades to die, or, less finely, dropped back among the jongleurs, minstrels, strollers and mere poets with whom subsequently they were generally confused.  These latter, sometimes stipendiary, sometimes donatable like jesters and fools, told in their verse of great ladies whom they had never seen, or in the quality of handy man attached themselves to women of rank, to whom they gave songs in return for graces which included largesse, acquiring in their society a knowledge more or less incomplete of the niceties of love and occasionally, if their verse were good, the title of Maestro d’Amor.  Even so, only in the embroidery of legend were they troubadours.

The troubadours, the true masters and real doctors of the gay science, in full armor, the visor up, the lance in bucket, rode from keep to keep, from court to court, from one to another of the long string of castles that stretched throughout Provence, throughout the English districts on the Continent, throughout England as well, celebrating as they passed the beauty of this chatelaine and of that, breaking lances for women, devising new lays to their eyes, contending with rivals in duels of song, challenging them in the tourneys, singing and killing with equal satisfaction, leading generally a life vagabond, prodigal, puerile, delightful, absurd and humanizing in the extreme.

Previously keeps and castles were lairs of rapine and of brutes, conditions which chivalry and the Courts of Love remodelled.  But the coincidental influence of poetry expressed by the best and richest men of the day had an effect so edulcifying that whatever crapulousness the knight overlooked the troubadour extinguished.

Nothing is perfect.  The system like all others had its defects.  In keeps, when tilts, feasts, and entertainments were over, the boudoir’s more relaxing atmosphere, that of the adjoining balconies and outlying gardens as well, had also their effect.  The presence there of a man whose one object was to sing love and make it, the fact that he was a stranger and of all men the stranger who but comes and passes, disturbs the imagination most; the further fact that if he but so pleased he could in his lays trail the fame of a lady from Northumbria to Lebanon, the perfectly natural wish for such renown, the equally feminine disinclination to be ignored when others were praised, the concomitant desire to have a troubadour or a part of one, as one’s very own, these stimulants had consequences that were not always very ethical.

The troubadour’s religion, intoxicating in itself, was love.  That was his creed, his vocation, his life, his death.  Song was its vehicle, his presence its introduction.  He exhaled it.  The perfume, always heady, but which in its first fragrance had mended manners, turned acid and ended by dissolving morals.  They melted before it.  The social conditions that prevailed in the Renaissance and later in the Restoration and Regency, proceeded directly from these poets who, meanwhile, in a cataclysm had vanished.

Their terrific ablation was due to an interconnection with the Albigenses, a Languedoc sect who, in a jumble of Gnosticism and Manicheism, professed that since evil is coeval with good it must be just as justifiable; hence there is nothing blamable, everything is relative and morality- unobligatory-a matter of taste.

Provence, always receptive to Orientalisms, was charmed with theories that gave a mystic sanction to troubadourian views.  Caught up and repeated, discussed in tournament and tenson, the opinions of ladies and lovers on the subject would have disturbed nobody, history would have ignored them, had the original heretics been satisfied with the plaything they had found.  But they compared it to official religion.  They also questioned the prerogatives of the Holy See.

Indignantly the Papacy pitted Christianity against it, as already it had pitted the latter against Islam.  In this instance with greater success.  From a thousand pulpits a new religious war was preached.  The fanaticism of Europe was aroused.  Provence was stormed.  Chateaux were levelled, vines uprooted, the harvests of poetry and song destroyed.  Sixty thousand people were massacred.  The Inquisition was founded.  Plentifully the doctors of the gay science were burned.  In spite of chivalry, in spite of love, in spite of verse, in spite of Muhammad, the Moors and the Madonna, Europe was barbarous still.

The smoke, obscuring the sky, left but darkness.  If anywhere there was light, it was in Sicily, always volcanic, or in Tuscany, another Provence.  There surviving troubadours escaped and left a legacy which Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio diversely shared.